Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This story began with a postcard in a mailbox.

The mailbox itself possessed very little magic, as was typical of such things. If anything, it was far too dark to have any magic at all. It was more likely bewitched by some demonic entity, for few would dare deposit mail there, given how unwelcoming, even gloomy, the island was. Lost somewhere at sea, the forested island boasted an army of monumental, eternal fir trees, comma-shaped mountains, and devastated fields undergoing restoration. It was surrounded by a heavy aura, reinforced by the fog that often settled over the island like a blanket, keeping its inhabitants safe.

A castle stood at the center of the desolation. It dominated the surrounding area with its sheer size, its two wings extending outwards like a bird about to take flight, and it was even grander with its three towers, the central one with its square base rising towards the clouds. The castle perfectly matched the island's aesthetic with its Gothic style, composed of large stained-glass windows ending in arches and adorned with flamboyant ornamentation. There were no gargoyles, as one might expect, for refinement had been the guiding principle.

The lord of the castle was a stern and withdrawn man who had chosen this island for its isolation and unusual character. The island was so bleak, in its landscape, its weather, and its history, that the owner, upon settling there, had hoped to find his haven of peace. After decades of fighting, the man had wanted a place where he could read a book of poetry while sipping a glass of red wine, nap by the crackling fire in the fireplace, and cook vegetables from his own garden. In short, a peaceful life for a man who had known only the chaos of the battlefield.

Naturally, the owner, too, was in keeping with the island's aesthetic, between his black leather boots with gold buckles that reached his knees, his dark trousers, his white silk shirt adorned with elaborate lace ruffles in a rose motif, and a long black cape with deep burgundy lapels. The man maintained the same refined attention to hygiene: his pointed nails were painted a deep black, his beard was perfectly groomed, the two thin lines of his mustache and the tips of his sideburns were symmetrical, and his eyebrows were perfectly manicured. His hair was jet black, as dark as the ocean floor itself, and perfectly complemented his porcelain skin, which seemed never to have seen the sun.

In short, the master of the castle was a handsome man despite his perpetual frown and disapproving pout. He had been cited numerous times in rankings of the most handsome men on the Grand Line and had always been among the top contenders. Even without these nominations, he often attracted the attention of women who turned to admire him, and the gaze of men could burn with as much jealousy as lust. Yet, few dared approach, for his piercing gaze deterred them, and his reputation ultimately discouraged even the most daring.

The cloak was indeed essential as the master walked through the pine forest toward the coast. Once there, he opened the dark mailbox and retrieved its contents, slipping them into his pocket. Then, he returned to the castle at a leisurely pace, despite the humandrills—large baboons who had developed a taste for fighting and violence, but who, for some incongruous reason, had taken him as their role model- were staring at him from their hiding places in the trees. They had learned the hard way not to attack him by surprise, even when he appeared unarmed.

Once inside, and being the patient man he was, he changed out of his mud-caked boots into his indoor ones. The style was the same, but the leather was less worn and the soles cleaner so as not to soil the floor. He then went to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of expensive Bordeaux, which he took to the dining room. There, he threw another log onto the dying fire in the fireplace before settling into his high-backed chair with its red velvet seat, crossing his right leg over his left thigh, and placing his glass on the oak table.

Perfectly settled, he retrieved the sword-shaped letter opener held between the paws of a golden lion. The sword was small, but the blade was sharp and easily sliced ​​through the letter. As the emblem of a blue gull in flight indicated, the letter belonged to the Marines, inviting him, yet again, to their end-of-year reception. He received the same kind of invitation every year since becoming a Warlord, supposedly to congratulate him on his "good work." That would be the understatement of the year, since he ignored most of their calls and only drew his sword to kill time. So, Sengoku surely wanted to show how he had those "World Government dogs" firmly in line to reassure the public.

Pathetic.

The invitation was crumpled into a ball and thrown across the room, where it landed safely in the fireplace. The reaction was immediate as the blazing flames licked the card, blackening its edges until its center disintegrated.

The second letter was also an invitation, this one from a swordsmen's association he'd heard of but always refused to join. He saw no point in joining someone weaker than himself. So, he threw the invitation in the fireplace, not wanting to waste an afternoon with a bunch of sword-obsessed fools who hadn't managed to build a life for themselves. They were so lonely, in fact, that they were forced to spend the holidays together—wasn't that just pathetic? At worst, it would be a trap to eliminate him and take his title.

