Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun is just fading behind the vast horizon to bathe the sleeping world in peaceful darkness, when Ysaac finally sends them down to the canteen for dinner. Meanwhile, he continues to keep watch. None of the two eager teens complain, instead they rush off with the hasty promise to bring him something once they return and he waves with a simple shake of his head and an easy smile.

“…yes, they left about three hours ago, should be safe for you to cross our path now.”

At first the words don’t really register as he opens the door to the deck, but the tone in Ysaac’s voice makes him halt in his step too abruptly for Buggy to stop from crashing into him. “What the hell is your problem?!” he hisses with the usual frown on his face, but Shanks merely waves him off, unconsciously copying his friend’s frown.
He is talking about the captain and the others – obviously. But to whom? Whitebeard maybe? To piss the captain off for the argument the other day? It would make sense, he distinctly muses and opens the door further to step onto the deck behind their peeved crewmember to bring him dinner just how Buggy and him have originally planned, except –

“Good. How are things on your end?”
That is definitely not Whitebeard’s voice. Nor is it one of his commanders, unless he recruited a new one just recently and without their knowledge. Highly unlikely, because despite all the fighting, they are still trusted allies. A change in command would reach their end of communication in no time. Something uncomfortable settles in his stomach, a gut feeling, but it makes him tense up. Buggy behind him takes note of the small change in his posture and goes just as silent.

“It’s only the lads with me. They don’t suspect anything.”

“Good, good. Nonetheless I command you to get ri-“

“It’s fine. I’ve got in under control,” Ysaac teeth-gnashingly interrupts the other end and then adds with more bite than Shanks has ever heard from him, “And just for the record, you can command me to do fuck all, understood?”

“As far as I am concerned you were the one to come crawling to our doorstep and practically throw Roger’s position in our faces.”

“This is an aggregation of interest; I am unwilling to follow someone so desperate to put his subordinates’ lives in danger for a bout of information and you have the means to put an end to it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Buggy pulls at his sleeve while pointing over Shanks’ shoulder.
A marine ship.

His fingers are too weak to hold the plate upright any longer, so it slips from his grip and before Buggy is able to grab it fully, it smashes on the ground unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
Not even a second later there is a pistol aimed at their pale, frightened faces. Ysaac stares at them in mute horror.

“What was that?”

“Nothing I can’t take care of-” Ysaac foolishly implies, before an enraged shout cuts him of. “How could you, asshole?! He did nothing but support you and you feed him to the dogs over a fuckin’ argument?”
Buggy desperately pulls him back by his shirt, always aware of the gun pointing straight at their faces, but all Shanks sees is red. He has half a mind to pull his sword on the fucker, when the tinny voice puts the frazzled man in front of him even more on edge.

“Apparently you cannot.” Then, more distantly, “Change course along the coastline, we will check his ship first. Roger won’t leave this island alive either way.”
Ysaac risks a glance away from them towards the approaching ship, when Buggy takes a wrong step and crushes a shard of the plate under his shoe.

A shot fires.

“Damn it!”
Ysaac takes a step back, his eyes roaming over the two of them as if he were worried and not a fucking traitor selling their beloved captain to the scum. His eyes stop on Shanks and then grow unnaturally wide. He freezes.
Buggy, trembling like a leaf, takes advantage of the moment, always with the thought in mind that Shanks is backing him up, the one to always give him the necessary push. It is easier than expected to disconnect his arm while approaching their opponent at a low run and to let his balled fist smash into Ysaac’s unaware face, still staring past Buggy as if he weren’t even aware of the cabin boy’s attack. He goes over the ship’s rail at his back without a sound of protest, the only noise the splash in the water a moment later and the shot still ringing in his ears.

It leaves a bad taste in the back of his mouth, but he pushes the thought away and looks over the rail. In the dusk of the sinking sun it is hard to make out the shadow pushing through the harsh waves, after a while though it becomes clear that Ysaac flees towards the island. “We have to warn the captain!” is the first thing coming to his mind, especially since he still sees Ysaac as one of their own. One whose ass he kicked all by himself, thank you very much, Shanks. He turns around with a grin on his smug face to tell his too quiet companion about it, when his eyes finally fall onto his pale, bloodless face.

And then on the bright red spot in the middle of his chest, that slowly begins to bathe his white shirt in crimson blood.

…oh God.

Oh God.

“Shit, Shanks-“
It’s the moment his friend decides to go down hard, unaware of the shards as well as the straw-hat flying off his head to roll over the planks and stop at Buggy’s feet. He wastes not a thought about it as they set into motion and race across the deck to crash onto his knees at Shanks’ side. “Why didn’t you say anything?!” he asks rhetorically, his voice overcome by raw panic.
There is blood everywhere. He tries to keep it at bay by pressing his hands onto the wound, but the moment Shanks moans out in pain, he involuntarily flinches back. It sticks to his white gloves like a flare in the night, impossible to overlook.

“…’m fine, we need ta-“
Shanks slurs as if he were drunk, like the one time the captain accidentally slipped him some of his beverage. Right, the others! Ysaac and the marines- No, more importantly they need Crocus here now. Immediately.
“I’ll get a snail, just one second, don’t move!”

Before Buggy is able to raise himself up on shaky legs, a bloody hand shoots out and pulls him back down with surprising strength. “None here. He had one, remember?” While his mind is still running circles, filled to the brim with ice-cold panic, the pain seems to finally hit Shanks. His voice shakes from the strain and his eyes tear up.
“What?”

“Ysaac,” Shanks implies and then way too slowly it finally begins to dawn on him, just as the red-head continues. “He had one, the other ’s with the captain. We need to get to ‘em.”
He seems more alert all of a sudden. His voice loses that strain, his eyes seem to pierce Buggy. It does nothing to ease the worry.
“I can’t move you, you’re too hurt.” His words sound weak, even to his own ears. There is none of that brashness, none of the usual insults he throws around to keep people at bay. And Shanks, who knows him inside out, is all too aware of it.

“Then leave me here. Go.”

A snort.
“Like hell I will, flashy bastard.”

His lips twitch in a weak smile. Annoying as ever, really, even bleeding out. What a mess.
“You are a fast runner, the others not in a hurry as far as they are aware. If you push yourself, you can reach them before they do.”

“And leave you to bleed out.”
The words taste like ash on his tongue, as he refrains himself from voicing another, more final sentence. Shanks tries to take a deep breath and winces. Buggy unconsciously copies him.

“I will be fine.”

He won’t.
They both know it. And still it doesn’t come as a surprise. Shanks has always been like that – annoying, too motivated for his own good and a kid with a hero-complex if he ever saw one. Just as bad as the captain, if not worse so, Buggy sometimes thinks for himself.
“Captain will have my head,” he stubbornly mutters and makes to get up. They need something to bandage the wound.

“And I will have yours if they die-“

Something is triggered as he passes Shanks on his way to the middle of the ship and he whirls around with fury written on his ashy face.
“I am not condemning you, forget it! And don’t think so little of them, a few marines have never stopped us before now, have they?!”

“They have never trusted them before.”

But.
Oh but Ysaac. Someone so ideal to stab them all in the back. Maybe even quiet literally. And still…
He can’t leave him here to die. Even if they don’t reach Crocus and the others in time, even if he actually- he won’t be alone though. Buggy will be with him, for what that’s worth.

“I will get some bandages from Crocus’ office. Maybe some medicine, a bit of food and water. And with that we will be better prepared than Ysaac, who is off on his own.”

“If he hasn’t met up with the marines that is,” Shanks throws in and Buggy raises his eyes towards the enemy ship they spotted earlier. The one still heading their way. The one way too close for comfort. An unsettling hunch overcomes him the longer he studies the deck of the other ship. He gulps, once. Then heads back, all provisions forgotten, towards his frowning friend, who has not let Buggy out of his sight for even a second.
“We need to go. Right now. Come on.”

“The ship- we can’t leave her behind,” Shanks protests immediately, even as he raises his arm up towards Buggy, who oh so slowly puts his own around Shanks’ shoulders to carefully pull him into a sitting position. It works faster than expected but seems to hurt Shanks in equal measures. “She will be fine. They won’t be interested in her that much once we are off board. And at the end of the day they are still sailors – they have to appreciate Tom’s craftsmanship.”

Buggy is rambling, he distinctly notices, while he helps Shanks stand up slowly, but his friend is too busy trying not to bite his lip through to comment on it. “Come on, let’s get into one of the dinghies, the shore is not too far off.”
The only answer he receives is a weak nod and he tightens his hold on Shanks’ side once more, always taking his steps equal to what seems comfortable for the red-head, when the very same gasps in open shock and bends over at an angle that has to hurt like a bitch. Before Buggy is able to ask whether they should stay after all and lay the other back down onto the planks, Shanks shouts out more eager than expected, “Wait, my hat-“

“Your stupid hat is going to give me a fuckin’ heart-attack, you moron,” Buggy mutters under his breath but helps him into a more comfortable position anyway. Shanks’ fingers brush over the rim of the hat, the stark white of his skin such a gruesome contrast to the blood still clinging to his hand that Buggy is about to grab the damn thing himself to avoid it getting dirty, when the ear-deafening boom of a canon echoes across the sea.
Seconds later the splash near the Oro Jackson sends cool sea water over the railing, bathing their feet and pulling them out of their frozen states. It is thanks to years-long training, pummeled into their bodies and minds, that they act without thinking first. Buggy rushes forward, grabs the worn wood in his hands and pushes, raising the anchor painfully slow, while Shanks fumbles at the rope beside their main sail to lower it inelegantly but as fast as possible. Another canon sounds, this time even closer and more precise than the previous shot, when Shanks stops to turn to Buggy.

“This takes too long, let’s just swim over to the beach, the coast isn’t too far off.”

“Are you takin’ a piss?” Buggy asks, voice layered under the strain of the pressure. Shanks has an impeccable timing for bad jokes, even in dire circumstances, but this seems a bit too excessive.

“They won’t see us, the sun is nearly gone. I’ll manage, come on.”

“Yeah sure, let me just sink like a fuckin’ stone, while you try to paddle your way over without blacking out. I can’t bloody swim, remember?!”
Buggy secures the anchor, throws a quick glance over to the marine ship, before he lets it glide over to Shanks, who stands frozen at the sail with the unbound rope in his hands. He blinks at Buggy, looking thrown off. “Sorry, yeah. You’re right,” he mumbles before avoiding Buggy’s sharp eyes, which look away from him not once, even as another canon is fired and misses. He feels sick to his stomach.

“Let me handle that.”
Buggy unties the other side of the sail and gives their beloved ship the helm, as he rushes back over to his rapidly paling friend. Shanks slowly sinks down the rail, his shaking hand leaving an imprint on the wood. For a moment Buggy wants to scrape it off with his bare hands.
Instead he comes to a stop right beside Shanks as Oro takes a turn away from the beach and down the coastline, away from the following ship. His eyes never waver from their enemies as he looks out for another attack, but when Shanks silently leans against his leg, he puts his right hand onto his shoulder to steady him. Physically as well as mentally.

