Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A couple of centuries later, people shall ask to old, old musicians, in equal parts of bafflement and amazement, perhaps even skepticism, if the tales that the King of the Pirates even managed for the dead to sing for him are true.

Those old, old musicians, as old as the tales themselves, or perhaps those intrinsically enamored with music, with old vinyl records turning around in a corner of their shop with a needle pretentiously made of sea-stone as a den-den mushi sings notes of eras long passed by, will always give the very same answer, almost like a well-known joke.

‘Oh, for sure he did! And for the Soul King to play for his captain to his heart’s content was an honor for him! Even if he didn’t have a heart!’

If one is lucky, some of those old, old musicians will rummage around their antiques for one or two concert posters depicting a skeleton with a surprising amount of hair, stylish and ostentatious clothes, fit for a rockstar, but with the remnants of more refined clothing, like a tailored coat, and a bright orange guitar. Colors fading with time, encased in glass as the paper, weakening from the humidity and the passing of time as it threatens to turn them into ash with nothing but a wisp of wind. They would chew the head off whoever implied he couldn’t have existed.

Some even took comfort that, in death, their soul would not be received with the sepulchral indifference of the reaper, but instead, they shall be received with the cheery tones of Binks Sake.

‘Don’t bother with a request,’ it is said with a laugh, ‘even if he really likes you, he won’t listen to you as he plays to his soul’s content and the only one he shall grace their whims is his captain.’

Still, wouldn’t you know? As silly as it may sound to say it out loud, as unnecessary as it may seem to point out, one has to remark that the dead were alive once.

Obvious, yes indeed! But a couple of centuries after, almost no one shall wonder what was of the Soul King when he once lived, as if he was born without a heartbeat as he cried in the doctor’s arms.

Here is what nobody but an old, ancient whale with a million scars knows, if it even lives anymore: his name was Brook, and he once had another captain.

One could say that, at its core, stories are the essence of life. A proof of existence. Some would say that it comes off as surprising then, just how easily most of them are lost and buried under the sands of time.

Those some would prove to be irrevocably stupid too, a more cynical person would scoff. Curious, perhaps, but not surprising, not in the world they live in, not when lives and stories alike are swallowed whole by sea monsters, lost under the storm, stolen by pirates, seized, pressed, and vaporized under glaring red suns for the sin of not fitting in the history forged.

His name was Brook and he was born with both flesh and blood, pumping through his veins to the heart with a steady beat, beat, beat. Yes, this fact was lost, just like the tale of the man who one day would live in death was lost. It was to be expected, of course, for what merit there is in the story of a pitiful, lost crew, who serenaded death in the Florian Triangle?

Tragic, sure, maybe even beautiful, but the concert was without audience, swallowed by the waters as the old ship sank.

Perhaps, as you drown, something that is not the ocean, as she does not pity what she takes, shall take pity on you and hum the notes of an orchestra, then a cuarteto, a trio, a duo, and a solo up until your soul leaves your body as the air runs out.

A concert without an audience, a death without an audience.

And yet.

In some recondite place of this big, big world, it is rumored that the King of the Pirate’s boat perdures. An old, strong boat, crafted by only the best of the best, for a man like him could not deserve no less, crafted by only the best of the best with the wood of Adam’s tree.

It’s a melancholic boat, loyal in its solicitude, for it is only loyal to one crew, one captain.

If you, as in, the tale-seeker, one day, by any means, by any chance happen to find this boat, you will be overcome with an indescribable surge of wistfulness. You shall walk through its deck with overgrown grass and pass a hand through its railings. You shall see the flag, still held high in pride, the jolly-roger in the sail who belonged to a crew long gone of the man who laughed freedom.

In this old, melancholic boat, you shall find a myriad of things, a myriad of stories. Weights of ridiculous size, a room thick with the smell of ink and paper full of maps, seeds of all types and kinds of strange plants, old recipe books, casseroles, and pans, and the fact that the fridge has a lock made out of sea stone is so baffling that it makes you laugh; stale medicine, old history books in languages you don’t understand, cans and bottles of cola, a bunch of big, fading kimonos.

You will also find an old, old violin, whose strings have long disintegrated and the wood has rotten and sank. A violin with no bow.

If you, as in, the tale-seeker, decide to put your ear against the violin’s remains that cling to life as stubbornly as its owner once did; you might hear the soft notes of the songs it remembers or the peculiar laugh of its owner, and, if you are very lucky, perhaps it will tell you one of the dead man’s tales as it remains the proof of his existence.

It murmurs: ‘Did you know? He was a knight, once…’

It was built with the wood of an old oak tree planted the same day a small girl first gave her first breaths. It accompanied her through her life, gave her shade on the sunny days, fruit in spring, and comfort in rain. It watched her first steps, her first fights, her first love, her final love, her marriage, and the birth of her child.

One day, a particularly nasty storm lashed out on the island. The clouds cried and cried as the winds laughed. The tree, big and sturdy, stood unfazed by it all, and the sky, in a fit of childish pettiness despite its age —or lack of, depending on how you see it, really— struck it down with a flash. It burned and sizzled the tree, and it fell with a strength that shook the earth and a strepitous sound that the rain swallowed whole.

From the wood of what once was a big, sturdy tree, a man, her husband, a talented luthier, made a violin of exquisite detail, which they both decided to gift their child, who was showing a remarkable love for music in all types of manner. Gifted it was, but it took a couple of years up until the child could use it as the man had made it a tad too big, fit for a grown person, in his excitement.

(This explanation of the tree’s continuous life after his death does not, in fact, hold any sort of real relevance to the dead man’s tale. Still, it has been long ever since the violin has had any sort of company that isn’t the Klabautermann, and, as any other does, holds a tendency to ramble, to be known, so you, as in, the tale-seeker, will have to spare him this tendency.)

He was born in a kingdom of renown on some island of the West Blue. A huge kingdom whose name changes and changes on a whim with every shift in monarchy that cartographers have long given up on getting it right, so much so that now it is simply deemed ‘Kingdom Island of the West’ on maps.

Mind you, at the time of the story, this story, maps deemed this place as the ‘Dual Kingdom Island of the West’, so much so that some maps, outdated as they are, still hold this name.

Its name didn’t come from some sort of deep meaning, of two brother kingdoms who existed in harmony and mutual respect, with a rich story to be proud of, but a long, boring, and petty history of two people —Who were they, you ask? What does it matter?— who discovered this huge, huge island about the same time, on opposite ends, and proclaimed, as any other sensate human would, themselves kings, just to discover, some years after they have started building their respective kingdoms, the existence of the other and, refusing to cede, divided the island in two after years upon years of war, like children throwing tantrums.

Now, Brook (Yes, finally, properly, we reach him, spare the violin), was born in the south half of the kingdom. He became a knight, just like his mother, at the age of fifteen. Knelt down as the priest blessed his sword and fastened it to his waist, pledged loyalty, chivalry, honesty, and courageousness to his kingdom, his king. Even if, rather treacherously, Brook did not have any true feelings of loyalty to the royal family.

Still, knighthood did not steer him away from his love of music, oh, perish the thought! Talent he had, and passion overflowed with every note he played, and he developed and grew as a bright musician.

He learned the piano, the harp, the bass, the cello, the oboe, and the viola; there was no instrument he would not learn. And even if he loved every and all instruments he played, (and, this is not, by any means, said just to brag) his one true love was always the violin.

He learned each and every song there was to be learned—

—On his island, that is.

He devoured so earnestly all and every song there was, that by the age of twelve, he had learned of every single song there was to be known on this island, but there was still a hunger for more, a passion. He subscribed to a music magazine, and he waited with eager breath for every volume that could show him a new partiture, a new song.

Of course, there was still so much those magazines could show him.

Every Saturday evening, when the sun came down just for its light to be swallowed by the greed of the sea, Brook would take his violin and play along with the orange tones at the feet of the square’s fountain without fail until the oranges tones turned black and the stars twinkled as they danced to his notes.

Sunday he had free, and he spent it whenever he pleased, but nothing too exciting as Monday, looming like a nose, marked the start of a new day and a start of his duties in service of the royal family— up until Saturday evening, when he had free time once again.

It was a routine he had settled into quite nicely, if not monotonously, but Brook was content.

That day, that Saturday evening really would have been no different, if not for the sound of applause that greeted him once Brook finished playing at the feet of the square’s fountain.

Of course, Brook was no stranger to applause, he knew he could play quite nicely, exceptionally, in fact. But after eighteen and a half years playing in the square, people had long gotten used to him. The only people that really stopped those days to hear him were bright-eyed children that, sometimes, clumsily danced along the notes (He would then play something more cheery for them) or couples dining at the outsides of the restaurant beside the square’s fountain. (Sometimes, Brook would play a lovely ballad for them, other times, he would play more dissonant songs, just to get a kick. In the first case, the owner would bring him a plate of hot food before he went away, in the second, they would throw a bucket of cold water at him from the balcony that did nothing to dissuade him. It became a game, to the point that now, without fail, there is always a bucket full of water perched menacingly on the balcony with the name ‘Brook’ carved into it.)

But the applause of that fateful day, that Saturday evening, was not the strenuous sound of a crowd, nor the fast loudness of a child clumsily clapping along, but, seemingly no less genuine.

Brook blinked, then turned around. Eyes scanning for the direction of his lonely, lonely audience, when he didn’t find anything, he frowned, slightly.

“That was really good!”

Brook’s eyes shifted upwards, just to be met with a blond man with a white cowboy’s hat perched on the railing of a balcony, still clapping. It was sort of amusing and undoubtedly flattering, and Brook, who certainly didn’t have a single shy bone in his body, reciprocated to his audience.

He bowed, a performer on a stage, and laughed. “Why, thank you, kind sir!”

The other laughed along too. It sounded like a strangled cat. “Oh, come on! Don’t be so formal now!” He dropped off the balcony, paying no mind to the considerable distance between it and the floor. It became obvious why once he landed cleanly despite the loose tiles of concrete that nobody had gotten around to fix. He straightened, shaking off the dust from the red, red coat he wore from the dust that rose with his landing, all while not halting a second as he made his way to Brook.

There was a sword perched at his hip, held by a black cloth tied around his waist. Brook made note of it but didn’t worry about it in the slightest, his own dumb sword was right by his side, after all. And, by now, the blond man looked friendly enough.

“Caprice No. 24, in A minor, wasn’t it?” The man said, head cocking to the side.

Yohoho! A fellow melophile? “Indeed it was! What a good hearing you have!”

“For music, one could say I do.” The man smiled, looking intrigued. “Even though it’s not hard to recognize. A popular thing, that it is. Popular enough to reach the West from the South, it seems.”

“That popular?”

“Oh? You didn’t know?”

“My overall knowledge of the world is mostly reduced to this island. Partiture sheets and music magazines are my only glimpse of the notes from afar, and their comments happen to not be quite enough to visualize the resonance a song has with the public.”

“Pretty popular thing, with the right crowd, that is. Hardly the thing you shall find played at bars and canteens, nor the thing other pirates shall delight the sea with.”

“Who would the right crowd happen to be then?”

“Snobby pricks, some might tell you.” The man laughed, still sounding like a strangled cat. It was the sort of laughter that would startle passersby, the sort of laughter that was funnier than the joke for people who knew him. “In my opinion, though, the right crowd is just whoever likes it.”

“And that would be you?”

“Surprised?” The man asked with a smile.

“Oh? Oh, no, not at all. Just curious, is all.” Brook dismissed. “Why would the notion that you enjoy it be?”

“Well, look at me.” He shrugged, still amused. “I hardly give the impression of a music enthusiast.”

“Certainly, so! Certainly, you don’t!” Brook laughed, bright and cheery and entirely sincere, because he, the man, with his strangled cat laughter, the white cowboy hat, the long red, red coat, the dirty-ish yellow hair, the sword, the tattoos, and the mean, mean face, really didn’t look the part. “Frankly, judging merely by appearance, you look like the kind of person who wouldn’t recognize the difference between a contrabass and a violin!”

“Agh!” The man put a hand on his chest, right above the heart that pulsed with a steady beat, beat, beat, and hunched over a little, giving the impression to someone watching from afar that he must have gotten shot. “How mean! How harsh! You certainly have hit a core there! A tendon! Crushed my heart in a swift step!” A smile danced on his lips. “You certainly don’t pull your punches, eh?”

“Not indeed! I have never seen the point of beating around a bush! Brook nodded, amused by the man. “Still, as limited as my worldview of the notes playing around the seas is, I am certain that all sorts of music can be made by all sorts of people, and likewise, all sorts of people can enjoy all sorts of music. Why then, should appearances dictate the musical tastes of one person? Why should knowledge decide whether someone is worthy of enjoying something? I believe that, as long as one can decide whether they like a song or not, then that’s all that matters.”

A pause.

“Of course, it is always a delight to meet someone that does know about the musical complexities of a piece, yohohoho!”

“I agree, I agree.” The blond cocked his head to the side, seemingly contemplating something as his eyes crinkled. “Ah, it seems I have been the one surprised this time. Not that is a bad thing, wouldn’t you agree…?”

There was a tilt in the inflection at the end of the sentence and Brook easily caught on the unsaid question.

“Brook.” He finished, passing the bow to his left hand, careful not to drop his respectable violin, and extended his right hand. The man met it with a firm grip and a handful of calluses. A hand that was little bit too bony, and a rough sensation on top of it all that suggested the presence of a pretty nasty scar. Hardly the hand of a musician, Brook noted, but certainly the hand of an adventurer. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“Yorki.” He said, letting go of his hand and tipping the edge of his hat. “Captain Yorki, at your service.”

One of Brook’s eyebrows drifted up. “Oh? Captain of what, exactly?”

“Captain of the Trumpet, of course.”

“The Trumpet?” Brook laughed. What a marvelously ridiculous name!

“It’s—” Captain Yorki started, trying his very best to look proud and failing miserably. He coughed, embarrassed. “It’s a work in progress, I shall admit, but I have grown quite fond of it.”

“The name? Or the ship?

“Both, I suppose.”

“And how can a ship be called ‘a work in progress'?”

“It’s— Well,” Captain Yorki chuckled. “It can’t be really called a ‘ship’, you see, it’s not that impressive yet. Picture a—”

“A raft?”

“What? Do you picture me a madman now?”

“Well, I have to make do with what you give me, and you are not being very straightforward as of now.”

“I’m not?” Captain Yorki blinked. “Sorry for that, then. But, no, the Trumpet isn’t a piece of wood that I have grown fond of in delirium, just picture a rowboat with a sail and there you have it, the Trumpet in all its splendor.”

“A rowboat?” Brook said in incredulity.

“A very nice rowboat!”

“And they decided to just give a rowboat to someone they bestowed upon the title of captain?” At Brook’s words, a look of realization flashed in Captain Yorki’s face, and he broke down in laughter, like a cacophony of strangled cats. “What? What is it?”

“Oh, Brook, you weren’t joking when you said that your knowledge of the world is contained to this island.” Captain Yorki said in between laughter. “None has bestowed me with such a title. No one has to, other than me.”

