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Snow softly crunching underfoot was the only sound Law had heard for miles. It was early, or late, depending on how you saw things; so dark and frigid that no one was out. Law felt like the only man on the island.
He was grateful for that. The last thing he wanted was an audience.
He hadn't even let his crew come with him. He'd left them on the Tang a few hours ago, bobbing in the icy shallows off the coast. Right about then, the cook was probably just starting to stir and think about brewing coffee. Everyone else would still be fast asleep.
Law didn’t envy them. He didn’t want a soft bed, warm blankets, or breakfast. He wanted this, or at least would settle for it. His actual desire would go unmet, like almost all of them. It seemed like all he ever did was want what he couldn’t have.
Unachievable things, nebulous feelings, people who were long dead: Law counted them like sheep as he made his way across Minion Island. Navigating by memory, he trudged through deep snowdrifts, following a ridge of hills backed by skinny pine trees.
It was just like he remembered. A few centuries—nevermind thirteen years—wouldn’t have made a difference here.
❅
Even before he made out the silhouette of the old building, Law felt it getting close. There was something in the air. Under the frosty mint of the weather was laced something warmer and darker, a smell he’d never forgotten: a blend of tobacco, gunpowder, and blood.
He was imagining it. Of course he was. Too much time had passed, but he still followed it along the hills as they slumped into loose embankments. Eventually, over the top of them, he saw a dilapidated roof and the broken brick exterior of an abandoned facility's upper floors.
He summited the nearest embankment, all compacted and iced over. He had to smash the toes of his boots in with every step to get a grip. By the time he made it to the top, he was sweating under his coat, and he stood for a while, staring down from the vantage point, letting the wind cool him off.
He’d come up off to one side of the back of the building. Moonlight streamed through the largest breaks in its shell, showing slivers of an interior gone to hell: rotten floorboards, inner walls buckling, everything dusted with snow. Around the corner, he could see the courtyard. The ground was mostly flat there, with only a few small snowdrifts, and dotted with the charcoal remains of a few squatter’s fires.
He hopped down from the embankment when the cold started to nip, landing with a crack on frozen ground. He strode into the courtyard, where wind swept loose snow as it skated over it. Law’s coat flapped and his hat nearly blew off as it tore past him and slammed into the building, reverbing through the guts of the first floor.
He shivered as he turned on his heels, looking around the yard. He wondered which innocuous few feet of ground was where it’d happened. Hard to say; there was no evidence and his own memories of that night were unreliable. He’d been so sick that what he remembered most clearly were sensory details.
The hardness of the trunk. How tired the cold made him. The crackle of pistol shots. The hot stink of blood… Useless. He picked a spot at random, dropping to his knees where he stood just as the wind started to ease off.
Law padded the ice down, his breaths puffing out in front of him like smoke. At the thought, he caught a whiff of that smell again: plant ash and menthol coated roll paper, as clear as the night was cold.
Impossible. Of course it was.
He cleared his throat.
Like he had so many times since his benefactor’s death, he said, “Uh, hey, Cora-san. It’s me.” He spoke softly, but his voice still echoed through the empty grounds. “Sorry; I know it’s been a while, but can we talk?”
Law imagined the pine tree swaying at the far edge of the yard was Cora-san nodding.
“Thanks,” he sighed, a little relief creeping in. He’d been holding his breath for weeks. Avoiding Cora-san, avoiding this. Not that avoiding it made any difference. September came and went like it always did, and so did October. Whether Law dragged his own feet or not, time kept marching.
“You know what day it is?” he asked. “Probably not. Guess you wouldn’t need to.”
He shifted his weight again and the snow under him packed further down. Cold seeped through his pants, numbing his shins. His toes were tingling. So were his fingers. The tip of his nose hurt. He’d have to head back soon.
“It was my birthday, not too long ago.” Law swallowed, his throat feeling tight. “The guys made this huge pudding. It was alright. But, ah—” He placed a gloved hand on the ground in front of him, wanting an anchor. “It was just hard to get into it, you know?”
He licked his lips, and the cold clung to his spit immediately. They’d be badly chapped later, and it’d hurt like hell. He welcomed the pain. It’d be his souvenir, the only real thing he could take away.
“Twenty-six this year,” he said hollowly. “Same as when you…”
His hand curled up, making a snowball, and his eyes started to sting. He sniffled, hating that he wanted to cry. Cora-san hadn’t cried, so why should he? With his free hand, he scrubbed his face viciously.
Like a balm, the phantom scent of smoke rolled back in. He took a deep breath of it, wondering how he could remember it so vividly.
“Don’t know what I’m going to do next year. Mostly, I’m trying not to think about it.” He uncurled his fist and dusted the snow off his gloves. “One problem at a time, right?”
The wind rustled his hair, and Law imagined it was a clumsy hand trying to tuck his bangs behind his ear. He leaned into it, savoring the illusion.
“Thanks for coming.”