They need to get to Crocus as fast as possible.
Crocus, who currently roams the woods of the island with the rest of the crew, following a wild-goose chase off into their doom. If worst comes to worst – Ysaac will reach them before they do. It could mean the end for more than one of their comrades, Buggy sourly thinks and risks a glance at Shanks, who sits quietly and still by his side. “You good to go?” he asks, then looks back up at the fast-approaching marine ship. Oro is good, a force to be reckoned with, but when the wind is not in their favor…

“Sure, just saving my strength,” Shanks replies short on breath, still managing to take some of Buggy’s worry though. Not ideal but good enough at the moment to perhaps make a quick escape. If only the marines weren’t catching up, turning the slightest bit to get an aim on them. “Shit.”
“Hm?” Shanks perks up but without jumping straight to attention the way he usually would, seizing the reins without ever noticing. It leaves Buggy at a loss for what to do.
“The wind is not in our favor. They will catch up before we are able to get off.”

His friend stays silent, eyes fixed on the ground, although the rising tension in his shoulders is answer enough. Another shot is fired straight at them and misses by mere meters. Crouched beside Shanks Buggy dares another look over the railing, then up at the sails with a curse on his lips. They need a fucking miracle, but with the enemy’s ship smaller and nimbler, the distance will be eradicated before they can make it off at the small hillside reaching far over the coastline not too far off.

“I fear they don’t have a great appreci-“

A sharp tug goes through the ship, nearly throwing him off his feet and making the planks groan under the strain of the sudden gust of wind pushing relentlessly against their sails. The Oro Jackson soars across the waves coming just the right way, breaking them in an ear-deafening roar that makes his sailor’s heart sing in delight. A wind like that is a gift even on the open sea on a good day, but so close to the coast, far off from the known routes…

“What in Davy Jones’ name…”
His eyes leave the marine ship be, which is thrown off by their sudden speed and unable to follow, to stare at Oro’s filled sails, then at the deserted upper deck.
It is no secret that some sailors’ tales have more than the average germ of truth in them, born from adventures gone by rather than a drunken mind. Not least the beloved stories about a crew’s ship, home rather than a tool to get by, a part of them rather than an asset. A Klabautermann, Roger once called it. A ship’s ghost, some say, an incarnation of one truly cared for. Others name it to be a water spirit, a fairy of the sea dwelling on ships promising a great destiny mayhaps.
Whatever its origin, it is a part of their crew, their ship singing to them in wordless tunes, warning them of unknown dangers and helping them in unexplainable ways sometimes.

Buggy had his fair share of their very own Klabautermann, their Oro acting on itself when needed, just like she does now, steering herself past sharp cliffs too close to be a coincidence. Or maybe even calling out to the wind in a tune too foreign for them to note. Despite all the wonders they have come across so far, he at times still wonders what their very own Klabautermann is really capable of doing.

“It’s time to go,” he muses and pulls himself back from his wandering thoughts to Shanks, who blinks up at him with dim eyes, as if lost in another tale just as well. The fine sheen slowly dissipates to give way to clear dark eyes, before the red-head decidedly nods and lets himself being helped up by his friend.
He doesn’t comment on their sudden luck nor on Oro steering them closer to the approaching cliffside Buggy points out to him, while they hobble closer to the bow. Instead he takes deep breaths, at least as deep as he can without aggravating his wound any further, and then proposes something so outrageous that Buggy is tempted to just call it quits and throw him overboard.

“You should try to use your devil fruit, ya know? For a soft landing I mean.”

“Have you completely lost it now, dickhead?” he snaps at Shanks while helping him up the railing, until he grabs the rope of the rigging tightly in his hand. The other one rests on his wound, far from actually keeping the blood in. Buggy ignores it for the sake of climbing up beside him.
“I just mean,” Shanks goes on, as his eyes look down into the rough sea and Buggy grabs his elbow just in case, “you can make your body parts literally fly through the air with a mere thought.”

“So? The jump is coming up, get ready.”

“Why don’t you do the same with your feet? Except you leave them attached to your body.”
It finally makes sense what Shanks is so crookedly hinting at, but…

“That won’t work. I can’t make myself fly just like that now, can I? Otherwise the guys wouldn’t have to pull me out of the water every time you throw me overboard.”
It’s not like Buggy hasn’t tried before, in all honesty. His fruit allows him certain liberties, it’s true, but outright flying is not in his repertoire.
At least not like Shanks imagines it.

“What?! I never threw you overboard, not deliberately at least. And every time…”
The chatter by his side manages to calm him down, even though it lacks a lot of the energy Shanks usually radiates like the sun behind of them, sinking below the horizon and bathing their surroundings in the dusk of the breaking night.
And it gives him the guts to just go with it for once. They certainly need every advantage they can get at the moment.

“Alright, let’s try it.”
And Shanks, so used to his backdowns and excuses and ‘I’m good, we’ll try it another time!’ outright stares at him with his mouth open. “No time to explain, hold on. This is gonna hurt.”

The cliff comes closer, passes the bow and as another shot echoes in the distance like a starting signal, both boys tense up and jump off the ship.

His arm around Shanks’ side tightens, his hand grabs the other’s arm around his shoulders, but all he focuses on are his feet. It’s easy to detach them from his body, a rhythm in his blood he unconsciously follows when necessary. Now though it takes a precision he is not used to, a force of will only ever Shanks gets praised for.
He cuts them off and pulls them in at the same time, persistent on not letting them reattach just yet. They are mere seconds away from crashing into the ground, too late to really make a difference a little voice in his head tells him, but he shoves it aside like the air under his feet, up and up and up as much as possible-

They crash hard and Shanks’ screaming body is pulled from his arms.




“Roger?”

Rayleigh pauses for a moment to regard his captain over his shoulder, waiting for a response. He keeps on standing in the middle of the clearing, eyes firmly on the direction they just came from.
Then, while the others ahead prepare the camp for the night, his eyes flicker to Rayleigh for only a second, the doubtful glance impossible to miss despite the setting darkness, before they roam back to the impromptu path.
“You hear that?”

Rayleigh closes his eyes, heightens his other senses and listens.
There is the excited chatter of the crew further ahead but easy to cut out. Some lone bird preparing for the night. A breeze rustling through the trees.
Then he releases his haki, just a tiny bit as to not worry the more sensitive people of his comrades, but enough to go even further, miles and miles back the way they came from ever since they set out for a little cavern at the top of the mountain, surrounded by a ghost town that has to be deserted for decades now. But…
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Exactly.”
He opens his eyes to stare questioningly at Roger’s back, but when the very same refuses to elaborate, Rayleigh comes forward to stand by his side, trying to catch whatever he is apparently missing.
“It’s eerie. They are so quiet… as if they have faded away.”

His first thought goes to their three comrades back on the Oro Jackson, their two cabin boys and one grumpy crewmember. But the way Roger talks about them reminds him of another time, when they were miles underwater, surrounded by silence so impenetrable and yet seemingly ear-deafening for two of his mates. One stands beside him, an accentuated frown dragging itself over his whole face to show his displeasure, the other… Rayleigh looks over his shoulder once again, this time back towards his clueless comrades.
“Do you want me to get Oden?”

Roger considers his suggestion thoroughly and Rayleigh has half a mind to just call their peculiar but brilliant friend over, when his captain shakes his head. “It’s alright. I suppose we are indeed heading in the right direction.”

Rayleigh throws another short glance over his shoulder, this time though regarding the dark mountain looming behind the thick forest. “You heard them quiet recently, then?”

“All the time,” Roger answers and turns around to head back towards camp. “They have followed us ever since we passed fishman island.”




Shanks comes around once Buggy is almost finished bandaging his wound.
At first, he merely blinks, scrunches his face up and then makes a sound as if about to talk. Buggy freezes for a moment, then quickly tightens his sash around the wound one final time, before the red-head opens his eyes in a confused daze. Dark eyes roam over the treetops forming a roof above their heads, barely illuminated by the stars blinking into existence one by one between thick clouds, until a fine breeze picks up red strands of hair and he perks up. With the whisper of the wind in his ear Shanks finally glances down at Buggy, who feels himself tensing up in case Shanks decides to keel over thanks to the blood loss.
But he remains leaning against the tree trunk in his back, wide and sturdy to shield them from anything or anyone coming up the way from the shore. The one Ysaac must have reached some time before their abrupt departure from the ship. Buggy chances another glance over Shanks’ shoulder but isn’t able to make out much in the thick darkness.

“Why ain’t you sayin’ anything?”
The lull is back, making his companion sound sleepy and completely out of it, as his eyes roam once more over their vicinity.

“You blacked out, smartass. Your idea worked brilliantly by the way. Nearly shattered my ankles.”
A frown appears above his eyes, before they settle back onto Buggy. This time, there is a hint of awareness he was missing before. “Buggy?”
He feels the little stab of worry once again but decides to ignore it. Instead his eyes wander down over his makeshift bandage with relief upon not seeing any blood soak through the sash just yet. Maybe they will be fine for a while, maybe they will actually catch up to the crew now that they must have made camp for the night. Maybe the pallor in Shanks’ face only comes from the moon glimpsing through the clouds here and there.

“Yeah, it’s me buddy,” he quietly answers and waits for the red-head to acknowledge his words. Instead his friend tries to focus more on him than his own wounds.
“You hurt?”

Buggy wants to go back to biting words and witty replies, but can’t bring himself to do so over the doubt bubbling up inside of him. What an idiot, he muses and shakes his head. Always thinking of others, even now.
“No. ‘ts just you.”

“Good.”

“Not good,” he barks with his hands balled into fists. Finally Shanks seems to snap out of his daze, lured back into full awareness by his equally annoying curiosity. Evading his piercing eyes, Buggy mutters on.
“There is nothing good about this situation. You are hurt. Badly so. Tell me what is good about having to drag your sorry arse through this thrice forsaken forest in the middle of the night, while Captain and the others might-“

A shot rings through the stifling silence of the night and cuts him off.
Too close to be mistaken as something else. Too far away from their position to not think of who it might be.

They share a single glance, then Buggy slides forward to place his arm carefully under Shanks’ and help him up. It takes longer than hoped but seems to hurt Shanks’ less than expected. Small mercies.
Before they set off, Buggy chances a last glance over his shoulder back at the sea and the cliff not too far off. They have sailed a bit around the island, but not overly long so. Their position should be about the same, so… He sets off towards the left of them. The mountain is located in the north-west of the island, at which top should be the remains the crew is actually looking for. Since Ysaac has jumped off at their original point of anchoring, far closer to the north, he has to be quite close to them.

“Do you think-“

“No, absolutely not.” When Buggy stays quiet, too focused on the dark ground in front of them, and lets the uncertainty in his silence speak for itself, the red-head continues, “Even though the shot came from further inland, he never could have made so much headway in such short time. Maybe he crossed an animal.”
Buggy gifts his friend with a frown, before steering them around a fallen tree. “You were unconscious, smart-ass, how do you want to know how much time passed?!”

“Am I wrong?”

“…still. Maybe they turned around for whatever reason. Maybe they already found it, maybe they heard the canons or saw the ship of the marines, since they must have passed the coast close-by…”

“Trust me on this, Buggy,” Shanks interrupts him once again, but too used to it by now he lets it be, instead listening to the confidence in his words, from wherever he must take it. “I am absolutely certain that the captain is fine. I can feel it.”