Brook frowned, then blinked, and, thought of the implication of his words and after an admittedly embarrassing long time, he breathed out: “You are a pirate.”

The grin that spread through Captain Yorki’s face was as vicious as a snake. It made his already mean face look even meaner, the kind of face that belongs in bounty posters pinned on the wall of alleys and bars, those who people throw knives and darts and curses at. As vicious as it was amused.

(Nowadays, the violin muses with a long note, the very first thing people think of when they hear the word ‘captain’ is ‘pirate’. They have become intrinsically linked with one another, to the point that even the marine has to clarify with titles such as ‘marine captain’. So, it’s sort of baffling to think that there was a time when this wasn’t so, but this story happened long, long before the King of the Pirates ever thought of setting sail, seas, he wasn’t even born yet! Pirates still existed, of course. As long as there is a sea, pirates will be. But they were barely at the forefront of anyone's mind. So, you, as in, the tale-seeker, will have to spare his dear old owner for not catching it the first time, it was a different time).

“Not a very good one, then, if your fear-striking ship is nothing but a rowboat with some stolen cloth tied to a stick with the name ‘Trumpet’ carved on the side, yohohoho!”

“Wh— hey! You haven’t even seen it yet to be throwing these kinds of accusations!” Captain Yorki spluttered, the grin from before dropping in an instant. “And is a work in progress, I tell you, I tell you!”

“A work in progress.” Brook repeated, slowly. “Does that mean you are, what, new to this whole piracy thing?”

“I’m a rookie, yes.” Captain Yorki nodded, not a hint of embarrassment on admitting that. “Took a boat and set sail a couple of months ago without sparing a thought, but you know how it is, one can hardly resist when the wishes of the spirit align with the ocean’s call, not like I wanted to, in the first place.”

Brook did not, in fact, know how it was, not at that moment, at least. So, he let the words roll off him like rain on his back, batting a hand at the words too for good measure. Captain Yorki cocked his head at the action, eyes narrowed, seemingly catching on something.

“What then, pray to tell, Captain Yorki, brings a pirate such as yourself to the south part of this humble island of mine? Not to raid and pillage up until we don’t even have ashes to lament of, I would hope.”

His eyes drifted to the sword at the other man’s hip, held by black, black cloth that went around his waist. He wondered if he even knew how to make use of it, before dropping his right hand close to his own hip in a casual movement, close so that his fingers were touching the edge of the handle of his own stupid sword. If Captain Yorki noticed this, he did not give any indication.

“Better to sleep with one eye open tonight, Brook.” Captain Yorki said before breaking into his strangled cat laugh, uncaring in the way Brook tensed. He shook his head and gave Brook a knowing look. “But, no, me and what crew? I set sail barely two or three months ago, as I told you before, and even if I had, I just don’t see the purpose of needless violence against innocents for a couple of golden coins.”

One of Brook’s eyebrows lifted. “But you are a pirate.”

“Yes, Brook, I am well aware of that.”

“What sort of pirate adheres to a sense of justice? To a sense of morality? Don’t pirates just do what they want?”

“And it just so happens that I don’t want to raid and pillage villages.” He shrugged. “It’s hardly a question of morality, I am a pirate, as I declare and you reiterate with so vehemence, and I do take what I want, but my vices don’t lay on the glint of gold and jewels nor do they lay on the sheet of my blade glinting red with the screams of the children and innocent.”

“Where do your vices lay then, Captain Yorki?”

“In the different notes that compose each and every song.” Captain Yorki smiled.

It was not the vicious grin from before, sure, it had a mean edge to it, but Brook was starting to realize that the disposition of his face made every expression he took look, at least, somewhat mean. But, no, the smile that crossed his face was more boyish, earnest, and passionate of a man who deeply, truly, was talking from a place of love. It made his shoulders drop.

“Truly a melophile, uh, through and through.” Brook shook his head and lifted his right hand.

Captain Yorki’s smile got bigger, and he took a seat at the edge of the fountain. “How lucky then, for this melophile to have found a musician such as yourself to indulge in my vices, tell me, violinist, do you take requests?”

Brook laughed with a cherry ‘yohoho!’ and answered: “No!” And started playing as Captain Yorki made his cat strangled laugh in surprise. For some reason, Brook found that he did not mind.

Brook’s village did not, in fact, end up rummaged and pillaged that very same night, nor the next, for that matter, which was a relief, all things considered.

He did not see the blond man who bestowed upon himself the title of captain the entirety of Sunday, not that his dear old owner made any effort in actively searching for him. Oh, interesting man, so he certainly was, with a passion for music big enough that some would say it is rival to Brook’s. But, he had reasoned, once upon a time, that one-time meetings happen all the time, and, even if Brook wasn’t a keen follower in the belief of destiny (Never liked the thought that his life was dictated by the whims of something that wasn’t him. This thought only got stronger once he met and followed the man with freedom for laughter, for whom the world, for whom destiny itself, could do nothing but change and adjust to his choices. But, the violin is getting way ahead of itself.) for some strange, strange reason, he decided to allow fate to take charge of his life, this meeting, this direction, this time, more as a desire, perhaps, to see the response of the melophile.

Monday morning marked once again the beginning of his duties, the ones one could describe as more formal ones, as being a knight never really is a position one puts on hold even in their free time. That day, of some year whose days by now have dissipated like sea foam, he was told to guard the western gate of the castle. Hardly an exciting job, but terribly common in times of (fleeting) peace.

The western gate of the castle was right beside a river, a deep, deep river that, more often than not, was throwing worse tantrums than the royal families of both kingdoms, which made it so only someone with a death wish attempt to cross it which, this fact, alongside the sharp and steep slope of the mountain, in the eyes of practically all knights, made it unnecessary to guard. Especially for someone of Brook’s caliber, but the circumstances made it so the king demanded only the best of the best to guard their ostentatious residence, as a means to brag, in part, to the Idios royal family, that which ruled the north part of the island, and came today for diplomatic relations that shall only serve as another tritone in the Composition No. 48 of a War in the Making.

(If one is being honest, this demand only served for the reporters of the Idios kingdom to write and ridicule, not without fundament, the sheer paranoia and distrust the Móros family of the south had towards them, petulantly ignoring the way their own monarchy paraded with one hundred and five knights towards the gates of the other kingdom. The violin doesn’t know much about politics and relations considering it is but a mere violin, and his duty has never been other than to serenade ears and hearts alike, but even it has to wonder how war did not break at that moment.)

Still, guard the west gate they said, and so to the west gate Brook went.

Of alone, because most of the knights were to stand on rows and rows on the path of the eastern gate, the principal entrance, like some sort of decorative flower vases as the Idios visited, and someone had to stand and watch the violent flow of the river just in case the fishes had decided to congregate to overthrow the king in name of the north. Not that Brook was complaining, better to spend his time laying on the western gardens than to wait around until someone decided to stick a bouquet in his armor.

He was fully expecting to spend that Monday dozing off in between the roses and the lilies, all on his own, up until something small and pointy hit his forehead. Brook frowned and scrunched his nose in distaste before relaxing all at once, merely thinking of a small seed that must have fallen from one of the flowers in the branches of the tree whose feet he laid upon. Up until another little thing hit his cheek, then another, and another, and another, and another— and yet another with progressively more strength that made him shake his head and finally open his eyes.

He blinked, scrubbed his eyes, and blinked owlishly when the image of the self-proclaimed captain perched on top of the old gray stone wall that surrounded the castle with a handful of gray small pebbles in his left hand didn’t dissipate into thin air.

“Captain Yorki.” Brook greeted, more than a little baffled as he shifted from his position on the ground to sit against the trunk of the tree. Of all the possibilities of seeing the man again, having him just waltz around in the castle walls was not one of them.

“Brook.” Captain Yorki greeted back as he gave a wide smile, teeth and all. “Fancy seeing you here, this time around. What is that which brings a musician such as yourself to this old castle garden?”

“That which brings me here? If anything, is you who ought to be answering these sorts of questions!”

“True, true! But, I asked first, didn’t I?”

“And I am obligated to answer for that? Yohoho, how pretentious!” Brook shook his head, but answered, nevertheless. “I will have you know then, less of an answer as per courtesy dictates and more as a way to humor your inquisitive nature, that my services are in disposition of my kingdom, and so I was told to guard the west gate.”

“Guard? You are a guard?”

“Oh, please, spare the humbleness of the picture you have of me, I happen to be a knight.”

“A knight!” Captain Yorki repeated. “Impressive, by all means, but I have to admit the disappointment I feel at the knowledge that you, passionate and talented as you are, aren’t a musician.”

“And when did I say I wasn’t a musician? First and foremost, my heart belongs to the sounds that compose a song, but I just so happen to be a knight too.”

“What a relief to hear!” He said, rather exaggerated, one might add. Then, he inquired: “Oh, was this the cause of your sudden aversion from before?”

Brook frowned. “From before? Ah, you mean when I discovered you were a pirate? In part, yes, but I would say any sensible person would react the same way I did, if not worse. Pirates aren’t popular for their endless kindness. Which does make it concerning the sight of such a depraved being sauntering around the castle walls.”

Captain Yorki let out a bark of his strangled cat laugh. It wasn’t that loud, but its peculiarity made it so Brook’s eyes darted to one of the castle windows that gave view to the garden in which they were in case its sound attracted anyone’s attention. Other than to scare the cardinals and the doves resting on the edge of one of the balconies, it seemed to Brook that it didn’t, so he turned back to the other.

“Oh, not to worry then, Sir Brook, the only depravity that brings me here is that one of my curiosity.”

“You mean the rows upon rows of knights parading around the castle entrance?”

“So it is an unusual occurrence.”

“Very much so. It’s not every day that the monarchy of the north comes to our door, after all.”

“And so it warrants this level of…” Captain Yorki made a face and moved his hand around in the air, seemingly at a loss for a fitting description. “Whatever this is? For a second I thought I had stumbled right into the beginning of a war!”

“You wouldn’t be all in the wrong, Captain Yorki. Relations have been tense this couple of years.”

Captain Yorki hummed. “There are sayings, you know, far beyond the edges of this speck of dust in the ocean, that, if popular, I doubt reach outside the dry waters of the west, which speak of these kingdoms non-stop dispute. ‘They are a stepping line away from starting a war!’ ‘Our duel shall only be stopped by the peace of the dual kingdoms!’ or —and this one is a personal favorite of mine— ‘The two kingdoms will become one before I believe you!’”

“Even if you could have asked more directly, I see your point, that I do.” Brook said. “But, yes, our kingdoms have never been on good terms, but, as of late, relations have been even tenser than usual for some reason or another. So much so that the fear of the inevitability of yet another war is prominent as of today.”

Captain Yorki rose from where he was crouched on top of the wall, pacing leisurely from one side to the other as he let go of the handful of gray pebbles in his hand without further ceremony. They clattered around, rolling down the webs and cracks time had made on the gray, gray wall, like rain, with a bunch of ‘clack, crick, click!’.

“Do I ought to turn tail then?” Captain Yorki asked, tone light.

“Yohoho, how shameless! Utterly, terribly shameless!” Brook snorted, laughed, completely caught off guard. “No, Captain Yorki, take my word when I tell you that both families are far too cowardly to give the first steps so suddenly. Today marks another step, yes, but we are still far from reaching that door. Give it a couple of months, maybe” A pause. “How come you were so oblivious as to all of this? Someone must have told you the matter once you asked.”

Captain Yorki laughed. It sounded completely normal and completely fake. Brook narrowed his eyes up to him. “Ah, well, you see—”

“You didn’t ask anybody before heading directly to the castle?”

“A knight! I asked one knight—!”

“Just one?”

“I asked one knight who didn’t answer me, might I add!”

“And you didn’t think of asking anybody else?”

“That so I did!” Captain Yorki defended, faltered, and promptly cleared his throat. “I thought about doing so, yes, but what better thing to do to put rest to one’s questions than seeing its source with their own eyes? Besides!” He said with a snap of fingers. “If I hadn’t done so, then I wouldn’t have seen you again, Sir Brook. Wouldn’t you say that makes my impulsivity worthy of being?”

Fate, Brook thought, surely has a curious sense of humor.

“How terribly lucky to have been the one you found, then. Any other knight would have thrown you directly into the dungeons.”

“Not the gallows?”

“Do you wish to be hanged?”

“Seas no!” Captain Yorki shook his head, tilting so as nothing but the tips of his feet remained on top of the gray, gray wall as he stretched his hands upwards and held himself in one of the robust branches of one of the garden’s trees close to the wall. “But, if not to be kissed by dual blades, that’s the place pirates meet their end.”

“Oh, in the gallows you would have ended, were your position as a pirate been made known.”

“Why am I to be thrown into the dungeon, then?”

“You do realize, Captain Yorki, that you are on the castle's grounds.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you?” He asked as he took his feet off the top of the gray, gray wall. He hung from the branch of the tree for a second as he threw his legs backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards to gain impulse, and, once it was enough, with a swift moment, he let go of the branch, spun upwards in the air and landed on top of the very same branch he was holding onto. Hand in his hat to avoid it falling. “You don’t strike me as the type of person that would send anyone to the gallows. So, I ask, as here I stand, why allow me to do so, Sir Brook? Why if any other knight would have thrown me into the dungeon, why don’t you? What sets you apart?”

Brook opened his mouth, closed it. He didn’t fancy dragging people to the dungeons, for starters, and normally, a warning or a pesky reprimand was enough to send rule breakers scrambling out. However, one's duty had him doing so a couple of times. But, in this case, he felt that did not apply.

He tried to come up with a reasonable answer and then surprised even himself when he couldn’t come up with any certain words. Was it, perhaps, the love he held for, seemingly, each and every song, as Brook did? Was it, perhaps, that his village, close to the cost of the ocean, had yet to be pillaged and rummaged? Was it, perhaps, a product of their first conservation? Amused by the man, so he was. Intrigued, even. Perhaps it was the same impulsivity that made him allow fate to take charge of this meeting.

“You said that your vices didn’t lay on jewels and gold, nor in murder.” Brook said with a shrug, as some form of lazy explanation. Captain Yorki raised an eyebrow.

“So, you trust me.”

“I did not say that.”

“Oh, but you did.” Captain Yorki nodded, walking leisurely through the branches of the tree. “What is trust if not the belief of honesty in the words one speaks?” He then shook his head. “Ah, a knight trusting a pirate, sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”

Brook opened his mouth, thought about it, and came to the conclusion that, yes, the words coming out of Captain’s Yorki mouth were not without fundament, and he said: “Well, is hard not to take the word of someone who seemed more transfixed with the violin in my hands than the golden buttons of my coat.”

“Taking a man’s actions instead of their words, so I see.”

“Pirates are notoriously liars, but they are not actors.” He paused, then laughed. “Or so I think, yohoho! Could it be, then Captain Yorki, that all of this has been a farce to lick clean the castle of anything of value?”