The master then retrieved the last envelope and sighed, receiving yet another invitation. However, the familiar messy handwriting prevented him from throwing it in the fire as well. So, intrigued, he read:

His hand trembled briefly as a voice as rich as velvet and as sweet as honey echoed in his head. He closed his eyes and imagined a mischievous smile, eyes filled with kindness, and an untamed mane. It had been a year since he'd dropped off Monkey D. Luffy's bounty at the Emperor, the man who could never stop talking about him like a proud father. A year of wondering if it had been a mistake, because otherwise, Shanks would have come to visit him by now, wouldn't he?

Flustered, the master brought the letter to his nose and inhaled its fragrance. He breathed deeply, and a smile crept across his lips as he recognized the familiar scent of spice. Even after all these years, Shanks still wore the same cologne. He had given it to the pirate years ago for his birthday as a subliminal message to improve his hygiene. In that respect, Shanks was still a lost cause, but at least he smelled slightly nice.

Now the question was whether he should go or reserve the same fate for this invitation as the others. After all, Shanks was a renowned character as the Fourth Emperor and had this inexplicable knack for making friends easily, so the party would be anything but small. Besides, the redhaired was the kind of person who could get himself out of a tight spot with a few well-chosen words, he was a notorious flirt, and, like any good pirate, he knew how to lie to get what he wanted. So, even if Shanks said he missed him, which might be true, there was no guarantee that the Emperor would actually want to spend his evening with an antique like him. Especially if the Emperor had been drinking before the party even started.

In any case, he couldn't imagine leaving his peaceful haven to cross all the oceans and reach an island teeming with people, mostly foreigners, to drink cheap alcohol, be assaulted by "music," and be ignored by his host. No, he decided, he'd be better off…

"HAWKEYES!" a shrill voice suddenly screamed through the castle.

The sound was so profoundly irritating that the man called Hawkeyes dropped the letter, which landed on the table. He frowned, sticking his finger in his ear, but the shriek continued to echo, banishing the memory of a much more melodious and pleasant accent.

"HAWKEEEEEYES!" one of the castle residents continued to shout.

The sound grew louder the closer the owner got. It also became proportionally more irritating as Hawkeyes planned to retrieve his mythical weapon to put an end to this tiresome screeching. No need to sever a neck; a tongue would suffice.

Finally, a young woman s emerged into the dining room with a loud: "HAWKEYES!"

"No need to shout, I'm not deaf," he reprimanded sternly without looking up from his clasped hands.

Hawkeyes didn't need to look to remember what his young guest looked like. This morning, Perona had styled her long pink hair in a high ponytail and put on a new dress, black with pink skulls. He hoped that if he didn't pay her any attention, she'd get bored and leave. Unfortunately, so far, his tactic had never worked, as the young woman was as clingy as a barnacle to a rock.

"So you could answer when I call you, old man!"

"I didn't want to," he replied, picking up his glass. He swirled the dark liquid in the crystal glass before taking a sip.

"You're too mean!"

"While you are just a spoiled brat."

"Would a bratl have brought your protégé back to you, who was freezing to death outside?" replied Perona, her hands on her hips.

Hawkeyes shrugged indifferently. If Roronoa Zoro couldn't survive the elements, then he couldn't possibly call himself a swordsman, let alone dream of becoming the best. Besides, even if the boy managed to improve under Hawkeyes' tutelage, there was a good chance he'd never become the best at anything if he kept getting lost at every turn. The boy was a walking disaster and could easily get lost on the way between the kitchen and the dining room, two adjacent rooms, no less.

Speaking of the devil…

Roronoa suddenly appeared in the doorway of the dining room. He was carrying an enormous stack of perfectly hewn logs in his bare arms. Hence was why the boy was freezing to death, wearing only pants and boots in the snow outside. Zoro's survival in this world must have been nothing short of a miracle and a stroke of luck.

"Why am I always the one cutting wood?" grumbled the boy, dropping the logs to the ground.

Hawkeye had several reasons in mind—not having to do it himself, watching the boy suffer, training him, and so on—but he didn't share any of them, simply taking another sip. The arrival of the two thugs might have shattered his peace, but he wasn't going to let this fine wine spoil. Especially since those two weren't done making his life a living hell.

"What is this?" Perona asked, picking up the letter. Shanks flew away as Hawkeyes reached out to take what was his. "My dear Hawky… Hawky? Who would dare call you Hawky? No, wait, who's close enough to you to give you a nickname?"

The young woman then proceeded to read the contents aloud so that Roronoa could hear it too.