Chapter Text

Despite Rayleigh’s silence Oden seeks him out not even an hour later at the campfire. The rest of the group has started to settle for the night; the celebratory drinking saved for after they have found it. That they will Roger does not doubt for a second – he can feel it simmering under his skin, a pull calling for his attention, now that they have fallen silent. Probably on purpose.
Oden’s look though, hidden in between flickering shadows from the flames, is directed at the open sea they can catch a glimpse of. “You are worried?”

“You are not?”
His eyes swing over to Roger, unreadable for the captain who is long since used to the extravagant but sometimes secretive ways of his friend.
“Surely they feel how close we are. They are undoubtedly connected to what we seek. Otherwise they wouldn’t have followed us all the way.”

A loud laugh startles some of those trying to sleep closer by the fire, but they merely regard them with a fond smile and a shake of their head, before they turn around once more. The warmth in Oden’s eyes, now solely focused on Roger, warms him more than the fire by their side. “My dear friend, you do forget that radiant personality of yours. They don’t follow us out of curiosity; they probably have lived centuries and long since passed petty mannerisms by now.”

Despite his blustering nature Roger merely gives a crooked smile, before returning to their original point of discussion. “Why then have they fallen silent?”
Oden takes a moment, eyes darkening considerably, as he chances another glance out at the wide ocean. “What do you have in mind?” Roger urges on.

“Do you remember the day we met them, just short of fishman island?”

“Well enough.”

“I have a theory. Something that irked me that day, just something at the side, while everyone was so dearly confused about our behavior. While we couldn’t see them out in the dark just yet and with their presences well-hidden back then, all eyes were on us. All except for-“
Oden breaks off abruptly, but before Roger can tear his gaze away from the hypnotizing flames, his friend jumps up unexpectedly. “Roger.” His voice is sharp, urging him on and before he has fully stood up, he is already turning around, eyes and senses searching the darkness of the forest for whatever unsettled Oden.

Despite the lack of moonlight, she stands out like a flare in the night.
The Oro Jackson.

Way, way too far from the position they anchored.

He is already jumping over the fallen tree they have sat upon, while Oden calls for attention behind him. A strong gust of wind carries sparks from the flames like fireflies into the night and something else off of the deck of the ship. He involuntarily slows, gaze set upon whatever spins through the air with a sinking feeling in his gut, as Oden’s hand on his arm pulls him to a stop. He recognizes it the second Roger does, breath halting in their chests. He takes two steps further and catches it easily enough. Rayleigh arrives at his side with a question lingering on his lips, when the words get stuck in his throat.

A straw hat.
Shanks’ most precious possession ever since he gave it to him.

Roger needs an additional moment to notice the blood over the pounding of his heart, when Rayleigh sets off sprinting while yelling for Crocus. The doctor, already arriving besides Oden, merely throws a glance at the blood on the worn straw hat, before he follows Rayleigh with an impressive speed. The rest of them wordlessly follow suit, but in those few seconds Oro has already gained too much headway for them to catch up at the speed their beloved boat is going.
Only one way left to get it to stop, that peculiar being of theirs.

“Stop!”
Despite chatting to her in a warm monologue every now and then at night, he doesn’t like commanding her. She is a wild beast, as untamed as the sea itself, and grants them with her presence that is lost to so many unbelieving souls. Nonetheless she listens to him and maybe more so to the desperation coloring his voice. Maybe she shares some of it, if he reads her signs right.
And she has to, he realizes, as the sails suddenly seem to catch the wind not quite right, when the angle is just a mite off for her to keep up her speed. Oro slows down considerably enough for Rayleigh to jump smoothly onto the deck and get her to stop the second he drops the anchor.

It is only a matter of seconds for Roger to catch up to a panting Crocus and jump the gap between cliffside and railing, but time slows down to a crawl as his mind starts to process the sight in front of them. The boy would never let the hat out of his sight or be smeared with blood – if he could help it. If he couldn’t, which clearly has to be the case… He tries to quell the panic by reaching out for them, rough and with no caution that leaves one of his men stumbling in his steps, but it has the exact opposite effect.
There is no one to find. Not even a trace of them.

“Roger-“
Rayleigh only confirms his fears with an ashy face and that look in his eyes; the last time Roger got a glimpse of it was on a small remote island far off in the West Blue, between a lost little boy and an overgrown grave that shook them to their cores.
Before his second-in-command can elaborate though, a flickering torch from one of the boarding crewmen reveals the blood all over the deck. His heart falters in his chest. Beneath the dark-red handprint to his right is a smudge of blood all the way down to the planks. Closer to the lower deck, but still unmistakable from their position and despite the heavy darkness merely illuminated by the torch, is a large pool of blood. Still fresh.

“Ray…”
His voice is barely above a whisper, but his first mate, his friend, his longest companion tightly grabs his shoulder in an unspoken act of comfort.
“Ray, where are my boys?”
Just like Oro he stays silent, unable to give him an answer, when two separate voices shout for his attention.

“Captain, ship ahead! It’s the marines!”

“Captain, there is someone approaching us!”

The first call he puts on hold; one ship they can easily deal with, the marines haven’t been a serious threat for a while now. Even in the dark and with half of the crew still at the camp they won’t be a problem for those on board.
The second though…
He recognizes the voice in a heartbeat and is off the ship in the next, already hurrying towards the dark figure slowly stumbling towards them from out of the thick forest. Something is off though, Roger notes distinctly, but can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Thank Davy Jones. Crocus, over here. He is injured!”
Scopper hurries past him to help their crewmate, as Roger tries to glimpse past them both into the darkness. When he doesn’t see anyone else emerge, he stretches his senses once more, taut like a bow at this point, but… nothing. No one else.

“Captain?”
He turns to the small heap on the ground to his right and takes in all the blood covering the front of the man’s shirt. His face is pale and dark strands of hair cling to his forehead, chest heaving from exertion, but his eyes are focused on Roger alone.
When Roger is sure that their resident doctor has everything under control, when he is certain that his crewmate won’t die from his wound, he gives way to the question burning under his skin and in his heart.

“Ysaac. Where are the boys?”




“Did you hear that?”
If it weren’t for the current situation they have found themselves stuck in, Buggy would have guessed Shanks was fooling him, but all it invokes in him now is a concerned look instead of angry shouts.
“It is dead silent,” he replies instead, while tugging at Shanks’ arm to follow him further to the left. They still have miles and miles to go, while Ysaac has to be way ahead of them. Then again, at least he isn’t close enough to cause them anymore terror.
When Shanks glances over their shoulders with a familiar frown edged into his face, Buggy heaves a sigh and silently prays for patience. “It’s the blood loss, Shanks. You start to imagine things.”

If looks could kill, Buggy would drop dead to the ground.
“I don’t imagine-“

“Remember the time that asshole poisoned you back on Fishman Island? You told me a giant fuckin’ snake was talking to you. Yes, you most certainly are imagining-“

He freezes on the spot.
A weird tug behind his navel, not quite painful but unsettling enough to make him queasy.
It is just a weird feeling, but-

“Down!”
He pulls Shanks with him towards the ground, seconds before a loud shot rings out from behind of them. He is almost able to feel the bullet whizz past their heads, but the shock and initial panic have precedence to nearly getting his head blown off. In a bold, seldom move Buggy shoves himself in front of Shanks. While he is not particularly fond of placing himself in the direct line of fire, he absolutely refuses his friend to take another hit. The blood soaking through Buggy’s sash slowly but steadily, the dizzy moments Shanks has to fight every minute or so and the hand clinging to Buggy’s shirt in outright fear speak for themselves.

Just before the moon hides away behind a thick bank of clouds, there is a shadowy figure slowly emerging from in between the trees, every step carefully placed and glistening eyes never wavering from their target. In their hands the figure carries a simple shotgun.
“…not Ysaac,” Shanks mumbles behind of him. Their former crewmate, friend even, always brings a pistol with him; one he acquired in the New World on Kazanoyui and is unbearably proud of.
“The marines,” Buggy concludes breathlessly, mind spinning in circles as he tries to gather what that means. They have already waded deep into the island, caught up to them in a mere hour. They have to be looking for-

“Captain and the others. We have to warn them,” Shanks urges behind of him, restless, while he glances in every direction but at their current opponent. Others around them, then? “I think he is alone,” he denies Buggy’s fear a moment later, as their opponent suddenly rushes forward to get a better shot at them.
Both dive to the side, barely escaping another bullet and Shanks uses the seconds the marine needs to reload to rush forward. He does not have his sword with him, it is still back on Oro, but the Rogers’ have taught them well enough to go against a soldier in hand-to-hand combat. Usually. This time though the punch to the side of the man’s head comes a little bit short. Shanks halts in the middle of it, flinching as the move pulls at his wound and pain flares up all across his face. Buggy rushes forward past the tree he dove behind, but it’s too late. Unable to get a proper shot on the kid so close, the marine uses the blunt end of it and smacks it straight into Shanks’ face. He stumbles back with a stifled groan and goes down. The few seconds the soldier is still focused on his friend, Buggy ducks down low and shoots forward, his own knife in his trembling hand.
Fighting an enemy till they are unable to continue is one thing – with one of them down and severely injured, though, priorities start to shift. How long will he be down? Long enough for them to escape? Will he be able to call for backup or are they already in the vicinity, drawn in by the gunshots? How fast will Buggy be able to escape with Shanks? Their march so far has been leisurely at best; going forward, it will be more of Buggy dragging Shanks along than Shanks being able to support himself.

So the best option for them right now is to neutralize the threat.
Not an easy feat, when the Rogers have always, always made sure to keep the kids away from fights that went beyond merely incapacitating their enemy. Those have certainly been there along the way, with murderous people out for their blood, but they have taken great care to not have the kids involved more than necessary.
At the end of the day they are exactly that; still kids, slowly growing into adolescence. Even though, all efforts aside, there will come a day when all the protecting and holding back won’t be enough anymore. Not with this crew, not on this ship, not on the way to reach the end.

And it seems, Buggy fears grimly for himself, that this moment has come now.
If it saves Shanks though, he will never, ever regret it.

He shoots forward, jumping out of a bush to the marine’s left, knife raised high above to let it sink into the man’s throat in a downwards arch-
Buggy hesitates. Just a short moment, but it is enough for the man to whirl around, eyes blown wide in surprise, and to duck forward fast enough to get out of harm’s way. Before Buggy is able to properly land and dart away from him though, the marine seizes his chance, grabs him around the waist only to throw him roughly to the ground. His head catches on a stone hidden under some leaves and shortly his vision darkens, as his ringing head drowns out the angry shout of his opponent. The knife gets kicked out of his hand; seconds later the marine successfully traps him on the ground, with a wide, dark smile on his lips.

“Got you, scum. This will be the last time you-”

“Take your fuckin’ hands off of him!”
Two wiry arms wrap around the marine’s throat and try to pull him away. Shanks is too weak to really make an impact, but as the grip around his hands lessens, Buggy manages to pull away. Before he is able to help Shanks though, the marine utters another angry shout and rams his elbow back with full force.

Shanks flinches hard and lets go.
Despite the sickly tint to his face as it is, his friend grows as white as a sheet.
It takes a moment for the pain to set in, but once it does Shanks sinks to the ground with a strangled moan. Buggy can see fresh blood dripping down his hand, the one pressed onto the wound.