“Ah, you have unveiled my treacherous plan! I have come to steal the princess—”

“We do not have a princess.”

“Princess? Who said anything about a princess. Queen, I meant queen.” Captain Yorki amended without skipping a single beat. “I have come to steal the queen away, so I have. Take her from her quarters and onto my ship to be wed, a lovely history that shall—”

“Lovely? Captain Yorki that sounds more like a horror story!”

“Ah, Sir Brook, you only say that because you have not seen my charms yet in action. From a suffocating, noble life, wed to a man who did not love, she met a pirate who stole her heart away.” He winked down at him. “What do you think of that?”

“I think that despite pirates being bound to take what they want, those tales and songs that you love so much have skewed you away from reality.” Brook quipped.

Captain Yorki laughed his strangled cat laugh, jumping from one tree to a branch of the one Brook was under, walking so that Brook had to look right up to see him. He then plopped down on the branch, making seeds and leaves and dirt fall. “Play it for me then.”

Brook scrubbed his eyes to take out the dirt and blinked at him. “Play what, Captain Yorki?”

“The tale, of course.”

“I’m no lyricist, much less a storyteller.”

“And who’s asking you to tell me a story? I am asking you to play me one. How do you think it would sound?” He shook his head with a smile. “After all, who needs words when you have a good composition to show it all?”

Brook laughed. “Yohohoho, how interesting! I must admit this is the first time someone has asked me to play a tale.” He then stretched a hand into the bushes, taking out the case with his amazing violin. “Let’s see how I do, then.”

The Idios visit lasted three days in total. Four, technically, if you, as in, the tale-seeker, count the morning they left having ended the Composition No. 48 of a War in the Making and already getting ready for the 49.

They did not change any of the knights’ duties at that time, seemed like a waste of time, and so while the knights in the eastern gate grew vines and mold for standing around all day long, Brook spent it all on his own in the western gardens.

Or, at least, Brook would tell anyone who asked that it was spent that way, no good in having to watch the way gravity pulls down a man with a strangled cat laugh when the trapdoor opened under his feet and nothing but the nose around his neck held him in place.

The violin has already related the events that transpired on the first day. The second, those, it shall skip, as their meeting was fleeting as a shooting star on a cloudy night, as Captain Yorki only dropped long enough to say hi and exchange a couple of quips with his owner before turning to do whatever he did in his own time in that island, hopefully not trying to steal the new saxophone Brook heard a wealthy tycoon just got imported from the south.

(The violin will tell, however, with the sound of a major key that sounds suspiciously like laughter, that as Captain Yorki said his farewells that second day, his feet slipped as he paced carelessly on top of the gray, gray wall and went all the way thumping down into the river below with a long, long falsetto. He did manage to get out, fortunately, or else this tale would have a rather drastic change in tone.)

The violin has already related the events that transpired on the first day. The second, those, it shall skip. The third, those, he shall relate:

“Oh, Captain Yorki, what a delight to see that you live.” Brook greeted as he tuned in the strings of his bright violin, out of sheer boredom soon to be erased.

Captain Yorki, face full of scratches and scars that made his already mean-looking face look even meaner, sewed shut his mouth from the greeting soon to depart his lips at Brook’s words. With a click of the tongue, he ripped it open. “Oh, please, as if a tiny little fall like that could ever bring any harm.”

“Yohoho, I was not talking about the fall. The river down below is known for its tantrums.”

He scoffed. “What kind of pirate should I be if I let a small current of a small body of water rob me of my breath?”

“That much of a good swimmer? I wonder, do you speak with this same cadence to the currents of the sea?”

“Ha!” Captain Yorki barked out a single note of his strangled cat laugh. “To compare the might of the ocean with that of a river! Careful, then, Sir Brook, the sea is known not for her mercy, and she does not take kindly to any sort of disrespect.”

“What a reverence of her will, I shall admit, is impressive to see.”

“Impressive? Any sailor worth their salt knows of her character, her tranquility, and her merciless takings! Any sailor worth their salt knows that, if not respected, at the very least not to anger her then.”

Brook blinked, admittedly, the only sailors he knew of could hardly be considered sailors, considering that the fishermen of the kingdom hardly ever ventured far and they did not hold this belief. Perhaps, he wondered, that’s why they hardly ever caught anything that isn’t dying or sick.

“Am I to believe, then, that sailors worth their salt are bound to let her waters simply take them once the time comes? After all, would it not be fighting against what she wishes to take?”

“Some of them, sure. But I would not call those sailors.” Captain Yorki shrugged. “As for me, the sea, despite whatever will she holds, shall not take me.”

Brook thought about this, for a second. “You are a man of many contradictions.”

“Am I?” Captain Yorki said as he jumped into one of the branches of a tree. “I believe I am a rather simple man, and that which I said is a very simple thought. If anything, it is you who seems to hold contradictions at his core.”

“Me? How so?”

“How so! Our mere acquaintance implies a contradiction, Sir Brook.” The pirate said. “You are a violinist who chooses to pick a sword along a bow. A man who, for all his love for music, stays stranded in a speck of dust in the ocean, unaware of the songs that stretch in the horizon like stars in the sky. And, besides,” He cocked his head to the side. “For a knight, you are rather lax, shouldn’t you be guarding this place more thoroughly?”

“Oh, but I am guarding it thoroughly.” Brook said, choosing to address only the last part and, perhaps, rather cowardly, ignore the rest. He set his incomparable violin aside. “I just so happen to not see anything worthy of defending against the castle as of now.”

“I— don’t know whether to be insulted.” Captain Yorki halted.

“Yohoho! Choose what you please to be, Yorki.”

“Oi! Oi! That was definitely an insult now!”

“Am I wrong?” Brook quipped. “Because I have yet to see a bounty poster with a generous sum for your head, dead or alive, on the papers. Sure, declarations of piracy are always a crime, bounty or not, once you reach a certain age, but, tell me, are you a wanted man?”

Captain Yorki sighed. “Not by the World Government, no. Not yet, at least.” He declared and Brook tilted his head, without yet understanding why being wanted was such a hyper-fixation for these people. And it wouldn’t be until he got his first bounty he finally understood such feeling. But, once again, the violin is getting ahead of itself. “Still, on some island close to the one I was born into, I will have you know, Sir Brook, I am worth one hundred and fifty belies with twenty-three cents.”

That was not a high amount, but before he could say anything at that, the whole ridiculousness of the numbers finally settled in his mind and he frowned. “Twenty— and twenty-three cents? What in the world do you have to do to have someone add twenty-three cents into a bounty?”

Captain Yorki raised his arms a little before letting them drop again. “I took twenty-three cents that were left on some bar’s table and, apparently, that was the change of the Drowned Mermaid someone ordered.”

“What a despicable crime!” Brook laughed in a high-pitched tone, half choking. “And that was enough to warrant the other one hundred and fifty into the bounty?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then, may I ask what you did?”

“Oh, this and that.” Captain Yorki waved a hand, jumping into one of the branches of the trees Brook was under, reclining against the trunk. “Couple of bar fights here and there, the whole place was awful, one escalated far too quickly and next thing you know the man who smashed a bottle in my head had a hole through his cranium.”

The thing on Captain Yorki’s hip is a sword, not a gun. “Stray bullet?”

“My bullet.”

“Ah.” That got way grimmer than Brook was expecting. “I thought you said your vices did not lay in death.”

“And they don’t, I don’t enjoy murder, but I ain’t no saint.” Captain Yorki said, tone light. He must have seen something in Brook’s face, because he threw back his head and laughed, loud and long, with his weird strangled cat laugh that, for a second, Brook thought could pass off as the caw of a crow instead. “Does this, perhaps, change the impression you have of me?”

Brook looked at his face, then, the mean, mean face full of scratches and bruises of a fall. It is rather easy to imagine it splattered with blood, the kind of face that belongs in bounty posters pinned on the wall of alleys and bars, those whom people throw knives and darts and curses at.

Brook thought of a certain first meeting, thought of the sight of the man perched on the balcony of some house watching him play the violin, thought of the grin that spread through Captain Yorki’s face like a vicious snake once he let his disposition of piracy known. His initial adversity at him.

He thought of the man, the pirate, who revered the ocean and admitted to shooting at a man point blank, who, upon a first meeting, admitted that the only reason he did not raid and pillage villages was far of a question of morality, and simply because he did not want to. He thought of the man, the melophile, who asked him to play a tale, who knows half a million different songs and some more, whose vices lay on notes dancing in the air. Then, both, at the same time, the pirate and the melophile, morph into one becoming the man in front of him.

“Somewhat.”

“Just ‘somewhat’?” Captain Yorki’s eyebrows shot to his hair. “In what way?”

“In the way that allows me to see the man you are.”

Captain Yorki’s face was that of confusion. “I’m afraid, Sir Brook, that I am not quite following. I shall ask, though, in a good way or a bad way?”

“That’s left for me to see.” Brook said. “Does smashing a bottle against your head warrant that level of an answer?”

A pause.

“Not normally, no.” He conceded, still looking confused. “But, it was kind of a tight situation. Do you happen to know what Devil Fruits are, Sir Brook?”

“A myth.” Brook answered with the certainty of a man whose heart that pumped with a beat, beat, beat, was yet to become hated and despised by the sea; with the certainty of a man who could not yet fathom the idea of being able to live without a heart, to live in death.

“Oh, I assure you, they are far, far from a myth.”

“Are you suggesting—”

“I am not suggesting, Sir Brook, for that ability that the man possessed, that of grabbing skin and pulling it off the body as if it were no different from a band-aid, could not have been granted by any other but the devil himself.” Captain Yorki lifted his right hand, and Brook finally caught sight of the scar on his hand. It was a big, ugly, gray, and reddish brown thing, encapsulating his whole palm and extending down his forearm until the red sleeve of his long red, red coat appeared and hid the rest.

“A life or death situation, so I see.” Brook muttered, then thought about the feeling of having skin ripped off and shuddered. Then shook his head. “Still, self-defense or not, I would say one hundred and fifty belies are a rather… lackluster sum for murder.”

“I would hardly call it self-defense. It was me who started the fight, after all.” Captain Yorki said, tone light, dropping his hand. “But, well, the man was a pirate too, with a proper wanted poster, they don’t usually charge you when one murders a pirate, they reward you.”

“But this was different, was it not?”

Captain Yorki nodded. “He was the sheriff’s son.”

“Ah.” Brook winced. “Then I wonder why it was not higher.”

“The sheriff was not the one who put the bounties, or so I heard. He managed to convince… whoever he had to convince to put the bounty up on their island for public disturbance and thievery.” A pause. “No piracy, though, devastatingly.”

There are a lot of ways Brook could have answered, ranging from a whole array of emotions and beliefs. A more prejudicing person might have answered with something along the lines of ‘what else could I have expected from pirates’. A more sensitive person might have answered with disbelief and repugnance with something along the lines of ‘and the blood of a son in your hands does not face you one bit?’. A more honorable person might have answered with something along the lines of ‘taking a life is despicable, but doing so in something as mundane as a bar fight is one of the worst atrocities I have heard of.’

Now Brook did value the attribute of honor, considered that once a promise is made, then it is your duty, your responsibility, to fulfill it. Sure, he had his honor, and his sensitivities, and his prejudices, as any other human does, and, of course, he had his flaws. A better person would have answered differently, a worse one would have answered differently. But, of course, other than a rotting violin’s wonder, this does not affect the dead man’s tale one bit. Right or wrong answer, if there’s even such thing, this, is what his owner replied after some moments of quiet consideration: “Despite your beliefs of being a simple man, you prove to be a rather complex individual, Captain Yorki.”

“How so?”

“You have made apparent your fervent passion for music, and I believe that your words of not wishing riches are true. You proclaim not to enjoy a blade dyed in red, and, perhaps, poets or philosophers would pester you about why the barrel of a gun is somehow different, even if the flowery language and technicalities of speech miss the principle of the meaning, as this is the thing: You do not enjoy indiscriminate murder, but certainly do not shy away from it when the situation demands it, enough to not to feel remorseful for it.” Brook concluded. “You are a melophile, undoubtedly so, but first and foremost, your inclinations are those of a pirate.”

“Oh? Was that notion ever in doubt? I think I made it clear when we met.”

“Perhaps, but your personality makes it hard to differentiate at first glance.” Or, rather, it made it so it was easy not to believe he really held said inclinations.

The sound of a cat being strangled filled the air, and Captain Yorki shook his head. “And at second?”

“You are a pirate with a deep obsession with music. A peculiar pirate, but a pirate nonetheless, and it makes no good forgetting that.”

Brook pictured it and found that it was not hard to imagine. The sight of Captain Yorki facing an enemy crew, fighting and looting, face splattered in red and the sound and glint of the clash upon clash of swords as he hummed a song. Not taking pleasure in the bloodshed of innocent, but, perhaps, somewhat in those of enemies, or just not thinking much of it. Men running along his orders.

A conductor in an orchestra, a captain in a ship.

“And yet, you do not seem put off by it.” The grin on Captain Yorki’s face was a greedy, greedy thing.

No. Brook was not. Perhaps he ought to have been.

He shrugged instead. “If the lives taken by your hand were that of an innocent, I might have reached a different conclusion. Besides, how hypocritical would it be to condemn you when I’m a knight in a kingdom at the edge of a war? And…” Brook said, feeling like, somewhere, he was repeating himself. “Well, perhaps, I’m somewhat biased by your musical inclinations, but I happen to enjoy your company.”

Captain Yorki’s smile got wider.

The tune Captain Yorki hummed was not one Brook had ever heard before, belonging to a song that tasted of salt and sand-full air. It could have been said it reminded Brook of the ocean, but Brook, young and landbound in a speck of dust, did not know the ocean just yet to associate it thoroughly.

It was not long after, that very same day, when Captain Yorki broke off from humming the cheery tone before Brook had the mind to ask the name of the song, but Captain Yorki beat him to the words as he asked: “Pray tell, Sir Brook, when, exactly, does your shift come to an end?”

“Why, about eight at night.”

“Eight! But you have been here all day!” Captain Yorki said, seemingly scandalized at the notion of a work schedule.

“That’s what guard duty normally entails, yes.”

“Yet you said you weren’t a guard!”

“Guard duty, Captain Yorki, please pay attention to the whole sentence instead of just the keywords.”

“That’s— Fuck off.” Captain Yorki shot once he processed Brook’s words. The crude rebuttal made Brook almost choke in his laughter. “Then, I shall ask, when it’s your break then?”

“Oh, I already had it earlier this morning.”

“You already— Have you eaten, Sir Brook?” He asked, but before Brook could start to even form a semblance of an answer, Captain Yorki made up his mind. He stood up with a jump from where he was lunging like a lazy cat in one of the branches, sending dirt and seeds and leaves falling down into him. “Well, I haven’t, and I find most boring eating all on my own, so, hop on.” He made a beckoning motion with his hand for him to follow and turned around, already making his way to the gray, gray castle wall.

Brook did not move an inch.