“Now, where were-“
He doesn’t give the marine the chance to finish; his hand latches onto the stone he hit his head on, then he springs up with a forceful yell and smashes the stone into the marine’s skull with as much force as his unleashed fury can muster.
He goes down with a nauseating crack. Buggy pays him no heed, instead he hurries over to Shanks’ side despite the dizziness still making him queasy.
His friend is bent over, barely able to hold himself up with one hand, while the other tries to stem the blood flow. The yellow sash has been dyed a dark red. “Come on,” he tries to urge his friend on, but the conviction in Buggy’s voice is nonexistent. “We- we have to go.”

“I can’t-“
The pain makes Shanks’ voice quiver like Buggy’s hands. Harsh gasps fill the silence followed by wet coughs. “I can’t, Buggy. I-“

“Yes, you do.”
He gulps away the tears threatening to fall, takes a deep breath that comes so much easier for him than Shanks and raises the boy up in one go. He isn’t able to keep himself upright anymore, but that’s fine. He still has Buggy by his side. Always will, he silently swears for himself.
One arm is carefully placed around his shoulders and his own grabs onto Shanks’ hip, as far away from the wound as possible. “Come on,” he urges once more, voice rough and breaking. Shanks complies silently, one step after another while tightly holding onto Buggy, even though it seems to take forever.
They need some body of water, a river at best to clean the wound and quench their thirst. If they are lucky - luckier than they have been so far and by Davy Jones, isn’t it about damn time – they will find something on the way to the Rogers. Something like-

He halts in his steps.

“…Buggy?”
He really doesn’t sound good, Buggy muses, as he throws a scrutinizing look through the dark forest. There has neither been a noise nor anything visual, all the same his hair stands on edge. It is just a simple gut feeling, but…
So has been the one right before they were shot at.

“Let’s keep on going. Come on, this way.”

“That’s not northwest.”
The frown in Shanks’ voice is barely audible and nearly covered by his sheer exhaustion. Buggy chances a small huff, before going quiet again. Leave it to Shanks to still have their directions so accurately in mind, despite everything. “We’ll go a bit around. They’ll expect us to take the direct route, won’t they?”

It is worrisome that Shanks has to fight so hard to take step after step, despite Buggy nearly dragging the boy along. Buggy risks a short glance at the red-head and the conflicting emotions Shanks struggles with are vented mere moments later, when he gives in to his body demanding rest.

“…further, then?”
There is no accusation in his voice, only bone-deep exhaustion and the will to keep on pushing. Not for himself, but for Buggy. Never for himself. It feels like a stab in his heart to force him along and not grant him the rest he so desperately needs to gather his remaining strength.
“Only a bit, to get away from the bo- marine. Then we’ll rest, alright?” he complies and feels some of the tension bleed out of Shanks’ slim frame as he nods thankfully.

Together they push on through the eerie darkness.




“The kids are alright.”

He physically feels the tension bleed out of his body upon hearing Ysaac’s words. Noticeably his haki flares down as well, less doom lingering at their backs and more comfort that spreads around them like a blanket, until Roger notices them all sag in relief. There is a short stab of guilt in his chest, before he shoves it roughly aside to muster his injured crewmate and their resident doctor in the midst of their temporary camp.

Before one of them is able to ask, Ysaac starts himself with a lowered voice and eyes set on the flames of the campfire.
“As soon as we spotted the marines, I told them to hide on the shore around our initial meeting point, so I could lure them away.”

“There were multiple ships?” Rayleigh picks up, arms crossed in front of his chest. He can’t quite keep his eyes off of Oro, the doubt written clearly across his face. One ship won’t be a problem for them, but to fight multiple ones from their disadvantaged spot shoved against the cliffside…

“At least three,” Ysaac confirms with a nod and flinches upon Crocus’ prodding. “The boys were supposed to catch up to you guys, but the marines were already there when they deboarded. I-“
He stops for a second, stares down at his clenched fists.
“I was distracted for only a moment. One of them got a clean shot at me. When they followed the kids, I jumped as well and took those fuckers out.” They stay silent. Ysaac glances back up, straight into Roger’s eyes with regret bleeding into his every word. “I lost them. Couldn’t find them again. I-“

“Calm down for a sec, lad,” Crocus interferes, as he patches the wound up provisionally. It surely will need stitches, Roger muses, while trying – and failing – to ignore the poignant look aimed his way from the doctor who is less than amused about their interrogation. Crocus understands, though. Instead of putting them in their place, shooing them away with profanities he wouldn’t dare use in front of the boys, he merely shakes his head.

“It’ll be fine, Ysaac, we will figure something-“

“Absolutely nothing is fine about this situation!” the man finally explodes with fire burning in his eyes. Guilt and worry are gone, instead there it is – the remnants of their fight Roger has been waiting for. They haven’t talked it out yet and Roger fears they won’t get around to do so anytime in the near future. The man they picked up in the West Blue is too set in his beliefs and just as hardheaded as on the day Roger convinced him to join their family.
He will have to relieve the tension between them before it can fester into something more. Later, that is. For now though something else has to take precedence – something they can’t bear to waste any more time on. “We will find them. Both of them. You will-“

Roger can’t even finish his half-baked thought, contemplating how their resident doctor will fare with this particular idea, when Ysaac gets up from his crouch on the floor too fast for his wound, only to step up to him with a fiery glint in his eyes. The anger makes way for his unshakable determination, which allured Roger all those years ago. Once Ysaac set his mind on something…
“I will join you.”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Ysaac dares to throw at their doctor’s face who looks about ready to stab him in the throat, “I got them into this mess, so I’m gonna help find the boys.”

“Listen here, chap, if I want to tie your sorry arse to the mast until I deem you healthy enough, then I can fuckin’ do so you ungrateful-“

“Please, captain!”
Ysaac turns to him with something less hostile on his face. Of course Crocus is right, the lad should rest up, but it would be hypocritical of Roger of all people to deny his request. He would be the first to blow caution to the wind, grin at Crocus with his trademark smile and hurry away to help their crewmates in need regardless of his own injuries.

“You will stay with us. If that wound opens up again or your condition worsens, I’ll personally help the doc to kick you back all the way to Oro, understood?”

“Aye aye, sir!”
The guy even salutes, before Crocus bullies him back onto the log but not out of earshot. When news about the marine ship veering round upon receiving heavy fire arrive, when Rayleigh starts planning out the best course of action, Ysaac pipes up again with a bowl of hot stew in his bloody hands. For being one of the quieter guys of the bunch he is unusually talkative today.

“I have a suggestion to make.”




“We should have stayed on the Oro.”

Buggy finally voices his thoughts, when Shanks stumbles over his own two feet for the third time in a row. Maybe they should have laid low, hidden from plain sight and steered the ship into easier waters. Maybe Buggy would have had the guts to get his hands on some of Crocus’ utensils.

Maybe Shanks wouldn't be bleeding out now.

“Absolutely not.”
Even though his reply takes way too long and his words come out more slurred than not, Buggy feels relief sagging into his stiff muscles. If Shanks is still able to quarrel and argue with him, he will hold on for a little bit longer. Surely. Hopefully.
“They knew we were on the ship, and their lookout must have seen us; the marines were too close for them not to. They would not only have shot at our ship but actually hit her.”

The thought pains Buggy as much as it clearly does Shanks, but even so they might have been in a better position, further along the coast, closer to steady hands and an impeccable medical knowledge. But as if Shanks listens in on his thoughts –

“Also… eventually they would have caught up to us. A little further on, a little closer to… Think, Buggy, if they were deployed to chase Captain, just like Ysaac said…”
His voice is cut off by a wheezing hiss more often now, he hardly catches his breath as if the pace at which they are strolling is one out of Rayleigh’s infamous training sessions.
The little flame of hope flickers, fighting against the gusts of wind.

Shanks needs a break.

“Okay, what do you think about-“
Instead of slowly coming to a halt and lower Shanks down against the bark of a tree close by, Buggy full-on freezes. His muscles lock up in tension, while his heartrate spikes. “Buggy?” Shanks’ voice is hesitant, cautious almost, but Buggy ignores it in favor of looking over their shoulder. It is just like before.
The hair on his neck stands up. One hand pulls Shanks a little bit closer, the other reaches for his knife. The one he lost in his fight with the marine, somewhere between loose rocks and wilted leaves. Damn it!
Without another word the red-head seems to gather some of his remaining strength and lets his eyes wander over the surrounding bushes and hills. The area they arrived in has a slight decline; small hills to their left and right make it impossible to see ahead.
But now that the sound of shuffling feet and heavy breathing has subsided, another noise reaches their ears.

Running water.
Apprehension makes way for silent excitement, as both boys share a surprised but joyous look.

Water means clean wounds.
Water means quenched thirst.
Water means a little bit more bought time.

The little flame grows stronger.

And then a roar behind of them stops their hearts in sheer terror.
A bear stands on its hind legs at the top of the hill, way, way too close and angry, as it towers above them with blazing eyes.

For a moment none of them move.
Then the bear goes on all fours and charges at them at breakneck speed, which sends Buggy’s mind into overdrive. Instinctively he pulls Shanks forwards, full speed ahead despite his injuries. But instead of complaining or stumbling, the rest of his adrenaline pushes Shanks onwards as they barely cling to each other.

“Are bears… nocturnal?!”

“Keep running, dickhead!”

The thicker the bushes they crash through, the lesser light seems to pass the treetops, nonetheless the bear catches up to them. Several trees stand in close groups in front of them, if they squeeze themselves past the trunks they might win precious seconds, and Shanks seems to think the same as they head straight forward –
Sudden, bright moonlight rings warning bells in his head, but their speed is too high as they tumble out of scratchy bushes onto the cliff edge. Buggy nearly stumbles over the ledge with a scream on his lips and flailing about, but he is pulled back by the top of his shirt at the last second.

“What now?” Shanks pants beside him, still high on adrenaline as they both look down at the raging river cutting its way through the stone. The crack of wood draws their attention to the right. “Lost my knife,” Buggy needlessly points out and crosses the option of fighting the beast out. Fleeing through the woods will eventually get them caught, at the latest when Shanks’ energy completely depletes. The only choice left really…
He glances at the other side of the ravine, too far away to jump. Into the water will be his death sentence and as a result Shanks’.

‘You should try to use your devil fruit, ya know… You can make your body parts literally fly through the air with a mere thought.’

The last time he tried Buggy managed to evade broken bones, but the fall was anything but softened. Now, covering the distance to the other side so the bear won’t reach them seems like a far greater struggle than jumping off board and hoping for the best. Also Shanks’ additional weight will be a challenge, since Buggy can’t even manage to make himself hover mere meters above ground for a damn second or two. But if they want to survive-

A roar.
“Buggy!”

Apparently overthinking a situation might be his final flaw that gets them killed.
In a last-ditch effort to be heroic Shanks jumps in front of him, hands balled into fists as if punching the gigantic teddy bear will help them in any way now. It raises its massive body back onto its hind legs, towering over them like death itself, ready to tear them apart with razor-sharp teeth… and falls silent.