It took a second for Captain Yorki to realize this fact. He turned around, and at the sight of Brook, still sitting on the ground, he threw his head back with a groan. “Oh, come on! Are you not even a bit bored of being here all day?”

Brook definitely was. Yet, he said: “Even if I was, it does not change the fact that I have been assigned to guard. Oh, just how irresponsible on my part would it be to just leave the west gate unattended?”

“It might as well be, my friend, with just how lazy you happen to be with your guarding.”

“I was told to take it easy, so that’s what I am doing.” The words have been more spat than told, granted, product of a jealous superior that had been assigned to the east and had the news delivered to him, but Brook wasn’t particularly concerned about the technicalities nor tone of his speech. It can’t be said that he was doing anything that he wasn’t told to. “Besides, the fact is that I am here, able to give a response to any intruders that might come.”

“It’s not like anyone has come here to warrant said responsibility.”

“You have come.” Brook pointed out.

Captain Yorki opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head. “That doesn’t count.”

“That doesn’t count, he says!” Brook repeated with a laugh and before he could continue his teasing, Captain Yorki spoke up.

“I mean, nobody else has come.” He said, jumping back to the branch he was, right above Brook sending another blast of dirt and seeds and leaves down to him in a way he was starting to suspect was purposeful. “And, you said so yourself, this level of protection to an old, boring castle is normally unwarranted, which means that nothing tends to happen. And, you said that, even if close, the first notes of war are yet to be played. Or am I to believe, Sir Brook, that you have lied to me?”

“Your observations are sharp, Captain Yorki, and so are your jabs, fitting for the blade you carry around.” Brook admitted, thoroughly unimpressed at the sharp grin he sent his way. “But, no, as I said before, both families are cowards, king and queen, they wouldn’t dare launch attack in such manner where their own blood could be the one spilled.”

“Which means a direct attack won’t happen during their visit, right?”

“...It is unlikely, yes.”

“So, you decide you would rather spend your time as a decoration none shall see?” Captain Yorki cocked his head to the side. “If you were parading around the eastern gate, maybe the northern, I would reconsider, but as of now? You are nothing but a vase placed behind a curtain.”

“Are you calling me unsightly, yohoho?”

“We both know, Sir Brook, that this is not what you have taken out of my words. But, if that’s the answer you have chosen to give me, then, yes, my friend, the sight of you wasting life like this is an ugly one.”

“Any others might have taken insult with your choice of words, Captain Yorki.” Brook hummed. “This is, in the end, the way I have chosen to lead my life.”

Captain Yorki stood silent for a couple of seconds. The sun was high in the sky at the time of day this conversation took place, and the place Captain Yorki placed himself, right above Brook, made it impossible to distinguish colors and nuances of his mean, mean face, made impossible to pinpoint the expression he made, as Brook’s eyes, all tissue, sclera and cornea, still present on his face in the time of this story, could only distinguish the long silhouette of his haggard form as the pupils contracted against the light.

The silhouette broke off laughing with his weird strangled cat laugh.

“Oh, please! Do not talk with such finality, more akin to some old man with a foot in the grave than a young one, as if you don’t have a whole array of different music sheets to choose and play upon.” He shook his head and Brook’s hand, the one close to the elegant violin, twitched. “And you seem to forget that I am not talking to ‘any other’, am I? I am talking to you.”

“Well, yes. But…” Brook started, then paused, and tried again. “But, yes, who else would you be… but— That’s besides the point… ” Brook started, words weighing tones and tongue sticking in the roof of his mouth, stumbling upon words. Captain Yorki’s words were simple, or so he thought, it did not warrant this sudden loss of eloquence. His hand twitched again. He had a sudden urge to play. “I am aware—”

“Tell me, Brook.” He interrupted. “What do you want to do?”

“What do I want to do?” Brook repeated, baffled, muted. He wondered if that sensation was what it felt like to drown, for a second, before shaking his head at the dramaticness of an analogy he wasn’t intimate with.

He remained silent.

The silhouette shook his head and tried again. “Are you hungry?”

He blinked, then blinked again, at a complete loss. “Kind of?”

A nod.

“So, considering you already had your break,” Captain Yorki’s silhouette continued, intoning the words slowly. “Do you wish to remain here doing nothing and getting hungrier or do you want to just go grab a quick bite?”

One minute, two minutes, three minutes. Brook stood still for four minutes, five minutes, six minutes. He breathed, and swallowed, eyes not leaving Captain Yorki’s figure before drifting to the castle, to the gallant violin at his side, to his own dumb sword at the other.

Such silly situation! Such silly question! It made it hard to ponder. This or that, black or white, sweet or sour, left or right, fly or crawl, such silly situation, with silly questions, that Brook felt warranted far, far too complex of an answer.

There are a lot of ways Brook could have answered, wondering about them proves to be futile, as a knight with promises of duty and loyalty would have answered no. Clear and cut.

Then again, a knight shouldn’t have found himself in this silly, silly situation in the first place.

Brook stood still for seven minutes, contemplating between the duty carried for a monarchy he did not hold any loyalty to, for he served the kingdom, not his rulers, and the whim of a pirate with treble clefs and crotches in his step he met some days before; contemplating between a responsibility or an indulgence.

He took a long, long look at the castle. It was, perhaps, around three or four in the afternoon, and he had not eaten since seven in the morning. He could go longer, he’s used to going longer, any knight really. And yet…

To remain fiddling away with an impressive violin’s strings already tuned over and over again, over a monarchy he did not care all that much outside the notes of a war they shall make their people play, just laying around doing nothing all day. It wasn’t an unfamiliar routine, a familiar sheet, the same notes he could play with his eyes closed, not one he particularly liked, but one he knew nevertheless.

On the other side, his eyes shifted to the silhouette above him. A jovial man, a complex man, who hummed songs that tasted of salt and whose hands that held a conducting baton carried blood, the notes he offered to show were not ones of safety. Unfamiliar ones, unknown ones.

(For a man, a musician, who learned each and every song there was to be learned on the small speck of dust in the middle of the ocean, whose craft made him yearn and wish for new songs—)

It wasn’t, Brook reasoned, as if Captain Yorki was asking him to do something as outlandish as to quit his job on the spot, he was simply asking for some company at lunch; and, truly, seeing as he wasn’t really doing anything of use, what good makes standing the feeling of an empty stomach?

“Well, someone has to stop you from stealing some poor soul’s twenty-three cents.” Brook said as he stood up. He could hear Captain Yorki’s cat's strangled laugh as his answer.

He put the diligent and elegant violin back in its case and sadly, fastened the stupid, lazy, boring, and rude sword (No, the violin says with an off-key note, it’s not that it doesn’t like swords and no, it wasn’t jealous of it, because its owner has had plenty of swords and it even liked the last one, the one whose sheath was a cane, but that sword… Well, how about you try speaking to a sword designed solely with knighthood in mind and tell it if you can handle its ego. ‘Oh, I was made with solely the purest of metals to defend against the most dreadful of dragons, and you? With the wood of some crusty old tree that couldn’t stand a little rain?’ Pretentious prick.) laying dormant in the grass to his hip and climbed into the tree.

Once at the top, he stopped at the sight of Captain Yorki’s greedy, greedy grin as suddenly, his decision felt far, far bigger than just skipping a few hours of work.

He didn’t have the time to linger too much on that as Captain Yorki turned swiftly in his step and made a motion with his hand to follow as he walked leisurely towards the gray, gray wall. Brook followed, admittedly with less grace than Captain Yorki, but, in his owner’s defense, Brook did not make a habit of climbing trees.

A little bit of debris fell from the wall as Brook stepped into it, and Brook watched with half-hearted interest as the broken pieces deepened the webs and cracks of the wall and rolled downwards the tall steep of the mountain for a good minute before they reached the river and sunk without further ceremony in the waters. It was impressive Captain Yorki had managed to walk off that fall, even more impressive that he managed to enter the gardens from that side.

“Captain Yorki, you don’t happen to have the ability to stretch, do you?” Brook asked, eyes shifting from the tall, tall distance from the ground to Captain Yorki’s figure walking on top of the wall towards the southern gate. He followed him. There was a long, long tear in the red, red coat he wore, from the right shoulder to his hip. It wasn’t there before, so it probably was a result of the fall.

“To stretch! What could possibly give you such an outlandish idea, Sir Brook!?”

“Outlandish, you say, but you were the one that has advocated for the existence of Devil Fruits. Say, if there is a man with the ability to rip skin off like a bandaid, what is to say there isn’t one that allows you to stretch?”

“I have not plucked my heart out like an apple from a tree and offered it to the devil if that’s what you are asking, and, hopefully, never will.”

“Yohoho? Does the promise of power not entice you at all?”

“Power is nice, power is nice.” Captain Yorki nodded his head. “But is not a vice, an indulgence, maybe; or a necessity, perhaps, if you want your tales passed down like an epic instead of a tragedy. But, for me to go as far as to gain the disdain of the ocean? I happen to be far too cowardly for that.” A pause. “Or perhaps it’s just that I am far less ambitious than I like to admit, who knows?”

“Who knows, indeed!” Brook agreed even if, by this point in time, Captain Yorki seemed by far like the most ambitious man he had met in this little speck of dust. (Even if! The violin can’t help itself from declaring with a sharp, sharp note, even if his ambition would pale when compared to that of the man who laughed freedom. But, perhaps that’s not fair, as hardly anyone in this world could compare to such a man.) “But, back to my original inquiry, Captain Yorki, if not by something as outlandish as being able to stretch, I have to ask, how exactly have you managed to reach the western gate? There’s a reason it is hardly guarded.”

“Oh, that? It’s not that hard.” He shrugged, spinning on his feet and walking backwards as he faced Brook. “Why, your disbelief seems childish once you realize you walk in the same path I use to enter.”

“Just like this?”

“Just like this!”

“It can’t possibly be that easy.”

“Have you considered, Sir Brook, that maybe it is just that all knights have fallen into my dashing charms?”

“Never once crossed my mind!” Brook laughed. “As for such a strategy to exist, said charms actually need to exist.”

“Oh, fuck off! I am plenty charming! Even took you out of the castle, didn’t I?”

“There’s a difference between charms and sheer insistence, Captain Yorki. A man can only be so patient!”

The rebuttal Captain Yorki decided to grace Brook with was a middle finger raised high as he turned around on his heel with a scoff.

Once the sharp edge of the wall towards the left that gave way to the southern area of the castle came to vision, Captain Yorki dropped off the wall and Brook followed his lead. It was still a very, very narrow path, soft earth that sank with every step and crumbled once enough force was applied. They had to press their back flat against the wall and tip-toe around as they walked to avoid falling towards the river in a manner that made Brook fear more for his darling violin than the actual harm it could bring to him.

When they reached the edge, Captain Yorki made a sharp motion for him to stop as he craned his neck beyond the wall. Still, the difference in height made it so Brook could tilt ever so slightly and get a good look too despite the man in front of him.

To state that the southern gate was better guarded than the west does not give a good point of reference, considering that the only man placed there decided to leave. The southern gate was well guarded, not as ostentatiously as the eastern, oh no, one could say that the lack of overcompensating numbers of knights in over-ornate armors made it all the more secure. The southern gate, just like the northern, was guarded by four knights outside the metal doors standing straight with swords and lances sharp enough to cut through air, with another four in the gardens. Both gates gave way to the kingdom, and there were a couple of buildings far too close that monarchy would normally allow. There was an actual reason for that, but Brook couldn’t ever be bothered to learn the why and so, neither did the violin.

There were a couple of vultures pick-pick-picking at the guts of a dead cat a few meters to the left of the other knights. Captain Yorki bent down and quickly stretched for a broken piece of concrete, bigger than a pebble, but not big enough to be considered debris. It fit well in his scarred hand.

He lifted, aimed, and threw it at the vultures.

The sound of guttural hissing and the flutter of wings and feathers filled the air, the four knights standing guard outside all simultaneously jumped with a metallic sound, as they turned sharply at the birds, Captain Yorki made a run for the nearest building that would offer cover, reaching it with a headfirst dive, like some sort of baseball player. The whole scene seemed silly on the outside, something like those comedy sketches in theater plays Brook watched from time to time and he had to slap a hand over his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter.

Once his urge to laugh died down, it was to be met with the sight of Captain Yorki dusting himself off as he looked around the floor for something. Brook watched him for a couple of seconds, then tilted to see what in the world the knights were doing. One was staring at the cat, the second cursing at the birds, and the third scrubbing his eyes in a way that suggested he may have fallen asleep standing guard. Only the fourth seemed to display suspicion in the way he eyed his surroundings.

It meant Brook had to be quick then.

His eyes remained fixed on the fourth knight, waiting for a second of distraction. His eyes shifted to where Captain Yorki was digging a rock from the ground before his eyes snapped back to the knight.

Suddenly, the first guard burst into tears with a loud sob as he kneeled next to the dead cat. The fourth’s head whipped around with a snap on his lips for less than five seconds before he whipped around again, but that moment of distraction was more than enough for Brook, and from one moment to the next, he was standing at Captain Yorki’s side, one hand raised already as to throw the rock.

He blinked, shook his head, and turned his head sideways to face Brook, confusion written in every inch of his skin.

“I doubt, Captain Yorki,” Brook started once it became apparent that words failed him. He pushed the rock from his raised hand and it fell to the floor with a ‘thud’. “That same trick would work twice in a row.”

Captain Yorki blinked again and let his arm fall before he composed himself. “What? How can you possibly be this fast?”

“Yohohoho! Fast? Surely you jest, Captain Yorki.” Brook said with a twitch of mouth he failed to suppress that betrayed his intentions. He had always been fast, and he always knew it. Sure, not as fast as a certain cook that is yet to be born, but Brook’s speed has never been something to laugh at.

“Do I jest!? Stop pulling my hair!” Captain Yorki said. “With a speed like that, I ought to believe you can run in water too!”

“I’m afraid I’m far too heavy to pull such deed.” Brook shook his head, turning around as he started to make his way downtown. Captain Yorki stepped naturally at his side. “Well, perhaps I could if I was nothing but bones!”

Captain Yorki shivered. “Don’t put such images in my head, Sir Brook, the picture of a skeleton walking on his own is dreadful.”

Brook laughed, then actually stopped for long enough to picture the image of a reanimated skeleton and felt a million bugs crawl in and out of his skin, like a body in decomposition, and completely agreed with Captain Yorki’s words. Oh, such a sight would be more than enough to make him faint! Swiftly, he decided to change the topic: “Anyways, where were you going to throw your little munition at? There were no birds to scare now.”

Captain Yorki’s tense shoulders dropped, seemingly as keen to change the topic as Brook was. “Oh, at the knight’s head.”

Brook coughed, choked.

“At the knight’s head.” He craned his neck back without halting his step, eyes darting as he searched through the floor just what size the rock Captain Yorki was about to throw and almost tripped when he saw it properly. “Were you attempting straight-up murder?”

“Please! A tiny little rock—”

“A boulder! A boulder, I tell you! That tiny little rock of yours can hardly be considered a rock, that’s just a boulder!”