Suddenly, Buggy can’t take a single breath.
The air shimmering around them is too thick, the pressure on his body like solid steel.

In front of them black eyes glaze over, as the bear seems frozen in its hostile stance.
Shanks looks almost regal, head held high as a breath of wind caresses his red strands of hair, his posture tense but so, so damn sure of himself that the animal poses not a threat to them.

Time stops standing still, as a soft touch embraces his heart and then shields him like a warm blanket on a cold winter morning. The pressure eases on his body, and he takes a deep breath, while the bear finally keels over with a resounding boom.

Realization comes, as Shanks finally moves to take in a shaky gasp. That feeling, so ominous but familiar at the same time… Buggy will never, ever get used to it. And it should not come as a surprise after everything, he of all people should have seen it coming a mile away, that a presence so ascendant as his, a mind so strong-willed would be able to wield it. Still…

“Well shit,” he breathes, as Shanks turns around with tears in his eyes. Of course the kid knows what just happened, he has been around Roger longer than Buggy has, but he seems almost desperate now. Before Buggy can reassure him that, yes, felling the beast as easily as snapping his fingers is indeed a good thing, a rumbling noise below their feet has him look down.

A moment later the cliffside gives way and crumbles under their feet, before they plummet into the dark.

Chapter Text

In the end the decision is none at all.

Ysaac’s plan is sound enough. Most of the crew sail Oro around the island back to the initial point at which they got off board, while they take out lingering marine ships with surprise on their side. The kids will probably still roam the area, waiting for Ysaac just like he told them to, but on the off chance that they ran off, forced or out of fear, a small group will make its way across the island on their planned route. Both boys are familiar with it, so they might encounter them on the way.

And they have an eye on Ysaac.

It doesn’t even take Rayleigh half an hour to approach Roger after they split from the crew, wary eyes on Ysaac leading the way with Oden, who happily talks his ears off. Once Ysaac seems distracted enough and Crocus places himself in between both parties, Roger leans in, voice barely above a whisper as they wander through the night.

“So. What do you have in mind?”

“He shows a surprising amount of strategic tendencies all of a sudden, does he not?”
No beating around the bush then. But still, in benefit of the doubt…
“He is emotional and very involved in the matter, Ray. Yes, he is one of the quieter ones, but he cares about the boys. Don’t underestimate his concern.”

His first mate is silent for a moment.
“But you see-“

“Of course I do. We shouldn’t judge before we have seen all sides of the matter, though. Your words, remember?”

“…then let us get some facts straight. We don’t have the time to handle him with kid gloves.”
As much as Roger would prefer to solve the matter in a more cautious way, Rayleigh is right. If they confront him though, they are inevitably going to burn bridges. And for all the grey hairs Ysaac sometimes gives him with his sheer stubbornness, he is not able to avoid seeing certain similarities.

But this is about his kids.
“Your decision,” Rayleigh mutters, as Oden and Ysaac slow down to have the others catch up.
And in regard to their two cabin boys, Roger shows no restraint.

“How did you get shot again, Ysaac?”
The tone in his voice gives away just enough. Oden has them continue on their way once Rayleigh and the Captain reach Crocus’ side, who eyes the back of the youngest among them with an uncanny stare. “I messed up,” the man in question replies easily enough, as he critically eyes their surroundings. “One of those suckers snuck up on me.”

The look Crocus and Ray share speaks for itself. Roger pauses for a step, his hand itching for his weapon, when the latter questions, “How did you get the lads to let you out of their sight with your wound?”
The inquiry sounds surprisingly warm for someone whose words are able to cut like knives, but maybe that is the reason why Ysaac is unable to notice his mistake and runs head-first towards his doom.

“I was shot after I sent them away. I already told you!”
His voice is agitated just like his eyes, as they search in between trees and bushes.

Oden is the one to find his words first, confusion coloring his voice as they fight through the unmistakable realization. “But an enemy managed to get onto the ship?”

A troubled sigh, annoyance.
“No, I fought them on the shore. When they followed the boys, I already told you-“

“Ysaac.”
They come to a stop. When he finally turns around to face Roger, his face is closed off. His stance tense. When Rayleigh speaks, he holds his breath.
“There is a bloody imprint of a boy’s hand on the railing. Did you know?”

“The kids must have-“

“Also too much blood for that shallow graze wound you have there. Which you got on land, right, I forgot.” Crocus takes a threatening step forward, reeking of anger and sarcasm, as he closes in for the kill. “Where you got snuck up on – from behind? Because that fucking wound of yours was clearly dealt to you from the front, point-blank. Care to explain that one?”

The silence that follows is near ear-deafening, until Ysaac scoffs with a humorless grin that tears his face apart. The shadowed look he gives Roger, cold and calculating, sends shivers down his spine. At his side, Rayleigh puts a hand menacingly on his weapon.
“It’s the same shit with you again and again and again, isn’t it?”

As the noise around them dies down to zero, Ysaac’s anger raises his voice in equal.

“Why do you have to question fuckin’ everything?! Your people are in constant danger, all the damn time, while you have nothing better to do than question me or look for some blasted stones! Try to care for a change, how about that, then the kid wouldn’t be-“

His voice cracks together with some old piece of wood in the shrubs to their left.
A shot rings out from the other direction and misses Ysaac’s head by an inch, who whirls around in open surprise as weapons are drawn all around him. In mere moments they have formed an impromptu circle to cover all sides.
One single shout of command, then multiple marines rush towards them at once, stance low and evading even before the first attack comes their way. More than the simple soldiers they encounter more often than not, Roger muses, as he cuts down the first one with vigor and intercepts the next one’s attack meant for Crocus.

How unsettling.
Ysaac’s story with its many holes, vastly different from what must have transpired.
His carefully laid-out plan that coincidentally lands them in the arms of waiting marines.

Marines, who adjust their clear disadvantage with grim determination.
Slowly but surely their sheer number manages to pull his group apart one by one, even though their enemies fall like flies under their brutal and coordinated attacks. Not a problem for now, they are all more than capable of holding their ground, but just one unfortunate moment-
“I wonder how they found us,” Rayleigh shouts in a mix of dripping sarcasm and unchained anger, each word punctuated by another deadly hit.

An unfortunate moment their enemy uses in agonizing detail.
The second Roger checks on his first mate with a simple glance over his shoulder, a smoke bomb goes off and hides half the battlefield from view. Multiple enemies jump him all at once, he strikes them down easily enough, but when an alarmed shout from inside the fog pulls his attention and has him reach out for his companions-

“Roger!”

One of them is close by.
Behind him.

Ysaac.

Before he can fully turn around, before he registers the moonlight reflecting off his raised weapon, another smoke bomb goes off together with a single shot, as his vision is plummeted into darkness.




For a moment or two Buggy must have blacked out.
When he comes around again, it is to the caressing of the wind in his hair and over his cheek, before it rustles the leaves of the treetops above him in a sweet chime.
It takes him a second to remember where he is. It takes another two for panic to crash through his clouded mind.

Sitting up feels like a monumental task; his limbs tremble from the lack of strength and his hands sink into the mud of the shore. They are a good way away from rolling cliffsides, it seems. The shore has evened out, the thicket of the forest, bathed in utter darkness, is reachable without the need for a climb.
Up above the moon is hidden behind thick clouds.

And to his right lies Shanks, faced away on his side, not moving a muscle.

His heart skips a beat, as he hurries over on his knees.
His breath halts in his burning throat, as his trembling hands turn him onto his back.

He looks like a corpse.
The wet strands of his red hair form a morbid contrast to his white skin; the sash Buggy has used as an impromptu bandage is gone, revealing the bloody mess his shirt has become. He pulls off his blood-covered gloves, torn between confirming what he fears more than anything else and shaking the fool awake so they can get going, when two dark orbs dazedly blink up at him.

“…Buggy?”

Sheer relief has him crumble above his friend, until his head rests on the other’s shoulder.
At first he wants to scream at him in anger, give an outlet to his emotions like he always does when he is overwhelmed and Shanks around to take the blow.
Then he wants to cry, thankful as he is that his friend is still around to be screamed at.
Instead he stays silent for once, swallows all the shallow words and tears down, until he feels composed enough to look into Shanks’ glassy eyes.

What greets him is a soft smile, so damn understanding, before he tries to tease him with a raspy voice. “Finally awake? Took you forever. We could have crossed the island in no time by now, so if you are well enough-“
The moment he tries to push himself up, the amusement vanishes to make room for utter pain. His hurtful groan has Buggy flinch, as he doubles over and breathes as hard as if he’d just run a marathon.
There is no more pushing through. No more last reserves to draw on.

“H- Hey, come on, give yourself a moment- Shanks-“
With careful, labored breaths the red-head leans forward until he rests against Buggy’s side, slumped down in a position that by no means can be alleviating. He feels warm. When Buggy puts his cold hand against his forehead, it burns from the fever setting in.

They won’t be able to go on much further.
As he throws a cautious look around, he is unable to make anything out that helps him pin down their location. Was there a river on the map they were shown beforehand? The route Roger and the others would take is still clear in his mind, the position of the mountain, the abandoned village-
But none of them gleam in the distance from in between the treetops.

“Hey, Shanks?”
Slowly, way too slowly, the red-head perks up.
“Are you still- … In which direction should we continue?”

No answer.
They are utterly lost, aren’t they?

“Come on, I’ll try to make a campfire to dry the clothes. We should be a good distance away now; it will be fine.”

Raising Shanks up again into a standing position takes a great deal of coaxing and even more time, but the more worried Buggy’s words become, the more awareness seems to float back into his friend, until he manages to take a rattling breath and nods towards their right.
Straight towards the darkest, thickest patch of wood.

A simple nod, then Buggy begins to lead the way.
When the rushing water fades to a pleasant background noise and Shanks’ shivering grows almost unbearable along with his oppressive silence, they decide to finally make camp. Despite his protests, Buggy leaves Shanks leaning against the trunk of an old tree, sturdy and rustling above them. Instead of the usual squabble, they leave it be.
Faster than expected Buggy manages to kindle a small fire between them, always Rayleigh’s lessons in mind, as Shanks bathes in the tension and offered heat.

Maybe he should try to find something to eat, while they dry and rest up a bit.
At night there won’t be much to hunt, but maybe he will be able to find the odd plant or berry safe enough to gain some energy back from. First though he should take another look at Shanks’ wound, bandage it with something else, perhaps some fabric he could try and clean back in the river-

“The first time I remember ever using it-“ Shanks begins quietly and all of a sudden with his eyes transfixed on the tiny flames, but when he notices Buggy’s questioning gaze, he corrects himself with a voice in awe, almost fear.

“The first time I ever used Conqueror’s Haki, a friend of mine died.”

Buggy’s eyes widen, as his friend’s own eyes take on a glassy, far away haze that he reckons has nothing to do with the fever wrecking his body. Unwilling to pull him out of his memory, nor to stop his sudden, unexpected willingness to tell him, anyone for that matter, something about his past, Buggy stays silent.

“Truth be told it was a fox, and she died from the bear I unknowingly bested, but she died protecting me.”
The self-deprecating laugh doesn’t want to fit to the always smiling, always optimistic Shanks Buggy has grown so accustomed to. It sends shivers down his spine; nonetheless he stays silent.

“Then I used it again. Killed two men and one very, very dear to me was murdered as a result of it.”
The laugh gets stuck in his throat, the smile grows into a grotesque copy of itself. Buggy’s unoccupied hand clenches into a trembling fist. Still, he stays silent.

“I was terrified of even thinking about it.”
His voice is down to a whisper. His glassy eyes begin to fill with tears he refuses to let fall.
“And when I used it again, when I had to?”
That heart-breaking smile is back, as Shanks finally looks up from the flames to Buggy.
“I killed my best friend.”

A sobby laugh breaks free from his chest, he tries to heave a breath, but it gets stuck between the blood and feelings Shanks always refuses to get off his chest. He pulls his dark eyes away from Buggy, off towards the side so he can hide in the dark shadows the flames paint on his white skin. His voice though continues. Now that he has opened up that deep, dark part of himself, it refuses to be sealed off again. Buggy is silently grateful for it, even though it pains him deeply to see Shanks so torn.

“Now I used it again an-“ A sob breaks loose, paired with that sad smile of his. “And I keep thinking; maybe this is it? Maybe I’ll finally get what I deserve for killing the people I love over and over again.”
He doesn’t talk himself into a rage; the hysteria Buggy fears never settles in, instead there is a disturbing kind of acceptance in those words that he needs a moment to process. Then there is a deep, hurting stab of fear that finally sets him in motion.

Even if it is just his hand tightly grabbing Shanks’ knee so that the boy looks back at him. Despite the tears, despite the shame.
“You will not die. Not on this god-forsaken island and not like this, do you hear me?”
It is as close as Buggy will ever come to give Shanks an outright command, he fears, but as always Shanks is resistant, this time though not out of sheer defiance but overwhelming doubts.

“I- I don’t want ya to die, Buggy,” he replies with a tearful voice and Buggy finally gets that Shanks is really thinking like that – a death for little bit of haki. How very, very messed up.
“Listen to me, Shanks.” Two wet orbs stare back at him, unblinking but with an unspoken plea. A trembling hand finds its way onto Buggy’s own. “You have not killed your loved ones merely by using haki. Captain uses it nearly on a daily basis; you haven’t seen us drop dead because of it, have you?”

Shanks is smarter than he wants people to believe; those close to him know it intriguingly well, the way he sometimes perks up and butts in with a nonchalant idea of how to evade a whole fucking fleet of marines waiting for them on collision course. So naturally he is aware that this is not how haki works, especially one so powerful and raw as Conqueror’s.

“Why does it keep happening to me, then?”
There is that plea again, weak from blood loss and the terror of opening up. To Buggy, of all people. But maybe, he silently thinks for himself and marvels at the thought, Buggy is the most obvious choice for the red-head.
“Not because you are strong,” Buggy replies in an instant, so sure of the fact even though it sometimes feels like sandpaper on his tongue to admit it. Not now however, not ever when his friend is so shaken. Protective layers stripped away. Dying, in fact.

Despite the urgency flaring up in his veins – they have to keep moving! – he takes his time to choose his response wisely. Buggy has never been one of big, fancy words. He knows how to articulate himself properly thanks to the relentless lessons Rayleigh deemed important enough despite Roger urging him on to let the boys relax. But he has never been interested enough to learn a bit more; how to force someone into doing your bidding with nice, honey-laced words; how to pull someone onto your side without the other one ever noticing; how to reassure someone and explain to them at the same time that the life they are living has never, ever been fair to the likes of them.

And then Buggy strips his own layers of armor away; all the teasing and moaning about Shanks’ relentless behavior; all the angry words and little snide remarks he knows won’t hurt the other. Instead, he looks at himself deep down. Closes his eyes, as he bends forward to lean his head against the other’s in a rare show of kinship. Turns his hand around to hold tightly onto Shanks’ trembling one.
“I can’t tell you. Maybe because of fate. Maybe because this sea has always taken more than she has given in the end. Maybe, because life is like that sometimes, putting the best ones through the worst of it. But neither because of that gift of yours, nor because you deserve it.”
With tears in his own eyes he leans back a bit, look focused on his friend, his remaining hand placed in Shanks’ neck, so he won’t dare to blink away now. “You are good, Shanks. Do you finally get it into that thick head of yours?”

And with the familiar teasing Shanks finally gives in to the tears and bitter sobs, as he leans into Buggy’s waiting arms.
“It’s okay, I got you.”




He feels it more than he sees it.

The darkness around Roger seems impenetrable, but as the air moves and Rayleigh’s presence comes closer, as the shards of the parted bullet fly past his ears, it becomes quite obvious, without words, who will always have his back.
And when the fog finally dissipates, also, who won’t.

Ysaac doesn’t bother to put down his weapon, instead he keeps its aim true at Roger, though Rayleigh’s glowering face and raised sword stand in between them like an immovable wall. His first mate’s rage is almost palpable in the air, even though they all have entertained the idea of what exactly might lie behind Ysaac’s glaring deceptions.
In the end there is no time to talk; or maybe no words left to share, everything said and done in deeds alone.
Then the fight goes on, as if the remaining forces have taken the breather for what it is and not as a cutting of ties, final and absolute. The pain of betrayal gets shoved aside to fuel Roger’s next attack, more ruthless than before, and any humor at an impromptu clash has made way for bitter realization.

Ysaac bleeds into the crowd of enemies like it is second nature to him and distinctly Roger wonders, while cutting down one marine brave enough to confront him face to face, if he has done this not for the first time, before Roger picked him up in a sorry excuse for a bar in the deepest trenches of the West Blue.
He tries to keep track of Ysaac’s whereabouts, but he is so good at blending into the receding marines, few as they are, that Roger ultimately loses track of his presence before the last soldier left behind finally hits the ground.

For several endless seconds neither of them says a word.

Of course they knew something shady was going on with all those constricting lies.
Of course Roger and him had their fair arguments, views that differed so much there sometimes didn’t seem to be any common ground left.
Still…
still.

Roger always boasts about their little family.
A wild mix of good-for-nothings finding their place in the world and coming together for greatness. Each one with a screaming personality and even louder talents, each one having the others’ backs fluidly and seaming together into an unbreakable bond.
It pains him beyond words. If only-

“He ran off west last I saw.”
Rayleigh’s imply speaks for itself. They should not let him get away like that.

“On the other hand we are where we wanted to be.”
Oden muses and glances up at the dark, looming shadow of the mountain.

Roger looks over to Crocus, who is unusually quiet, before Rayleigh continues their little discussion.

“The poneglyph won’t run away, we will have plenty of time once we sort this whole mess out. Who knows what that urchin will tell them; with the road ahead of us we cannot afford to paint an even larger target on our backs. Roger, we should-“

“No... No!”
They turn in sync towards their resident doctor, whose sight is fixed on where they came from. Something is wrong. He rarely allows them to see him vulnerable, if ever, even after all the time they sailed together now, but he is as pale as a sheet when he turns towards Roger with blatant fear in his eyes.

“Think, for fuck’s sake!”
There is anger mixed in his shaking voice, as he urges them on to make the connection.
“Ysaac is working with the marines. If it is neither his nor their blood on board, if one of the lads got injured-“

He feels his heart stop and biting fear settles into his bones.
A brisk breeze begins to pick up, rustling the leaves above them in an ominous chime.

“We need to hurry, Roger. Every second we waste could mean their death.”

Chapter Text

“…I wish you would say something.”

He stays quiet, silently focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
The face resting in the crook of his neck burns from the heat of Shanks’ fever.

“How ‘bout ‘nother story?”

Buggy’s arms feel like lead, as he tries to steady the body on his back without aggravating his friend’s injuries any further.
His legs tremble from the strain and not for the first time does he wish he would have followed Rayleigh’s past training assignments more thoroughly.

“From before the fire.”

He shudders.
Then he gives in, heaving a heavy sigh, while the trees around them begin to thin out and the ground evens into fresh gras.

“Shanks? Come on buddy, time to wake up.”
He does so, although slowly at best. His breaths stay shallow, but at least his alertness comes back to him. Before he talks, quiet and more perceptive than even he is known for, he grabs the top of Buggy’s shirt.
His fingers are freezing. The trembling has stopped quite some time ago now.

“You know you can’t go on like this, right?”

Something cold burns in the back of his throat and down his lungs, spurring him on out of sheer spite. “You bloody well watch me, like hell I can’t-“

“Buggy.”

“We have made it this damn far, we probably have almost crossed this stupid island by now. Once we find Captain and the others, I’ll give them a piece of my-“

“Let’s take a break. Please.”
Shanks’ voice is almost too soft to be heard over his agitated rambling, but it still manages to cut him like a knife. They both know what he really means. Still-
As if Buggy could deny him that.

“…sure. You think here is fine?” he asks with a rough voice, as they break through the last trees onto an open, endless field of white flowers. His breath gets stuck in his throat, while he furiously blinks at the sight in front of them. At the end of the field looms the mountain, surrounded by rocky cliffs to its left and right, before more forest seems to encompass the whole area.
Like their own little meadow. Peaceful.

“It’s gorgeous.”

Each step becomes heavier than all of them before, as if he were to face the gallows.
In some way it almost feels like it.

“Here will be fine.”
The first tears begin to fall, once Buggy finally stops.
A bitter sob follows, when he kneels in midst the sea of flowers to carefully set Shanks down. This time, he doesn’t stay upright and lays down with a heavy sigh. The last of his energy seems to bleed out of his body, until he opens his eyes again terrifyingly slow to blink up at Buggy with that damn smile of his.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare-“ he starts with his quavering voice, barely audible over the tears shaking his body, but that smile doesn’t move an inch. Instead, it grows impossibly warmer.
“It’s alright.”

“None of this is alright!”
His scream echoes across the clearing, as he sits with clenched fists glaring down at his friend. If only. So many possible ways for this to have gone and still they end up right here.
If only he had been stronger. Faster. Just a little bit better.
“Give me just a few minutes, we’ll be able to keep going in a bit. You can rest up while I carry you, so…”

“Buggy.”
Shanks’ voice is barely above a whisper, while his eyes twinkle in faint amusement. Ice-cold fingers grab his wrist and stop his heart in absolute fear. “I can’t go on. I’m sorry, but… I can’t.”

He has always been good at it.
Denial. Faced with a friendship that has been nothing but pure for the first time in his life. Faced with burning hatred for his sheer existence. With death, even.
Captain calls it faithful till the end.
Rayleigh calls it dangerous; to lose yourself so far that reason isn’t able to catch up no more.

It’s the one thing he really excels at, though.

“Forget it.”

“Bug-“

“No, shut up.”
For once, Shanks complies at the sheer fierceness in his voice.
He crawls closer, tears continuing to blur his vision, and grabs onto the blood-soaked shirt.

“You won’t die tonight, you hear me?”
The smile slowly fades away for something more serious to settle in Shanks’ dark eyes. Still, he stays silent.
“I can’t carry you any longer, but- but I’ll find Captain and the others, soon, I promise. You just stay put for a while, and don’t die, so I can finally beat it into your head that there is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with you, understood?”

For the first time Shanks looks hesitant and uncertain. Before Buggy can reassure him, though, the faintest hint of a smile reappears.
“Aye-aye, captain!”