“Oh, come on, Sir Brook, that tiny little boulder wouldn’t have been nearly enough to kill that man unless the helmets that those other guards use are more flimsy than they look.”

“To protect from a crushed skull, maybe! But I am talking about the impact!” Brook said then sighed. “Ah, your only saving grace would have been that you probably would have missed his head.”

Captain Yorki scoffed. “My aim is great, thank you very much.”

“Yohoho! You seem confident in your abilities, Captain Yorki, even if your hands seem more familiar with the blade at your side.” Brook inquired, until he remembered his confession of having shot a man. “Or, well, perhaps not.”

Captain Yorki threw back his head and laughed along with the sound of a strangled cat. “I’m no sharpshooter, nor a sniper, if that’s your question. But, I would say, my aim is good enough to pass off as one.”

“Yet you prefer the steel of a blade.”

“How did you know?” Captain Yorki asked as he cocked his head to the side.

“It’s simple, really! I simply don’t see you carrying a gun in your person!”

“Ha! That’s where you are wrong! I do fancy blades more, but one never knows when a bullet can come in handy.” From the black, black cloth tied around his waist, he pulled out a revolver. “Voilà!” He said, as he spun it in the air and grabbed it by the barrel, offering the gun to Brook by the handle.

Brook blinked owlishly at the sixgun for a couple of seconds before his curiosity got the better of him. He set the case with his respectable violin on the floor and grabbed the gun presented to him with both hands.

It was a deadly little thing. The metal was bitingly cold, absorbing heat off Brook’s hands, it was a wonder how Captain Yorki stood up the feeling of it against his stomach’s skin. Wood of the handle rough to the touch. It had a myriad of scratches around the barrel, the area of the trigger polished by use. Old, yet well-kept. Still, in the edges and hollows it had, traces of dry sand mixed with dry blood could still be seen. He spun the cylinder with a finger a couple of times, and even managed to open it up.

Six holes, four bullets.

“Pretty neat, uh?” Captain Yorki said with glee. “Won it from a gunsmith in a game of poker when I was sixteen— Almost got shot with it once he realized I cheated!”

“I am starting to think you simply may have a death wish.”

“Eh? Not at all, not at all! No treasure can compare to that of my life! But, well, what good is life without a bit of excitement? Without a bit of danger and unknowns?”

Brook spun the cylinder with childish entertainment, before sharply jamming it closed with the other hand. Six holes, four bullets.

“Am I to believe you are one of those who fancy the roulette, then?”

“Seas no!” He said, yet he laughed laughter that sounded like someone was strangling a cat, for a second, Brook thought it could be passed off as a hyena’s laugh. “I’m not that crazy, Sir Brook. For what purpose shall I play? To prove there’s no such thing as predestination in this world for a mere 20 berries? Oh, nonsense! My luck is atrocious, either way.”

“Yet isn’t that the unknown and danger you speak of?”

“No, not at all.” Captain Yorki said with a smile full of teeth and proceeded to not elaborate a single word more in that thought. Brook toyed with the six-shooter, fiddled with the components whose names he did not know, before a sharp, sharp ‘click’ locked in the air.

He had no idea what he had just done, nor any idea what to answer, so he passed the revolver back to the other man again with these words: “Is it not dangerous to carry such weapon the way you do? What if it goes off?”

“Mmm? No, no, that’s what the safety is for.” Captain Yorki explained as he spun the gun in his right hand. “It prevents it from going off.” He continued at the same time a loud ‘bang!’ filled the air.

One of the four bullets loaded in the revolver shot up with a vicious thirst for blood. It first went flying upwards to a metal pipe, bounced off it, and flew through the air like a shooting star as it bounced from one place to another. Up until it stopped with the sound of a loud ‘crash!’.

Brook, suddenly, had an idea, a hunch, if you will, what had made that clicking sound from before.

He stood up from where he had crouched down to avoid being hit and saw Captain Yorki do the same as he put the safety on and looked around. There were screams, curses, and bullet holes on multiple metal surfaces. Was there always this much metal? Brook hadn’t realized.

The crashing sound, Brook discovered, was made as the bullet hit one of the public clocks hanging from a pole. Bits and pieces of glass fell from where the bullet had broken the clock, and it made the hour impossible to distinguish clearly.

He stared at it for a couple of seconds, then turned to Captain Yorki, who was scratching his head with a somewhat sheepish face. Then, before any of them could say a single word, there was a loud clank-clank-clanking sound of metal running in their direction followed by accusations and exclamations of ‘Who goes there!?’, ‘Stop this instant!’ and ‘Is everybody alright?’

Brook had the sudden urge to laugh, and he did so as they both started running.

The place Brook led Captain Yorki after shaking off the knights was a small establishment placed in the spacious room of what used to be the basement of a weapon shop called Cutting Edge. One had to go into the shop first and take the stairs to the far right to enter, hidden behind a curtain of an atrocious bright yellow color, and make sure to at least take a quick look around the shop first, as the owner, an old, old lady with a hunched back and chainsaw for an arm was not exactly known for her reluctance to make use of it.

However, that task was swiftly completed by Captain Yorki, who spent a few minutes enamored with her array of blades, doing a rather fine job of pretending he wasn’t a man who just threw up from overexertion five minutes ago from trying to keep up with Brook. It suspects they would have spent more time in the little weapon shop were the old, old lady not offended when Captain Yorki asked if she sold bullets (“It’s called the Cutting Edge, young man, not the Shooting Edge!”).

As for the small establishment. It did not have a name, but, between some of the locals in this open-ended secret, it was referred to by a variety of names, all of which shared a common denominator. Such names were The Disappeared Knight, The Lethargic Knight, The Lazy Knight, or, most popular, The Good-For-Nothing Knight; which, Brook thought was rather harsh, but couldn’t exactly fault the name seeing as most of its clientele were knights, such as him, skipping duty.

It was an open-ended secret, sure, but one that did not reach the king’s or queen’s royal ears nor the most diligent, to not describe them as stuck-up, of knights. The beauty of it was that, truly, no knight that had set foot there could go and rat out the secret without exposing themselves, and, if not, then it was always easy to spin a tale that, in the end, would doom the loose-tongue knight. Something along the lines of: ‘I know I was there, but what were you doing there?’

There was a variety of knights once Brook entered, pieces of armor and helmets set carelessly on the tables. There were even a couple of green colors that identified the knights of the Idios, drinking and complaining while the knights of the Móros nodded vigorously in sympathy.

‘War after war after war! Not a second of respite!’

‘For what is it this time? Did the Móros were called morons? Did the Idios were called idiots? Were there not enough guards parading around? Oh, did one get mad because they greeted with a ‘Good morning’ when it was already evening?’

‘For us to be doomed to die and starve for some stupid border!’

‘Nine suns and eight moons walking without a break just to stand around as if I had chosen to lose my gaze in Medusas’ eyes.’

‘Prince Neva, perhaps, could persuade his parents—’

‘Prince Neva this, Prince Neva that. He won’t do anything!’

‘Known for his kindness, that he is! He cares deeply for his people! He won’t let—’

‘It's the same. The same I tell you!’

‘Kindness alone won’t solve a war!’

‘So what if he cares!? Once war breaks the last place you shall see him will be on the battlelines! Hypocrite, spoiled brat, he will grow up to be just as nonsensical as his parents!’

‘What about Princess Nyssa, then? For they said her bleeding heart weeps for her people! Surely, she—’

‘It's the same. The same I tell you!’

‘And what if it weeps? Tears alone won’t solve a war!’

‘Doomed we are, to fight and die over some stupid line.’

“As it is, I do happen to have a question, Captain Yorki.” Brook continued after they had sat at one of the empty tables at the back, after placing their orders, Brook with a fresh cup of black tea in his hands and Captain Yorki with a glass bottle whose contents were probably alcoholic in nature, even if Brook didn’t catch what he asked for. All the time, swiftly ignoring the ruckus around them. “I believe I have asked it before, but, if I did, I don’t remember your answer. So I shall ask again, what brought you here?”

“...You?”

“To the island, Captain Yorki.”

“Ah, right. That makes more sense.” He nodded, taking a swing of the bottle. “Nothing in particular, really.”

Brook frowned. “Surely it can’t be just that.”

He hummed.

“Then I shall say that the ocean was what brought me here, Sir Brook, as she took into consideration fate’s will and decided that she agreed on the path it webbed for me, just to give you a more poetic answer.”

“So, you just got dragged here by the ocean’s water in a boat you couldn’t control?”

“I don’t like such insinuations, I’m not that crap of a navigator.” Captain Yorki answered, pointing a finger at Brook before he let it drop on the table, he tap-tap-tapped his index finger against the table to the rhythm of some song playing in his head. Brook wanted to ask if it was one he himself knew of. “But, well, I did let her waters lead me, as I said, as I did not have a fixed destination once I set sail. Still don’t, if I’m being honest.”

“Ah, so that’s the unknowns you so fondly speak of.”

“Now you get it!” Some of the ruckus in the little place died down as people turned in concern in their direction at the sound of Captain Yorki’s cat's strangled laugh. “It’s nice, letting the wind guide you, you end up in places you otherwise wouldn’t have gone.”

“Like this one?”

“Just like this one.”

Brook thought that, despite his dislike and general lack of faith, he ought to thank fate for that; or perhaps he ought to thank the ocean instead, for it allowed fate to be. He did not voice any of this, instead, he closed his eyes, brought the cup of tea to his lips, and took a sip.

“Still, in my opinion, the question one asks ought not to be why one person decides to go somewhere,” Captain Yorki said after a beat, black eyes sharpening like a sword being taken out of its sheath. He moved forward from where he was reclining, placing his whole arm on the table as the other remained thrown over the chair. His finger tap-tap-tapped to a more pointed rhythm. “But how long that person decides to stay.”

Brook stopped, blinked, and put the cup of tea in the little porcelain plate with daffodils painted on it with a small ‘clink’. He intertwined his hands together on the table. “Whatever you mean, Captain Yorki?”

“The meaning.” He said slowly, tasting each and every word. “I think you already know the meaning.”

There was no music playing whatsoever in the little place, just the sound of clinking mugs and cups, tinkering forks and spoons against plates, along with the sound of steps and voices overlapping one over another over another. A couple of unusually loud voices would sometimes make their sentences resonate through the place.

‘For us to die in honor of their senseless wishes, but what happens to ours?’

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“I will be frank, then.”

“So you recognize the complexities of your speech?” Of your being? Of what you ask of me?

“Why do you stay here, sir Brook?”

Finger dancing to the sound of the tap, tap, tap. A melody Brook did not know of, did not want to know of. He wondered why now he was so reluctant to ask its name. His eyes, all tissue, sclera and cornea, shifted from where they watched Captain Yorki’s sharp, sharp eyes to his reflection, all skin stretched over bone and muscle, stuck in between the delicate porcelain borders of the cup in the black, black tea.

‘It's the same. The same I tell you!’

“This is the path I have chosen to walk on.”

“Forever?”

“Well, who knows which kind of diversifications it shall have, or where it ends.”

“Then why think it’s the only one?”

“I made an oath. What kind of man would I be if I went back on my word?” Brook said, harsher than he intended.

“An oath, an oath. A knight oaths his services first and foremost, to the royal family, and then to his kingdom. A kingdom on the edge.” He mused, finger marking rhythm with a slower tap. tap. tap. “Yet, I believe it’s different. So, I wonder, what drives a man to become a knight? What drives a man to pledge loyalty he does not hold?”

His hands tightened to fists.

“Yorki—”

“Tell me, Brook.” Captain Yorki interrupted, just as harshly, with sharp, sharp eyes. “What does a man like you want?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

Captain Yorki shifted his arm on the table and placed his cheek against his palm. “So, you don’t have an answer.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what I heard.”

‘It's the same. The same I tell you!’

“What, exactly, are you insinuating? Answer me with a precise note, Yorki, without the round-a-bouts and music sheets.”

A pause. Despite the sound of clinking mugs and cups, tinkering forks and spoons, steps and voices overlapping over one another, the sudden lack of Captain Yorki’s tap-tap-tapping made it feel as if the world had become dead silent, or, perhaps, it was just that Brook had gone deaf.

“Do you happen to play piano, Brook?” Captain Yorki asked.

“Yorki!”

“Because I don’t.” He continued, closing his eyes as he made a motion with his hand. Brook turned his head around, just to be met with the sight of a piano backed in shadow. “Will you play for me?”

Brook did not answer.

Prince Neva of the Móros Kingdom was a young man, two or three years older than Brook, with pin-straight brown hair that reached a little below the shoulder blades, deep black eyes, a long chandelier earring, and a crooked nose. He was a nice-looking man, as far as the violin understood, as his perception of beauty was one that could only be extended to the melody of a sound. Still, his appearance, for a prince and for what the violin, once again, understood, was rather ordinary.

He would not fit the ornate descriptions tales and legends spent paragraphs upon paragraphs upon paragraphs which poets and storytellers would entone with rose petals slipping from their tongues. He did not have a face sculptured by the angels themselves. Aphrodite did not decide to gift a kiss to the child upon his birth, in fact, she didn’t even spare a glance at him, not out of any scorn, but just plain disinterest. His brown hair wasn’t made of the finest of silk, nor was it the color of bronze glinting in the sun; in reality, the coloration of his hair was more akin to that of deep, deep mud.

Prince Neva wasn’t ugly, oh no, but his beauty was more fit for a commoner, not an aristocrat, much less a monarch. His portrait —One of the few that would not be burned with the change of monarchy— painted in oils was hardly one people would find lost themselves in if not for his eyes, whose deepness was always, always overshadowed by the deep, deep melancholy of his gaze. It was the part that caused the painter the most grief, that caused their hands to bleed and break, with days upon days obsessing over the details of his gaze, and it is said the painter could not stop weeping as they did so.

A day after Idios left the south, along with their one hundred and five knights, as the whole kingdom awaited with tense, held breath, Prince Neva requested for Brook to make company to him as he wished to go hunting in the forest and, besides his personal attendant, the prince was obligated to have at least one knight with him as a result of his parents' paranoia.

The petition, which that’s what it was, as the prince’s personal attendant made very, very clear that Prince Neva very explicitly said this was completely optional, was accepted graciously by Brook, if not a bit too eagerly, in an attempt to get away from Captain Yorki’s sharp, sharp gaze and even sharper words, to whom he still did not wish to answer.

“Still, you have my sincere apologies for the short notice, Brook.” Prince Neva reiterated as he pulled the string of his bow with elegance, aiming at some animal in the distance Brook could not make off. A red arrow held between the tips of his fingers. “But I just had to get away from the castle.”

So sudden the notice was, in fact, that Brook hadn’t had the time to go back home and leave his beautiful violin, and so it remained at his side in the duration of the little escapade, held in between its polished black case. Still, Brook didn’t mind the suddenness for reasons the violin had already explained. “I assume that negotiations did not go well, then?”

“It’s no longer a question of if, but a question of when.” Prince Neva said, badly hiding the pain in his voice. “Unless I somehow manage my parents to yield the claim of the dividing border as our land.”

“Which is impossible.” Brook concluded, not with any vitriol, and not as an accusation, but as a mere observation. The Móros were known for their bullheadedness, even if others would not dare describe them with such crude words. Yielding was a fate worse than death for them. No such point in deluding oneself with false hopes.

Prince Neva winced at the same time the attendant hissed. “Unlikely, Sir Brook.”

“No, no, he’s right.” Prince Neva shook his head. “But I must try. Who else will, if not me? When the alternative is the senseless pain of my people who will have to bathe and drink the blood of the slain and feast on the flesh of the dead in the ashes of their homes?”

“What about Princess Nyssa, then?”

“Despite the sincerity of her sentiments and the deepness of her worries, I sincerely doubt Princess Nyssa will have more luck than me when her parents are just as stubborn as mine.” He sighed. “At this point, I fear the only thing I could do is to take more drastic measures. I wonder, then, if I pressed a knife against my throat, would they finally manage to hear my voice?”

“Please,” The attendant breathed sharply. “Please, Prince Neva, don’t ever say such thing again, not even as a joke.”

Prince Neva took a second to answer, eyes wandering from whatever animal he was aiming for to his attendant at his right, then to Brook, at his left. In contemplation, almost. “It wasn’t my intention to cause you any grief, it was just a passing wonder.”

“A nonsensical one.” Brook piped in.

“...Nonsensical, yes.” The attendant breathed out.

A couple of moments passed where none of them talked, silence filled by the forest’s orchestra. The rustle of leaves, the running waters of some rivulet, cracking of wood, and the singing of birds. The kind of place one could lie down and be gently lulled to sleep, up until a wrong note was jammed with force as Prince Neva let the arrow go. A potent sound broke through the air as it flew through space before a shrilling bleat of a dying animal marked its stop.

Prince Neva stood still for a fleeting moment, his long earring rocking side to side before he let his arms drop at his side and started to make way to the animal whose heart no longer beat-beat-beated. The blaring red of the arrow an atrocious color against the muted greens and browns.

He started making his way to the animal, Brook and the attendant following close behind.

“Yet, I don’t understand, still. If we know our history, then why does it keep repeating? What is the root of their need? What makes it so deep as to ignore the suffering of their people? What makes it so worth it as to water it with blood?” He contemplated. “Every few years a war breaks out for some reason or another, more than half of those disputes over some childish tantrum, the other for some piece of land yet to be claimed for which these kingdoms have already fought for. Standstill, claim, reclaim, declarations that it belongs to no one, and then war breaks out to claim it once again.”

“Knowledge alone, my prince, is not enough to stop a war if action is not taken.” The attendant answered. “But, I am certain, my prince, you already know these are just convenient excuses to call to open fire.”

“For what reason, then? Over and over again?”

“It’s our history, in the end. Bloodshed and grief, anticipation and hate, concepts so interwoven with our own culture to the point war has become a need. An addiction we wouldn’t know how to live without.”

“One that we don’t want to live without.” Prince Neva corrected softly as he reached the place where the red, red arrow stood nailed into the soft browns of a dead deer where its heart should have been. A small river of crimson blood, murkier than that of the arrow, ran out of the wound.

The prince halted, contemplated, and crouched next to the dead deer. He checked his pulse, and after confirming it really was dead, he took out an old and small knife whose metal was more of a crusty brown than the elegant silver it should have been from under the sleeve of his shirt.

“And you, Brook?”

“Me? What about me?”

“What are your thoughts on this? Knights, such as yourself, will be one of the main leads of this war, even when their names are often buried and forgotten over the monarchs' and the generals' titles. So, I am curious, what are your thoughts of this kingdom in a soon-to-be war?” Prince Neva asked before sinking without hesitation the knife into the dead deer's head where two impressive antlers settled.

“My thoughts,” Brook contemplated. “Are hardly relevant in this situation, your Highness, as the reality of war has yet to sink in my heart just yet.”

“Are you not afraid, Sir Brook?” The attendant inquired, hovering anxiously as he watched blood drench more and more the prince’s robes.

“Of the horrors my home shall go through? Undoubtedly so, as I am fairly confident my ability would get me through the battle. But my fears are just that, fears born out of moments of contemplation, not out of belief they shall actually happen, as for now, my mind rests in the serenity of a calm lake.”

“I wonder, then,” Prince Neva started. “of the reason why your eccentric nature happens to be muddled in uncertainty?”

“Excuse me?”

A pool of red, red blood grew more and more from under the still-warm corpse, flowing off the steady flow of the mangled head. For a dagger I shall carve out of the steady antlers of this poor animal, the prince would answer when asked. He hummed, still uncaring of the grotesque sight of the mutilated deer, unaffected by the stench or the metallic taste present in the air, despite the kindness of his nature, and Brook thought that the attendant’s prior words were not without fundament.

He stood up, blood falling off a steady ‘drip, drip, drip’ from his rusted knife, and turned to face them. His eyes lingered on Brook for a long moment before shifting to his attendant, and then something behind them with a loud, loud gasp. From the corner of his eye, Brook caught sight as the attendant’s head whipped around like a whip, but as he himself did not, he watched with newfound amusement as Prince Neva took his long earring from his ear and shamelessly threw it far away from him.

“How horribly irresponsible of me! It seems that my precious earring fell off somewhere along the way!” He said with an expectant tone once his attendant turned back to face him.

The attendant blinked. It felt extremely judgmental despite his facial structure not shifting in the slightest.

“Such tragedy. Whatever we shall do?” Prince Neva continued.

“Search for it, for starters.” The attendant deadpanned, setting aside the usual respect demanded when addressing royalty. Ah, the perks of having taken care of the prince ever since he was a child.

“Search for it, indeed.” Prince Neva nodded. “But, ah, I’m afraid that if I step away now from this unfortunate deer some carrion animal might come and steal it away. Some dreadful vultures, perhaps!”

“Vultures only eat the flesh, my prince, the bones and the antlers shall remain intact; and, even if those dreadful animals, as you call them, happen to be here as we return with your precious earring, then it is only a matter of scaring them away.”

“I’m scared of birds.”

“...You are scared of birds.”

“Terrified.”

“Prince Neva, pardon my forgetfulness, but don’t you feed the cardinals and the doves on the castle’s west balcony every evening?”

“Exposure therapy.”

The laugh Brook let out was loud, long, and ugly. The attendant shot him a dirty look.

“You won’t have to scare them away, Prince Neva. Sir Brook and I can do that for you.”

Would it be a bad idea to pitch in with a lie and say he’s also scared of birds? Probably, but it would be rather funny. “Yohoho! But,” And the violin is certain his owner said the attendant’s name here, but he can’t remember what it was. “I must lament the fact that I also am terrified of birds!”

Presumably, the only thing that stopped the attendant from choking him to death and burying him somewhere in the forest was Prince Neva’s cry. “And if they come back in vengeance and pluck out my eyes like in those tales?”

“Ne— Prince Neva, I don’t ever recall you having a step-sister with glass slippers.” The attendant murmured then sighed, with the resignation of a man well familiar with Prince Neva’s attitudes and sudden fits of nonsense. He turned around. “Come on, Sir Brook.”

“Oh, and leave me all alone? I thought I was to be accompanied at all times!”

“Your parents are the ones who enforce the notion of having you always be accompanied, not you.”

“Notion that you also insist on.”

The attendant coughed, then opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head, still, looking completely judgmental and not fooled in the slightest —Needless to say, Prince Neva knew of this fact very well— but still walked out of earshot, somewhat miffed.

“Was sending your attendant in some treasure hunt necessary?” Brook said, laughter in his tone.

“I thought you might appreciate the privacy.” Prince Neva cocked his head to the side.

Brook did not mind, either way, but, still, it was a nice gesture. “Thank you, your Highness.” The prince shook his hand, brushing aside the title, waiting expectantly. Ah, yes, he did ask a question before. “It’s nothing, really, unwarranted of your concern.”

“Unwarranted? I would hardly call it that.” He said, decisively. See, Prince Neva had always worried over his knights, but he had a certain fondness for Brook, not born out of any infatuation, but because he had been rather close to Brook’s own mother when she lived. He even attended the ceremony in which he was declared a knight.

Brook even suspected, rather pretentiously, perhaps, that the prince might have considered him as some sort of distant little brother with the lengths he went out of his way for him, but this was a fact he never really could affirm with certainty.

“It’s a personal matter, nothing to write home about, I assure you.”

“Do you wish for me not to pry? I understand.” He nodded. “Still, I shall ask for you to indulge me with an answer to one question. Does your uncertainty come in relation to that cowboy?”

“Cowboy? What cowboy?” He asked, dumbfounded before he realized. “Oh, you mean Cap— Yorki?” He amended. Kind, as Prince Neva was, pirates, as always, were still known not for their goodness and honor. “How do you know about that? Him, I mean.”

“Just because it is hardly ever used does not mean that one is not able to see the western gardens from the castle, especially from the balcony.”

“...I see.” Brook said, rather eloquently.

“So?” The prince nudged.

Brook took a beat to answer.

“Yes. Somewhat, yes. My uncertainty, as you put it, is a byproduct of his hand.” He then thought about it, and added: “Well, perhaps is more of a product of my sudden inability to answer him.”

“Answer of what nature, exactly?”

“Of this nature. He simply asked a question—”

“And you couldn’t answer? You?” Prince Neva asked. “I could hardly think of anything that might catch you off guard like this!”

Brook laughed. “Neither did I! Neither did I! But, well, sometimes the simplest of questions require the most complex of answers.”

“Isn’t it that we, humans, with our nonsensical emotions and thoughtless actions, the ones that need to complicate the answers for some sort of superficial depth?”

“No, I believe every question he makes warrants complexity despite his self-proclaimed simplicity.”

“And yet you didn’t have trouble answering the other ones he made?”

That is not entirely true, but Brook chose not to voice that, instead he said: “This time, he asked me what it is that I wanted.”

“As I said, it is in our nature to overcomplicate such answers. But I won’t try to pretend I am above such nature, and I definitely won’t lie and say such question wouldn’t bring me grief too.” Prince Neva sighed. “Have you given it any thought?”

“Somewhat.” One has to suppose that is true, as Brook, in lack of an answer, had spent the following two days playing tune after tune after tune in his respectable violin, to the point his neck felt strained and his fingers burned, muscles and skin with tissue and cells with common pains that would turn into nothing but a distant memory in the future; to the point he had already played all the songs and melodies he knew of and yet, in his thirst for more, in the need to keep playing, he started again.

(In a way, the violin thinks, that such visceral reaction from his owner was already the answer to such question, even if his flawed human nature made him not realize it.)

“Such uncertainty does not fit you, Brook.” The prince said, blood falling off a steady ‘drip, drip, drip’ from his rusted knife. “But, I would say, even if you can’t give him a satisfactory answer, or you simply don’t want to, then at least give him some sort of other answer.”

“You mean lie to him?”

“No, Brook. Verbalize that ‘somewhat’, tell him you don’t know, or any other thing that falls in line with your thoughts, just give him some answer.”

The gravity of which he said such things were uncanny and Brook felt awfully exposed all of sudden. It did not stop him from asking: “Why the insistence of an answer? By the way you talk, one might think this is a manner of life and death.”

“He won’t stay on this island forever.” Was the answer Prince Neva gave. It was a simple one, an obvious one, one that Brook intrinsically knew even if it was in the form of a passing thought.

“I am aware of that.”

“I don’t think you do.” He shook his head. “In the same way the jaws of the reality of war have yet to sink in your skin, you know, but do not comprehend.”

Brook wanted to refute that, such events Prince Neva described could not be farther from each other as they could get, but the way his words made something in his stomach drop, sending the beat, beat, beat of his heart to the tips of his fingertips, made him swallow all the nonsensical words he could have said.

(“The question one asks ought not to be why one person decides to go somewhere,” His finger tap-tap-tapped to a more pointed rhythm. “But how long that person decides to—”)

His eyes shifted from Prince Neva’s melancholic eyes to the pool of red, red blood, slowly turning into a sea, dying red the green of the pasture. The air still tasted of metallic blood, sour, even. He wondered if the corpse was already cold.

“I don’t fault you for it as I don’t ever recall you looking so... content, let's say, in the presence of another person.” He said, softly. (Years, years later, upon reflecting on this moment, Brook would come to think that Prince Neva meant to say that he was lonely.) “Still, whether you wish to follow him or not, something as mundane as uncertainty ought not to be a reason to cut a tale short.”

Brook stood silent, for a couple of seconds, before choosing to address the easiest part of the sentence as he digested the other. “Follow him? You mean as in to go out to sea with him? Prince Neva, I have only known him for a few days!”

“A few days!” The prince laughed. “All the more reason to treasure such bonds, wouldn’t you think?”

“I—” Brook started, faltered, and ultimately came to a conclusion. “Yes, I suppose you are right. Still, do not forget, your Highness, that I have a duty to fulfill.”

Something shone through Prince Neva’s melancholic eyes, heavier than usual, before he shook his head and gave his back to Brook, setting sight on the deer, victim to death by his hands, and crouched again. He caressed his hand through the hair on its neck, petting it.

“Your sense of responsibility and loyalty are admirable, Sir Brook. But, please, do not forget there’s more than one choice in this life, especially for someone like you, unburdened by the weight of a crown bathed in blood.” Prince Neva said, tone filled with an emotion Brook could not put finger on but sounded painful all the same. “Do think of your wants.”

He jammed the knife into the deer’s head once again.

It was the day after Prince Neva’s little escapade that Brook set out in search of Captain Yorki as soon as he was dismissed from his duties exactly at eight o’clock. It was, admittedly, a more arduous task than he pictured it to be.

In between asking passersby and shop owners if they had seen a blond man with a white cowboy hat and a red, red coat, he finally managed to pinpoint his location at a run-of-the-mill bar Brook wasn’t even aware existed before that day around eleven o’clock at night. Diseased men, the rotting sign wrote.

Pirates have never been known for their pickiness, especially regarding the places they decided to drink in, but it became apparent why Captain Yorki had fixated on such place when the first thing Brook noticed upon entering was a long, elegant piano settled neatly in a small, round stage. Empty, as for now.

The bar was mostly empty too, perks of it being late at night on a weekday. There were three or four people lunging around, all in different states of misery with dozens of bottles thrown around them. One of the bartenders, cleaning a glass from behind the bar, suffering from a woman’s drunken ramblings of ‘Nothing I, hic, ever do is good enough for her! So, hic, what does it matter if I end up with some— some sort of poisoning? Alcoholic? Al-co-ho-lic, such a, hic, fun word. Then, hic, at least my mother will have to see me!’ almost broke into tears when he saw him enter, physically brazing to what he assumed was another miserable patron.

In contrast, the man who merrily hummed a tone of salt and sand in one of the tables stuck out like a sore thumb, a blaring lighthouse in the dark, dark of the ocean. It would have taken longer for Brook to pinpoint him otherwise, as he had placed the white cowboy hat down on the table.