“You jus- you just have to hold on, you hear me?”
His voice wavers, then, as something else wants to be said.

Needs to, really.
Buggy throws a last glance at the pale skin framed by deep-red hair, the fine sheen covering dark eyes, already so lost, so far away. And still his friend tries to comfort him-

“It’ll be alright…”

No. Not friend.
The tears blur his vision, as he gives in to the sob and his heart’s words.
No more time to be afraid of rejection and being hurt. No more time for denial.

“You are my brother!”

His voice seems to echo around the clearing, as desperation gives it the momentum to hang in the air between them. Shanks grows still. His breath halts.
Quieter, Buggy adds-
“You know that, don’t you?”

Something lets loose in his chest then, for both of them, as cold hands hold onto his as tight as Shanks is able to. A fine breeze bends the flowers towards them, and the first rays of moonlight reappear in between the clouds, illuminating the tears in both of their eyes. Shakily, Shanks nods.
With everything said, Buggy rushes off, as fast as his legs carry him. It is not enough, not quite as he knows his friend to lie dying just behind him. They need to know. There has to be a way, snails be damned, they cannot possibly be far off now, so close to the foot of the mountain-

A stray thought flits through his mind.
‘You should try to use your devil fruit, ya know… You can make your body parts literally fly through the air with a mere thought.’

His heart soars. Buggy quickens his pace, his feet pounding a steady rhythm into the ground, as his upper body rises higher and higher towards the upcoming tree line.
Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be fancy. Or overly courageous.

His legs steadily climb the rising hill, until the forest hides them from his view above the treetops, his body rising higher and higher still, until he can see the churning sea in the distance. Nonetheless he can feel them, each pounding step his feet take, each time they stumble over roots and loose stones. He follows them like a magnet, his focus singling in on them, as if they might be aware of where their Captain is hidden.
Sometimes, faith is enough.

And so he raises his voice high above the trees, every syllable painted in desperation and terror, while his words are carried far beyond by the gusts of wind picking up.

“Caaptaain!”




The moon, despite it’s cold light, spends him warmth, as he blinks up at it wearily.
Finally it has managed to emerge here and there between the clouds, the strong winds are still hiding it away every so often though.
What a shame. It really is beautiful, this time of the year.

Shanks can feel his crumbling hold slipping, slowly but steadily.
The fear of what unleashing his haki might cause is gone, together with Buggy.
Maybe once he finally lets it go on an uncontrolled rampage, it might take him this time, instead of friends and family. Maybe it takes him, before that blasted wound does.

He feels cold.
A chill has taken over his body that pins him to the ground. His fingertips feel colder though, resting beside his still body. It takes his frustratingly long to notice the smooth surface below and then even longer for him to turn his head with a frown on his face.
Once he does, the moon emerges from behind a cloud.

Its light reflects perfectly on the dark surface of the poneglyph buried beneath him.

“What?”

His whisper goes unanswered, as the chill slowly gives way for soft warmth emerging from his chest. Maybe a last, desperate bout of adrenaline. Maybe his pendant, that lies just below his shirt.
Too weak to sit up he brushes some of the growth away, eyes flying over the exposed runes edged into indestructible stone. He blinks. The edge of his vision darkens; his body grows heavy. Just beside his head are symbols that look different than the others, not the usual letters he is used to seeing by now.
The frown grows heavier, his breath fainter, as the last of his strength bleeds out with the blood seeping onto the stone slab.

His breath is a whisper, taken away by the wind, unheard and fleeing his mind the moment the words leave his mouth.
“Why is my name on there...?”

When his eyes finally fall shut,
when a deep breath leaves his lungs and his body grows limp,
a voice, far away, calls out to him.

“It will be alright, dear. Let go now.”

He does as she wishes.
Power washes over him like a wave, his fragile hold on his haki finally broken, and then it takes him with it, until he knows no more.

The moon breaks through the clouds.
Beside his body, under shining white light, the flowers begin to bloom.




Buggy sees them, before he can hear their answering calls.
Tears cloud his eyes so much that he crashes through the branches of the nearest tree, letting the natural pull of his body do the rest, until both halves are combined once more just in front of the waiting group.
The relief falling off his shoulders almost brings him down to his knees.

Instead of inane bubbling, instead of complaining how much of a hassle the past hours have been, instead of going right to the captain, Buggy zeroes in on Crocus. The tears stop, as the mental image of a deathly pale Shanks returns.

“Oh thank Davy Jones-“

“Finally!”

“Buggy, what the hell happened?”

“Lad, are you-“

The cacophony of voices falls silent, once he rushes past them, grabs the doctor’s hand and turns around to pull him in the direction he vaguely came from. “We need to hurry, come on, it can’t be too far-“
Despite his earlier words, Crocus pulls the protesting teen to a stop, while his complexion grows unusually pale. “What the hell are you waiting for, we have no time-“

“It will be alright, Buggy.”
Even with the panic flaring in his chest, the calm words of Roger manage to soothe his fluttering heart, until he is able to hear his own short breaths and the trembling in his voice.
Captain always knows what to do. He found them. They will make everything right.

His vision blurs again.

“Let him check your wounds first, buddy, then tell us what happened.”
He blinks away the tears and then frowns in confusion.
Distinctly he remembers taking a hit to the head, but that feels like days ago, not hours. Other than that…
“I’m not-“ he begins to mumble, then follows their eyes down to his shirt.

After carrying Shanks for so long, it is drenched in blood.
He feels his own rush away from his face, as his heart skips a beat.
They have no time left.

“Come on lad, sit down,” Rayleigh prods him unusually gently, but pushing through the shock, Buggy seeks and finds Roger’s eyes.
“I’m not- It is not mine.”

The little flurry of activities stops.
From the corner of his eyes, he can feel Crocus share a meaningful glance with the others, but Buggy ignores them to look over his shoulder. The moonlight breaking through the clouds illuminates the surrounding trees, but to find the way back without daylight, while he has been flying around in a desperate panic…
He gulps, as Crocus rises from his crouched position behind him. His hand still holds onto Buggy’s.
He has to make do. For Shanks.

“Lead the way,” Rayleigh instructs, sharper than before as the tension in the air grows. They know what is at stake, now more than ever.
The group starts to move towards the mountain side, determined in their harried steps, till Roger and Oden simultaneously stop dead in their tracks. Before Buggy can voice his protest, Rayleigh musters the faraway look in their eyes with a knowing of his own. “What do you see?”

“There you are,” Roger mumbles, while his frown tightens.
A moment later the rest of them feel it themselves; a tidal wave brushes over and then past them, haki that threatens to steal their breath away, until Roger’s calm presence engulfs them and has them sigh with relief.
It feels so different from what they are used to. It is not that dark, malicious aura the more capable marines attack them with, nor does it feel like Roger’s, when he deliberately forces it upon his enemies every once in a while. Unfiltered, almost unleashed, Rayleigh muses, trying to remember that cold, harsh imprint, before Roger pushed it away.
Raw.

Could that have been…

“It is him,” Oden grimly confirms his suspicion, though his next words are like ice in his lungs.
“Though he is fading. Fast.”

Together they take off at a run, no more words needed, as they vanish into the night.
The moonlight gleams above them in the treetops, almost guiding the way.




Despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he stops at the sight in front of him.

Shanks almost looks peaceful.
His eyes are closed, his form unmoving.

He has always had this bright, loud presence, Ysaac muses.
Now he is almost lost in his field of white flowers. The red hair gets lost under the bright petals, while only his pale face seems to stand out.

He can’t help the devastated look that takes over his face.
Looking up towards the sky with tears in his eyes, he takes a shaky breath.
“Oh god no.”

His steps are slow, careful, as if Shanks might wake up if he is too loud.
But the lad never moves a muscle.

“I never meant for this to happen, you know?”
His words almost feel desecrating in the peaceful silence of the night, but as old memories resurface, he continues shakily.
“Here I am, fleeing from one catastrophe right into the next one and it is always you at the very center of it.” A fleeting, humorless laugh escapes him. With a sad smile forming on his lips, he kneels down at his side.

Distantly he remembers the tiny little red-head running through the streets, the old geezer right at his heels and with profanities on his lips Rayleigh would probably keel over at.
Back then, when times had been so much simpler.

“He would have been proud, you know?”
Words he had wanted to say to him for so long, but seeing as the lad did not remember him, too young when things took a turn for the worst…
Tears drip down his nose, as he bends over him to kiss his forehead. Ice-cold.
Fondly he takes his hands and folds them on top of his chest. He can give him that, at least.
Something at his throat glitters under the moonlight.
With only a moment to hesitate, Ysaac pulls out his pendant from under his shirt, blood-soaked as it is, and places it properly on his chest, where it reflects the moonlight.
“You were always so very fond of that,” he mumbles, lost in memories.

Then he heaves a deep breath, looks over his shoulder back into the forest, before he vanishes off into the darkness.

Beside Shanks, the flowers begin to glow.
Little specks of light emerge into the night, flying through the air like stars guiding him home through the blackest of seas.

Thomas Bergersen - Gift of Life
Spotify | Youtube

Shanks wakes to bright, blinding daylight.
Blinking against the glare he raises one hand to block out the sun with a groan on his lips. His fingers brush against the white petals of the flowers surrounding him on all sides. Endlessly. Rolling hills with fields of pearly-white blossoms. In the distance he can see the glistening surface of the ocean, disturbed by the odd wave or two, a shimmering sea of little diamonds that stretch towards the horizon. What a beautiful day.

“Get up.”

He looks at the tall woman in front of him. She is clad in patches of armor, clearly made to protect, but still clinging to the shape of her body in a flattering way. Her black hair, tied back into a simple ponytail, reaches just past her shoulders. The words spoken sound almost harsh, one hand on her hip, if it weren’t for the little smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Shanks wants to comply, but the moment he tries to push himself up, his arms begin to shake too much to hold his weight for long. Exhaling in a huff, he sinks back down onto the flowers, feeling weak down to his bones.
“I don’t think I’m strong enough,” he mutters in frustration.

“Well, that is what we are here for!”

Two more emerge from behind of her, armored similarly and smiling bright and unrestrained.
The words are spoken fondly, almost in exasperation. As if he should know.
One is well-build with brown tousled hair, his broad shoulders and size almost twice as hers, while the other towers over their female companion only by a head, hair a golden hue, his sharp gaze knowing, as he studies Shanks wordlessly.
Then they are at his side in two large steps, both grabbing him under his arms to steady him and suddenly it feels like he is hit by a wave of raw, unbridled power.
He takes a deep, hungry breath.
Exhilaration fills his veins, pumping his heart in anticipation.

“Come on, the others are waiting,” the woman in front of him grins, as distant shapes begin to take form behind of her. Large and dark, like mountains. Or buildings, so high up that you could look over the whole island if the weather was in your favor-

“For what?”

“Idiot,” she laughs, while shaking her head in fond exasperation.
She reaches out her hand for him, ready to help him up. Without a second thought he takes it. Her skin feels soft and her warmth like a blessing to his freezing fingertips.

“For you.”

Then she PULLS.

He shoots up into a sitting position with a gasp that rattles his lungs.
Coughing he grabs his chest, the shirt under his hand damp from all the blood.