Brook contemplated his next course of action, then, in deliberate steps made his way to the piano. He cocked his head silently to the bartender close to tears, who blinked, frowned, confused as to why exactly someone would come into some cheap, miserable bar to just play the piano instead of drowning in their pain with a bottle, before seemingly deciding such contemplations were way above their pay-grade and nodded in permission.

He put the case with his trustworthy violin down on the floor and took seat in the little piano chair. The fall board of the piano opened with a sharp ‘click’ that seemed to echo in the silent bar and Brook found amusement in the way Captain Yorki’s relaxed form immediately perked up at the sound and whipped his head around in the piano’s direction.

He blinked hard at the sight of Brook, scrubbed his eyes, and shook his head before he took another look at him.

Brook waved a hand to him.

Captain Yorki rolled his eyes, stood up, one hand grabbing the mouth of the green glass bottle with his fingertips and the other taking his hat and placing it on his head as he made his way to him.

“Sir Brook.” Captain Yorki greeted as he reclined on the piano. Despite the tip of his nose taking in a reddish coloration, his words weren’t slurred in the slightest. “Fancy seeing you here, you didn’t quite strike me as a person who would find enjoyment in dingy bars late at night. Especially on days of work.”

“It’s not in my usual activities, yes, along skipping work hours, so, perhaps it is just that you are rubbing on me.”

“A pirate’s attitude rubbing on a knight! What a strange concept to think about!” He pointed at him with the same hand he held the bottle with. “But not as much as one might think just yet, seeing you have yet to have a drink.”

“I did not come here with such intentions.” Brook said, passing fingers, filled with tendons and muscles whose contractions to generate movement were hidden under skin, in the piano’s keys.

“Oh?” Captain Yorki hummed. Eyes sharpening into daggers despite the crooked grin breaking into his lips. “Shall you play for me then?”

‘Do, re, mi’ played the piano. “For now.”

“For now.” Captain Yorki repeated, contemplated, and then promptly accepted. For the moment, at least.

He stepped away from where he was reclining, and went to sit down at the edge of the little stage, one leg folded on top of it and the other dangling in the air as Brook started to play.

The tune Brook decided to play was a soft one, like that of a leaf circling gently through the air, like that of small waves crashing against the coasts. Bright, cheery, and energetic notes unfit for this precise moment, more welcoming in some hall bursting in celebration instead of the quiet atmosphere of the bar at night stuck in time. Perhaps someone else would have settled into some more melancholic, low, and somber notes, fitting to cry with, fitting for a bar with four or five people drowning in a bottle, but Brook has never been a fan of such melodies, beautiful as they can be.

“That’s a nice melody. A nice melody. What’s its name?” Captain Yorki asked.

“It does not have a name.” Brook replied without stopping, fingers moving at the tempo of his heart.

“Name it, then.”

“Right now?”

“When if not?”

A pause.

“Movement 13.”

Captain Yorki made a sound of disapproval. “Oh, I hate those sorts of names. What an awful name. That won’t do, that won’t do. Why even thirteen? Where are the other twelve?”

“Surely hidden somewhere deep in the tip of my fingers.”

“Oh, so you just attached the number to make it sound more pretentious?” Captain Yorki deadpanned and Brook laughed. “Absolutely not! Absolutely not! Can’t you be a little more creative, Sir Brook?”

“What about Diseased Men then?”

“No! No, Sir Brook! I asked for more creativity, taking the name of the place is hardly creative. And without permission, no less!”

“A pirate talking about permissions? Yohoho, what’s next, plagiarism?” Brook shook his head. “I thought it was a fitting name, this is, after all, the place where this melody is being born, likely the place of its death too, considering there’s no record of the notes I am playing.”

“And so with such a fleeting of an existence all the more reason to grace it with a proper name, don’t you think?”

“Yohoho, how demanding! Why don’t you name it then?”

“Ah, well, it’s not my melody.”

“But I am playing it for you.”

Captain Yorki made a choking sound, followed by a sputtering one that suggested he was in the middle of gulping down his drink as Brook spoke. “I suppose that’s—” A cough, a clear of throat. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Captain Yorki remained silent for a couple minutes as Brook played before letting out a low, contemplating noise. At its sound, Brook’s eyes shifted to him just in time to see him place his hat on the stage as he lay down and, as the stage was a small, pitiful thing, he ended up under the piano.

“Now, don’t fall asleep on me, Captain Yorki.”

“I’m not falling asleep, I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“You think you are funny.”

“You said it, not me, yohoho.”

Captain Yorki didn’t dignify that with an answer, probably because he couldn’t think of one, instead, he said: “How about Unsaid Want, for its name?”

Brook’s hands faltered, pinky finger jamming into a wrong note that, from the corner of his eyes, saw that it made the whole bar jump as Captain’s Yorki cat-strangled laugh filled the air. That note, too, was now a part of the melody’s fleeting life.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that.” Brook said, quickly shaking the surprise of his hands as he continued to play. “But I think it is unfitting. Unknown Want may be a better name.”

“How so?”

Brook’s tongue remained firmly in place for a couple of seconds, eyes stuck in the whites and blacks of the keyboard before he shook his head. He still did not know why such a question made him freeze like this. Human nature, the prince would say.

“A lot of people don’t know what they want in life.” Brook said at least.

Captain Yorki hummed, from his position, lying on the floor, it was impossible to know what kind of expression he was making. “I am more of the opinion that people do know, they just don’t want to admit it.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“Fear, money, pride.” A pause. “Duty.”

How very pointed, still: “I disagree.”

“Disagree, then. Let’s pick up another name.” Captain Yorki said. His willingness to drop the subject was surprising. Brook would attribute this as a result of the alcohol, but there was a knowing tone under his voice that made him pause. “How about Fleeting Life?”

“You make it sound like you are bound to die.”

“Everyone is bound to death.”

“True. But I think it is unfitting too.”

“And you say I am demanding?”

“Terribly so, yohoho!” Brook laughed. “But it’s not like I am serenading death, nor playing in honor of life, so such deep name would prove somewhat silly.”

Captain Yorki hummed in agreement. “What about Chance Meetings?”

Brook closed his eyes, muddling the name in his mind before reaching the death of the melody with a sharp ‘Sol’ and nodded. “Chance Meetings, it is.”

Contrary to popular belief, Brook did not take his elegant and amazing violin everywhere he went. A sad notion, certainly so, but there were such occasions where it was unfit to bring it along.

It tells you this not out of a sudden fancy to talk about itself, but to make it clear that events and conversations of this particular tale are all but lost even to it, dissolved like seafoam in the sand, scattered like burning paper through the air. Days and events long lost, proof of existence buried somewhere under the sands of time, as such is the nature of tales, these sorts of tales, at least.

To this happened no such thing, as it rambles on the inevitability of loss, the violin is able to unbury a brief of conversation from such sands. It grabs it with both hands, made out of rotten wood, and blows it with a long note to be able to see the words clearly.

“You once asked a question,” Brook recounted in a lull of time, watching as Captain Yorki lounged around in the fountain like a lazy cat. “Of what makes a person decide to stay somewhere.”

“Oh? Have you found an answer?”

“Find? Captain Yorki, this is where I live, of course, I would be here! I was wondering, instead, what is your reason for deciding to stay?”

Captain Yorki made a wounded noise, hands going to his chest. “Agh! What a hurtful thing to say, my friend! Has my presence tired you so much as to be kicking me out already?”

“Don’t be dramatic, I just think two weeks is a terribly long time for a pirate to stay planted in land.”

“I like to take things easy.” Captain Yorki said, dropping a hand into the water’s fountain with a faint ‘splash!’ “Though, it would be a lie to say I am not itching for something new already. I tried to go to the north in that regard, you know? Yet, imagine my surprise when my reception was met with hundreds upon hundreds of green, green knights aligned on a line from one side of the island to the other!”

“And those charms you pride yourself so much on? Were they not enough to let you pass?”

“Stop talking as if I wasn’t charming. I am plenty charming, I will have you know.” He scoffed, taking his hand leisurely out of the fountain with a golden, golden coin in his fingers. He blinked down at it, shrugged, and shoved it into his pocket. “But charms are fairly useful when their first course of action is to shower you with bullets!”

“It is a rather bad time to try and visit the other side.”

“Is there ever a good time?”

“Yohoho! Certainly not!” Brook laughed, upbeat, despite the words leaving his mouth. “But it is especially a bad time, all with both kingdoms aligning knights and soldiers like toys ready to be pitied against each other.” He paused. “Which makes it most curious why you would decide to stay so long in a place where war could break out at any second now or is this, perhaps, just the usual amount of time you decide to stay grounded?”

“Unless something manages to catch my attention, then no, not at all. Were that not to be the case this time around, I suppose I would have already risen up and left this place behind.”

“Oh? And what could that something be, my friend?”

“I wonder what, I wonder what.” Captain Yorki laughed, sounding as if he was strangling some cat. Sharp and loud, something knowing in his gaze. “Perhaps, I just like the music playing all around.”

The knight’s oath recited and pledged with pride by the soon-to-be knight in the kingdom’s church before the priest blessed his sword, was long and boring.

It held the traditional values, chivalry, courageousness, and honesty, even if there was a distinct lack of the word honor. More than half of the words nothing but mere mandatory whims of the king and queen that, if one stopped to digest in earnest, would come to the realization that a child’s babblings were more sensical. It did not miss Brook’s notice as he recited empty words of loyalty towards a monarchy he didn’t particularly care for.

The knight’s oath was long and boring, so much so that the violin, with his penchant for rambling and love for inconsequential details, doesn’t hold any wish to recite such boring notes to you. It even imagines that you, as in, the tale-seeker, with your own penchant for travels and hunger for stories must have heard dozens of variations of knight’s oaths dramatized from the mouths of proud poets with far more aptitude to tell such tales than a rotting violin, varying from the lively and flowery expressions from Dressdrosa to the quiet solemnity of Alabasta. It won’t bore you with yet another pretentious oath, but, in the context of this tale, it feels necessary to recite a part of it.

‘And I pledge, on a bended knee, despite the fears and doubts I may hold within my heart, that I first shall let a hundred daggers cross through my heart before I abandon my kingdom, my people, in their times of need.’

The exact instance of their meeting was a Saturday evening of some year whose date has long, long passed. So it makes sense, in some way, in the way that destiny loves to loop around even when the gears have changed, that the instances of this event occurred on a Saturday evening too.

“Ah, my friend! There you are!” Captain Yorki’s voice called as Brook was starting to take his gallant violin out of his black polished case to start to play.

“Evening, Captain Yorki.” He turned around to be met with the sight of Captain Yorki’s form approaching him with a long, long piece of blue fabric rolled under his arm and blinked. “What is that?”

“A decent sail, at last!” Captain Yorki said, shifting around the sail so that it was propped against his shoulder. “Honestly, I have been dying to finally replace the mess of patches I used to get around!”

“Of good quality too.” Brook remarked. He did not know what made a good sail, but at least the fabric felt expensive when he padded it with a finger. As he did so, he noted the bag resting against Captain Yorki’s hip, held by a long strap around the opposite shoulder, and something instinctually clicked in Brook’s mind. “Captain Yorki, does this mean…”

He nodded. “I’m leaving.”

“Ah.” Brook said simply, feeling something plummet in his chest towards his stomach. What a strange sensation. He shook his head, grasping eloquence with fleshy hands and swallowing it in one go, now was not the time to lose sight of his words.

It still took longer than a second for him to speak.

“Very well,” Brook started, a soft ‘I wish you safe travels then, my friend’ formed in his mind that did not come out, as his tongue, at odds with the impersonal distance of his mind and in wholeheartedly agreement with his heart, let out the following words: “Then allow me to see you off, my friend.”

Captain Yorki’s grin was a greedy, greedy thing. “That’s what I wanted to hear!”

He placed the stylish violin back into his case that he closed with a sharp ‘click’ just in time to feel a hand harshly pull him from the back of his shirt, right in the neck, and Brook stumbled with a choking noise as Captain Yorki quickly dragged him to some alley. The difference in height made it so Brook was practically bent in half.

He coughed when he was finally let go, rubbing his neck, and turned to the other man, peeking around the wall, with a frown. “Wha—”

Captain Yorki shushed him harshly. Brook’s frown got deeper and he peeked around the wall too just to see a bunch of angry men, who Brook briefly recognized as some of the fishermen, talking to a confused-looking knight about ‘I’m sure he went this direction!’ ‘Are you blind? He went that way!’ ‘Do you know how much money that was worth!? Do something!’

He stumbled again when Captain Yorki started pushing him further into the alley with the hand that wasn’t holding the sail. Brook tilted his head, letting himself be pushed as he started walking. “Captain Yorki?”

“Yes, Sir Brook?”

“May I ask why exactly a bunch of fishermen are hunting for your head?”

“Why, oh, why! I just got scared —terrified, even!— Of such angry mob! In my experience, staying around them only gets you dragged into mortal danger!”

“Captain Yorki.” Brook answered simply.

“Your lack of faith greatly pains me, my friend. Why assume it is me who they are hunting?”

There was a loud shout that seemed to echo around the place of ‘that cowboy bastard!’

“I’m not a cowboy. I don’t even like cows.”

“Yet you present such remarkable similarity, yohoho.”

“To cows?”

“Don’t be dense, Captain Yorki.”

“I shall take great offense to such comparisons.”

Brook rolled his eyes, and, amusing as it was, he set aside such banter in favor of a question. “Did you happen to steal the seal?”

“Yeah.” Captain Yorki admitted easily once caught. “Such great sail would be wasted on men like them. Tell me, why bother with this, other than it to be a pretentious show of class for them who fear losing sight of the island? For them who the smell of salt makes them cough and choke? No, no!” He shook his head. “Besides, Sir Brook, we don’t all happen to have such gallant salaries to afford something like this! I don’t even have a salary!”

“I wonder why that is, Mister Pirate.” Brook laughed.

“Well, at least I don’t spend hours standing around an empty garden and instead spend it on the things I wish to do.”

There was nothing Brook could say to that, not really. “And such things happen to be stealing sails?”

“Finest pass time there is, I will have you know.” Captain Yorki scoffed. “You should try it, sometime.”

“And do what, Captain Yorki? Set up a collection of sails in my house?”

“And let them gather dust and rot without any tale to tell? How terrible of a fate!” He finally stopped pushing him and instead placed himself at his side with quavers and semibreves in his step. “‘And do what?’ Ha! Take to the seas, of course!”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Anywhere, uh.”

“Don’t sound so uncertain, now. Surely you have wondered what’s outside your little speck of dust? Of the sounds that are played?”

“Yohoho! Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” Brook answered, then frowned when he finally took a look at his surroundings. “Captain Yorki, the port is in the opposite direction.”

“And let the Trumpet —Fuck off, stop laughing— in the vicinity of a bunch of strong-looking men? They would have destroyed it to pieces!”