Faintly he looks up, almost in expectance –
but he is all alone. Something lingers at the edge of his mind, a distant dream that fades away the longer he tries to remember it, until all there is left is a distant sense of familiarity.

Darkness surrounds him and to his right the familiar shape of the mountainside rises up into the night sky.
The bright moonshine above him has him glance up, until he shields his eyes with one hand. It feels warmer than before, not as frozen. The chill of his body has passed, leaving him exhausted but feeling healthier than he has since their departure from the ship all those hours ago.
How long has he been asleep?

The fingers of his other hand brush against smooth stone.
With a jolt of his head Shanks glances down at the poneglyph, his heart skipping a beat at the realization. Before he can even distinctly wonder how it got here of all places, his fingers follow the ridges of the letters below him. His mind halts; a breath of wind pulls at his red strands. Something is different.

“That doesn’t look right,” he muses as he studies the foreign signs. Slowly he edges away to get a better look at it. They seem different than usual, not by much, but the way the letters are shaped, the words separated, feels familiar.
His eyes get stuck on one specific word, his lips echoing its meaning before he realizes that he can read whatever is written below him.

“King.”

our king with no kingdom

With a skip of his heart he looks up in a vague direction. The smile on his lips can almost compete with the brightness of the pretty flowers, as he hears them again. Finally.
And with their voices in his heart, deep and millennia old, he reads the words in earnest.

a king without kingdom
never to be crowned

a path with no road
seldom to be travelled
a sign unraveled
with a drop of its will

never to lead on
but at the center of the storm

“…a poem?”
He frowns, unsure of his observation and a tad bit disappointed, since Oden’s and Captain’s recounts always described the inscriptions a little differently. Maybe it just looks like something he is able to decipher? Something he unconsciously picked up from one of Rayleigh’s old books mayhaps?
His fingers brush over the letters, pristine as if carved just yesterday.

A distant memory rings in the back of his mind, gone before he can really grab onto it, but with a fleeting direction his eyes roam over the words once more, searching for one in particular-

“Shanks!”

He flinches hard and his body tenses up, before he looks over his shoulder into the dark of the night. In between the trees, higher up on a hill surrounded by the edge of the forest, they all stand.
His breath catches in his throat. It almost feels like a dream, unreal and more like a childish wish than reality. But when Buggy is the first to rush down the steep hill in almost a tumble, when Crocus, cursing and swearing, follows him at an impressive speed with the others following right behind, a trembling smile joins the tears on his face. He yanks his arms high up in the air, waving like a mad man and calling for them at the top of his lungs.
Maybe there is more desperation in there than he would normally like to show.
Maybe he lets the tears flow freely, instead of hiding them away under his hat.

But after the day they just had,
and with Buggy’s promise fresh in his mind,
for once, he doesn’t mind.

It is Roger who barrels past the others to take the lead, crashing down to his knees right in front of Shanks. Not a moment later his arms pull him into his warm chest, heaving under the strain and with a deep, rumbling laugh. There is the familiar smell of his coat, old leather and gun smoke, and that all-encompassing presence in mind and body alike. Before Crocus can reach them and pull him away, Shanks unconsciously burrows deeper, his trembling arms sneaking under the warm coat to grab the back of his Captain’s shirt. His face follows, hiding away from it all, until all that remains is a little tuft of red hair, caressed by the wind and a broad, scarred hand.
The cold reaching for him slowly ebbs away under Roger’s presence, like a warm blanket being thrown over his shoulders and tucked in tight. For the first time that night Shanks can feel himself beginning to relax as the tension finally bleeds out of his muscles like poison. He wants to stay like that forever. Save and sound.

“Come on, the others are waiting.”
He freezes.
The tension is back in an instant, his breath stutters in his chest and with wide opened eyes he pulls back to stare up at his Captain. “W- what did you just say?”
His voice is barely more than a whisper, but in the silence of the night and only accompanied by the rustling of the leaves, it sounds eerily loud. With a growing frown on his face, full of worry and apprehension, Roger repeats, “Crocus is waiting, lad. Come on, you really need to get that wound of yours checked out.”

As Roger reluctantly pulls back to make way for the doc, who is unusually quiet instead of berating him, Shanks risks a glance over his shoulder. The field is empty, except for his crewmates. Like it should be. Nevertheless…

His eyes get caught on the obsidian stone still hidden in between the flowers.
At the same time Crocus oh so carefully prods his bloody shirt away from his skin, probably hesitant to do any more damage than there already has to be with all the blood painting his shirt more red than white. They gasp at the same time.

“Captain, I found it!”

“What the fuck?!”

In shock he blinks at their resident doctor, but before Rayleigh can even so much as raise an eyebrow in disdain, Crocus returns his look, silent, only to then stare at Buggy with questions written all over his face. His friend- His brother reluctantly frees himself from Oden’s arm around his shoulder to come forward a few steps-
He freezes. His eyes, full of wonder, rise up to meet Shanks’.

“What?” he asks with audible unease, while they all remain eerily quiet, only to look down himself at his exposed torso-
Ysaac shot at his chest point-blank, only a few hours ago no matter how long their impromptu trek across the island felt. Nonetheless the wound in his chest is closed, already scarred over as if it was weeks old, not hours. While he still stares just like everyone else, Crocus begins to clean off the blood with a handkerchief. The pain he remembers all too well stays away.

“How is that possible?” Rayleigh asks what they all are thinking but have no answer for.
Shanks’ hand grazes one of the flowers, white buds stretching towards the white-bluish light of the moon. A question of his own lingers on his lips, one he keeps for himself as his fingers tenderly brush over the soft petals. Almost like satin.

“I found the poneglyph,” he instead reveals with an awestruck voice, his gaze still captured by the flower in his hand.
“You did indeed,” Roger replies just as far away, his eyes lingering on the white petals in between Shanks’ fingers, before Oden nudges him to look at what they came here for in the first place. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“I’m gonna look at you properly back on the ship. How are you-“ Crocus begins to ramble, once he regains his composure enough to get back on track. Eagle-eyed he keeps him in his sight, not once giving their Captain any attention as he passes them with reverent steps. Shanks sees him step up to the poneglyph, before Crocus forcefully pulls him back around, now ready enough to give him one of his infamous lectures.

Behind them Oden joins Roger, silent for a moment in which he studies the foreign yet familiar reading. Then, an ominous hum. “A Road Poneglyph. As expected.”
Roger stays quiet. The familiar bickering behind them brightens up the gloom and tension, until they all begin to visibly relax. Whatever blessing they came across –

“Did you see-“
Oden cuts him off, too aware of the blue-haired lad with his keen hearing.
“Indeed.”

They will muse about it later.

And while Roger ingrains the words at his feet to his memory, while in a rare show of sentiment their doctor pulls the surprised red-head into his arms, Oden’s gaze is enamored by something to his left, his stare glassy-eyed and directed towards the sea. When an overwhelmed look crosses his face, Rayleigh finally inquires, “What is it?”

In utter awe, he breathes, “They sing.”




The sun is still hidden below the horizon, though it already begins to paint the sky in faint red and purple.
Wrapped in his thick, woolen blanket, Shanks pulls the cup closer to his face and enjoys the warmth spreading into his fingers. He squirms on the crate he is sitting on, trying to get into a more comfortable position, before he falls still again, listening to their distant voices.

“…a king without kingdom,” Roger begins to recite once again, almost in tune with their distant chants. Same words, but almost in excited glee.
His eyes close once more, as he leans back against the wood in his back.

An endless field of flowers, stretching as far as the eye could see.
A voice like warm honey, caring, familiar but always watchful.

Not that it did her any good in the end –

“And I thought Crocus’ lecture earlier was enough for you to not try to agitate him so soon again.”
He flinches and curses himself right after, as Rayleigh puts a comforting hand on his shoulder and Shanks opens his eyes. In the distance, the sun begins to peek over the horizon. At the intent look he admits, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Something close to pity scurries across the first mate’s face, before he banishes it away for careful prodding. “Nightmares?”

“No,” he huffs in almost a laugh, sincerity in his eyes as he glances up at the older man. Then with a soft smile and the beginning of a far-away look trapped in memories long gone, “I dream of a field of flowers.”
Rayleigh at first stays silent, then hums.
He sits down beside Shanks on the crate, who decides not to move away in favor of enjoying the seldom closeness and warmth of the other. “Quite an interesting sort, I have to admit.”

Shanks thinks back to the one he picked and that now rests in a cup of water on Rayleigh’s desk to be studied further, when the time allows. “Have you ever come across those?” he asks curiously and looks back at Rayleigh, who still views the sunrise in the far distance.

The shake of his head and the frown on his face are answer enough.
Nonetheless, “No. Not once.”

They stay silent for a while.
The distant voices of Oden and Roger finally fall silent.

When their footsteps fade away on their way to the cabins, when Shanks’ eyes start to close and his heavy head begins to rest on Rayleigh’s shoulder, the latter disrupts the silence with quiet words.
“We have known for a while, lad.”

Shanks freezes, eyes wide open as he thinks back to broad shoulders and something akin to deference in their gazes-
“We thought it best not to talk to you about it until we were more informed about the range of your abilities, but we didn’t expect you to deliberately hold them back.”
He sounds bitter and frustrated, as he evades Shanks’ blinking eyes.
“We should have known better. I am very sorry.”

Ah. That’s what he is talking about.
“Conqueror’s Haki.”

A nod of his head, before he looks down at Shanks with a soft smile on his face.
The one he only ever uses in front of Buggy and Shanks alone.

“Do you remember the first time you used it?”

Of course he does. How could he ever forget?
But that’s not what Rayleigh is talking about. Not yet at least.
He nods, then, with pain hidden away in his heart, “Back when I was living with Garv’.”

Now it is on Rayleigh to be unable to hide his surprise, while Shanks evades his piercing gaze to let himself be blinded by the warming sunlight.
“Garvan? But he never-“

Of course he didn’t, they both think simultaneously and drop the matter.
A sigh, then Rayleigh leans back with a chuckle that tempts Shanks to look back at him. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really. Roger said you’d be destined for greatness.”
It feels like there is meant to be more to it, but for once Shanks leaves his curiosity be to huddle himself more against Rayleigh’s side and give in to the exhaustion slowly setting into his bones.

“Seems like it’s going to be a beautiful day after all,” Rayleigh muses with a soft voice, well aware of the cabin boy snoozing on his shoulder, who blinks up at the cloudless sky as the salty breeze of the wind caresses his red strands of hair. The smile on his face deepens, listening to the chime. Indeed.

“Shame that I’ll have to spend it researching old, dusty poems,” Rayleigh mutters under his breath, unaware of the teen still listening in.

“I don’t think it is meant to be a poem.”
His voice is sleepy, his eyes dropping close, as he burrows deeper into the blanket and the shoulder spending comfort and safety. The man at his side looks down at him with a sharp frown. “What?”

“I think it was a song,” Shanks begins, body finally relaxing from the strain of the night, while his mind pulls him back to endless fields of flowers. “They’ve been singing it non-stop.”

And as he falls asleep, Rayleigh stares out at the open sea with realization and a name lingering on his lips.
Then he exhales, troubled, but letting the kid sleep.
“Oh dear.”