The Trumpet was, as Captain Yorki had described before, a simple rowboat with one of the rows stuck firmly in the middle, the edge of the other row nailed into it, from which a sail that had a myriad of different patches of different colors which made it look more like a quill and less as a sail was placed. On the side, the word ‘Trumpet’ was carved into the wood rather crudely. It was situated on a beach with glass for sand that cracked further with every step. Far, far away from the port —but not because Captain Yorki had planned on pissing the fishermen, he would insist when asked, it was simply the place in which he reached the island!

“Ah, so this is the dreadful Trumpet sailors talk so much about.” Brook said the moment he laid eyes on the pitiful thing. “It’s no wonder why it is able to strike fear deep into the heart of men. I bet the fishermen would be jealous of such gallant boat.”

The look Captain Yorki sent his way was thoroughly unimpressed. Brook laughed at it.

“Yet this pitiful thing has lived far more than the boats those fishermen parade around.”

Brook’s eyes shifted to the tiny little boat, trailing at the scratches and the dents and the carved name. Then to the quill-looking sail, stubbornly clinging to life with a dozen incisions just to attempt to catch the fits of mischief of the wind as it pushes its owner as the ocean wills it. Worn-out thing, well-loved thing.

Yes, his affirmation was right.

Captain Yorki gave the stolen sail to Brook before he jumped into the boat, aground in the glass, and started to take out the quill-looking sail.

(Worn-out thing, well-loved thing. The violin knows how it is for love to change oneself so much as it was loved, well-loved, so, so loved, by his own dear owner, dead owner, long gone even in death; who changed his strings with the greatest of cares; who kept it free from rosin, dirt, and oils; whose fiery, burning passion for music always felt like a warm day instead of scorching metal, all-consuming fire. The violin knows of love, so it does not wonder of it, but it wonders how the quill-looking sail felt as deft hands pulled it from the crude mast, wonders if it was with a quiet sigh of relief drowned by the wind; wonders if it was with all-consuming grief swallowed by the ocean; wonders if it was with a laugh shared with the sun.

The violin knows of love, so it does not wonder of it, but it wonders what was of that quill-looking sail, wonders if it had the chance to tell tales of nights spent in the middle of the ocean in company of the stars, the wind, and his owner; wonders if it had the chance to tell of a quiet conversation between his owner and a knight in a glass made beach; wonders if it had the chance to tell someone, anybody, what made each and every rip, every hole in its fabric and of the cloth his owner, who had such peculiar laugh it was hard not to picture a cat being strangled every time he laughed, used to stitch it over and over again.

Worn-out thing, well-loved thing. The violin wonders if it had the chance to ever be heard.

It hopes that some tale-seeker, such as you, had the kindness to put an ear against its fabric and listen to its words as its strings undid.)

Silence settled over them, lulled by the ocean waves and the clinks of glass every time one hit shore, like bottles clinking in a bar, like a man eating glass. Something heavy lodged in Brook’s mouth, swallowing made it feel as if the edges ripped through his throat before settling on his stomach. He wondered if he should offer help, discarded the thought as he knew he had no experience with sailing, and then frowned when the thought bothered him so much.

Or maybe, he just had the urge to reach out.

This was, after all, the very first time he watched a friend depart.

(Sadly, not the last.)

It was not until Brook passed the sail in his hands (and the violin wonders, too, what was of that one) to Captain Yorki once he put the quill-looking sail in a corner of the Trumpet that he spoke.

“Yorki.”

“Brook.”

“Why did you become a pirate?”

Captain Yorki’s hands faltered as he extended the sail over the crude mast, and his hair bounced as he let his feet fall flat from where he was standing on his toes to reach. He turned around, blinked at Brook, and then threw his head back and laughed, loud, long, and ugly, as it was usual of him with his strangled cat laugh.

“Well, there’s something about the glint of gold and jewels and the sheet of my blade glinting red with the screams of the children and innocent.”

“Oh, please, we both know your vices aren’t those.”

“Yet you seemed so convinced when we met.” He shook his head. “Tell me, Brook, where do my vices lay then?”

“The notes of a song, as dissonant as they may sound.”

“There’s a certain charm to bad songs, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yohoho! Are you, perhaps, calling my songs bad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, musician!”

“Then, please, refrain from the complexities and round-a-bouts of your being and give me a direct answer for once, as I am afraid I don’t understand—”

“My motives?”

“You.” Brook answered truthfully. “I don’t understand you.”

Captain Yorki’s head tilted to the side, eyes thoroughly amused and grin as greedy as always. “Yet I am not that hard to understand.”

“I disagree.”

“Such uncertainty. It’s a terribly painful look on you, my friend.” He shook his head. “Ask away, I will do my best to keep the notes concise and direct.”

“My question is the same.”

“Why did I become a pirate? I believe you already know the answer.”

“You are terrible at being direct.” Brook answered immediately. “I will elaborate then, I believe your want, as any other addict does, it’s to fulfill your vices, to get drunk on quavers and crotchets and clefs, but you can not stand the taste of those same notes arranged to form the very same songs you already know of when the knowledge that there’s more is present on your palate.”

“And yet?”

“You do not need to be a pirate to fulfill such vice, but a musician.”

“Such as yourself?”

“I am a knight, please do not change the topic.”

“No more than you are a musician.” Captain Yorki said, something sharp and knowing in his gaze before he turned around and went back to the process of putting up the sail in the crude mast. “Which I have never been.”

“Which is baffling, all things considered.”

“You said it yourself! I much prefer to get drunk on the tone than to ferment such notes. Besides, I lack the creativity to actually come up with a tune I like.”

“Weren’t you the one that said bad songs hold a certain charm?”

“I did, I did. I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that, I just lack the patience to learn how to play, or perhaps it is just that I lack such ambition. Who knows?” He shrugged, seemingly not concerned about the answer. “Back to your question, though. Yes, it is true I do not need to be a pirate to fulfill that high; yet such simple, tranquil life collecting notes of different places in a scrapbook, albeit beautiful, it’s far from exciting.”

Brook’s eyes shift to his right hand, covered completely by an ugly scar from a man whose body once was home to rats and worms and flies before his flesh and blood went back to the earth as nothing but a skeleton with a hole in its skull remains, and his mind goes to the tales told by the shooter throughout two weeks, of fights and dangers and unknowns.

He recalls the man’s admittance that the only reason he reached this place was because he left his life on the ocean’s waves.

“Adrenaline junkie.” Brook called him.

“How harsh! But not entirely untrue, yes. I wanted to get drunk on different notes at the same time I wanted my heart to beat fast at the tempo of danger, and the ocean called with promises of that and more, far more, of a world whose immensity you never quite realize up until you find yourself surrounded by nothing but water. How could I have resisted?”

“And where shall you go get drunk now?”

“Don’t ask me!” Captain Yorki laughed with the sound of a strangled cat as he pointed to the ocean.

Silence settled over them, lulled by the ocean waves and the clinks of glass every time one hit shore, like bottles clinking in a bar, like a man eating glass. Once Captain Yorki finished putting up the sail, he turned around and sat on the edge of his boat.

“And you?” He asked.

“Me? I will go to the square’s fountain once again.”

“And then?”

“Then I shall play.”

“And then?”

“...I shall go home to sleep, I suppose.”

Captain Yorki put his arm in his knee, and rested his chin over his hand. “How terribly mundane. Don’t you ever get bored?”

“Not everyone chases the high of danger as greedily as you do, Captain Yorki.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“How could it not be?”

“How could it not? I believe you know.” Captain Yorki answered before moving on from such thought, without elaborating further as he seemed fond to do. “May I ask, Sir Brook, why did you become a knight?”

How very strange. Nobody had asked Brook such question before. He did not have any difficulty answering that, though. “My mother happened to be one.”

Clinking bottles, a man eating glass as the ocean hit shore.

“...That’s it? What would have happened then if she was not?”

“I still would have become a knight.”

In a place under the always impending threat of war, there’s hardly any other option in a child’s eyes, starry-eyed at the bright armor and sharp weapons, fantasizing of slashing dragons and defending the kingdom from the evil, evil north. As one grows and funds are pulled and pulled for weapons and cavalry and men asked to give their lives, one comes to realize that if you want a comfortable life without the pains of hunger and thirst then the best you can do is to go kiss the king’s feet and resist the urge to spit. It’s just that Brook had the incentive to follow along her mother’s steps before he realized that.

Or perhaps he did, the oath made in the monarchy’s honor felt hollow ever since he was fifteen reciting it in the kingdom’s church, overshadowed by the swelling feeling of pride as both her mother and father cried tears of joy.

“What do you want, then?”

It was a question.

It was a question as much as it was a petition, an invitation.

Brook understood. Understood very, very well, and the thing that had settled on his stomach, heavy and jarred, made presence up again, but instead of going down, it went up, edges of glass ripping through his throat as if by opening his skin in such way would make the words come out. It settled on his tongue, stuck under the gums of his teeth, buried into his teeth as it echoed through the canals of his mouth.

‘I—’

Brook stood on a beach with glass for sand, at the edge of the island, at the edge of a life, violin at his side.

Had the ocean always looked so terribly, terribly enticing?

He wondered if, perhaps, this feeling was what the tales and legends of sirens warned about, wondered if by the time the words ripped open his mouth, feathered hands would drag him down, drown him at the edge of a life, a want.

Sailing around such a meek-looking boat in such harsh seas was insanity, one Brook was starting to realize he did not mind.

He stared at Captain Yorki, then at the boat, then at the ocean, extending from miles and miles until it blurred with the sky, with such similarities, perhaps one would find themselves navigating the clouds in the sky instead of the waves in the sea.

What sort of songs, he wondered, would be played there?

‘I want—’

Brook stood on a beach with glass for sand, at the edge of the island, at the edge of a life, at the edge of a want, violin at his side.

Sword at the other.

“I have a duty to fulfill, Yorki.” Brook said, mouth bleeding, words drowning in red. “What kind of man would I be if I left my kingdom in such time of need? What kind of man would I be if I went back on my word?”

Terribly enticing, so it was. Yet despite everything, the always impending threat of war, the monarchy nonsense, the bloodshed and grief of the kingdom’s culture, the monotonous contentment of the rinse and repeat of a routine, and the utter, gut-wrenching yearning for something more—

This was Brook’s kingdom.

This was the place where his mother and father, both long deceased as of now, raised him; where he learned how to play his very first notes; where children clapped clumsily along the notes he played in the square’s plaza; where a restaurant owner had a bucket full of water perched over his balcony with his name carved on it; where his few friends, albeit, distant, and without the strange, surprising connection he made with this walking complexity, still invited him for drinks and messed with him.

This was Brook’s kingdom, one he loved despite its faults, it was the only part he meant of the oath, his kingdom that he pledged to protect.

How could he just break such promise on a whim?

Captain Yorki’s eyes drifted down, sharpness dulled down. “Such strength, it’s admirable, if not painful. It’s reassuring to know, I suppose, that your word holds such strength that, perhaps rather exaggeratedly as of now, something like death feels unable to break it.”

“...I wish you the best of travels, Yorki.”

“Don’t speak with such finality now!” Captain Yorki said, standing up. “Who knows? Maybe we shall meet again one day.”

Brook opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded. “Who knows, indeed.”

“What a shame, still.” Captain Yorki shook his head. “I shall endure my own terrible singing for a while longer in this sea.”

“Let’s save the ocean from such terrible sound for a tad longer then. What would you like to hear?”

Captain Yorki stared, blinked. Caught off guard before he grinned. “Oh? Has the world started to spin backwards? I can’t believe you are actually taking requests!”

“I happen to like you enough to allow it, just this once.” Brook laughed.

“Sure, sure!” Captain Yorki said, rather condescending. “How about Bink’s Sake, then?”

“Ah.” Brook’s smile immediately fell off. “I’m afraid, my friend, I do not know that one.”

Captain Yorki laughed.

Brook’s heart, steady and living, pumping blood with a beat-beat-beat, stopped short at the wrongness of it, at its short, unremarkable sound, one that wasn’t even worth describing for such mundanity it held. A song that ended on a wrong note, nails on a board. It made glass dig into his flesh, a corpse standing up on the verge of decay as worms and flies circled around a rotting heart. It felt like a betrayal, of sorts, as dramatic as it sounded.

“It’s my favorite song, you know.” Captain Yorki said, something deeper buried in the laid-back tone before he brushed it aside. “It’s rather well-known by sailors— good sailors, at last, so I thought you might know of it. A shame your fishermen are so unwilling to venture further than a few feet away from the coast.” He paused, and then, more as an afterthought than a real declaration, he said. “I might have to show it to you, someday.”

“It’s that a promise?” Brook found himself asking, pleading, perhaps.

Captain Yorki stood silent, eyes scanning Brook’s face before they shifted to the violin’s case. Waves crashed against the glass beach, as it clinked, the sound wasn’t joined by laughter, nor tears.

Then, Captain Yorki closed his eyes, nodded, a smile dancing on his lips. It made Brook’s heart start beating once again even if he still wished he had laughed with his peculiar sound instead.

“A promise it is.”

Brook didn’t find himself returning to the square’s fountain that day. Instead, he stood on a glass-made beach far, far, into the night listening to the quiet ballad the ocean made as it crashed and receded, crashed and receded, as the glass followed the lead with sharp, little clink-clink-clinking sounds as some were dragged into the deep abyss of water and other stayed firmly planted on the earth.

Such uncertainty, such terribly, human uncertainty. Such thing never fit his old, dear, dead, owner. It was weird, terribly weird when such silly, stupid thing made way into his heart, all the more painful too.

Some would call him stupid, some would call him a coward.

Yet, despite the loneliness, the mundanity, and the nonsense. Despite the want, the yearning, and excitement. Isn’t it normal to hold doubt when the option to leave it all behind is laid upon your feet? Isn’t it human to feel such uncertainty when faced with the sheer immensity of the world, of a life? When crossroads decide to open and open and diverge up into the sky, deep into the sea, lost between the night, and you have, for all your life, walked in just one?

If the violin were any other, if the violin didn’t know its owner, it might have told you, tale-seeker, that isn’t it fit for a person to fear the unfamiliar notes of a song? That isn’t it fit for a person to stick to familiar notes, that, even if not particularly liked, were ones he knew nevertheless?

It could tell you that. It would be an insult to his owner. Uncertainty and doubt, so he held that day, that time. But fear? No. For a man, a musician, who learned each and every song there was to be learned on the small speck of dust in the middle of the ocean, whose craft made him yearn and wish for new songs, what’s there to fear in such a notion?

Some would call him stupid, some would call him a coward. The reality was that, despite the uncertainty, first and foremost, Brook made a promise and, if not even death was enough to stop him from coming back to an old friend after 50-something years, what makes you, tale-seeker, think that something as this would be enough to make him break his word?

Brook stood on a glass-made beach far into the night, glass digging into his throat with unsaid words.

One can hardly resist when the wishes of the spirit align with the ocean’s call, Captain Yorki had said once and so, he took his violin and hoped to drown such a call with well-known notes.

(War exploded just two days after.)