"...Yours forever... Oh, that's so cute! Shanks…. Shanks?"

"Shanks?" repeated Zoro as he finished arranging the logs in the display case.

"Shanks," Hawkeyes confirmed with a weary sigh.

"Shanks? Like The Shanks?" Perona pressed, floating near her patron. "Red-Haired Shanks? The Fourth Emperor? The man with a missing left arm and scars on his face?"

Zoro nodded. "Your old rival? The one with whom your battles were legendary? You made the seas tremble with him."

"Yes, this Shanks."

"By the seas, why would an Emperor invite you to a party?"

How Perona managed to be both insulting and right was a mystery.

"Why would anyone invite him to a party?" Zoro added skeptically, clapping his hands. He had finished stacking the wood but was still sitting on the ground.

"For once, the idiot scores a point."

"Hey, bitch!"

"Jerk!" replied Perona, sticking her tongue out at Zoro, who was threatening her with his fist.

Annoyed by their frequent argument, which was deafening him, Hawkeyes interrupted them: "The reason matters not since I do not intend to go. If you would be so kind as to throw this invitation in the fire."

"What?!" demanded Perona, clearly outraged. "Not go to a party? You're crazy?! There's no way I'm going to rot in this filthy castle with the spiders and rats when I can go to such a prestigious party! Red-haired Shanks' parties are the best!"

"They are entertaining at last," Hawkeyes reluctantly agreed.

"So let's go! I'll finally have the chance to wear my prettiest dresses and talk to interesting people!"

"My decision is final, I have no intention of going anywhere. Besides, I have a training session to supervise."

"You can rest a little, old man!" Perona exclaimed, pouting.

As for Zoro, he shrugged. "I don't mind going to this party; I can finally thank Red-haired for saving my captain's life."

Hawkeyes raised an eyebrow in perplexity, and Perona stared intently at her companion who, sheepishly, finally admitted: "and if there's free alcohol…"

Hawkeyes sighed because, of course, the only reason Zoro and Perona ever got along was to ally against him and make his life a living hell. Otherwise, the rest of the time, they fought even worse than cats and dogs.

"Splendid, so you two can go together."

The two young people stared at him with wide eyes and bewildered expressions. It was Perona, however, who put into words what they were both thinking: "We'll never get there without you! First of all, there's no address! Secondly, even if there were one, the idiot has no sense of direction! And I can't get your damn coffin to work!"

"Sounds like a you problem," sarcastically mocked Hawkeyes.

Perona's face turned red from sulking. "But you're the one who was invited!"

"...still impressive," Zoro muttered under his breath.

"I agree! But we can't show up without the old man! He's the one Red-haired invited! Who knows why!? Maybe to kill him? What will become of us then!?"

"You will have to manage on your own then."

"And you without us," countered Perona in her annoying know-it-all tone.

Mihawk openly mocked her before finishing his drink. "Think what you want, I couldn't care less. I'm not going anywhere beyond these walls, and apparently, neither are you. This conversation is, by definition, closed."

"You can't just close conversations you don't like…"

Mihawk proved otherwise by retrieving his glass before getting up. He made a quick stop in the kitchen to refill it before heading to the living room to read a book by the fireplace. Frankly, with such a schedule, he didn't need to go to a party. And even if he had nothing to do, he wouldn't have gone. Simply because he didn't like parties. There were always too many people talking, pushing and shoving him, stepping on his toes; the music was an infernal horror; and the alcohol was never to his refined taste. Mihawk could fight an army, but attending a party seemed impossible to him. Especially when it was a Christmas party.

Now, Mihawk didn't hate Christmas. He simply didn't see the point. Whether it was putting up a tree in his living room, decorating the castle with garlands and ornaments, or getting together to exchange gifts, it was all an unimaginable waste of time. Why should he disrupt his perfectly established routine for a holiday? And worse, for Shanks? A man he hadn't seen in a year, who nevertheless complained about not seeing him enough. But Shanks knew where Mihawk lived. He simply didn't have the time, and probably didn't have the inclination, to visit him. Besides, Shanks knew all too well the elder's aversion to holidays and Christmas. That selfish pirate was once again trying to drag him out of his comfort zone for his own amusement.

Too bad for Shanks, because Mihawk wouldn't be participating in his elaborate mind games designed to make him the laughingstock of the crew. If it wasn't a trap, then it was a stupid gamble to see if Mihawk was desperate enough to come or not. He wouldn't give Shanks the satisfaction and would instead stay in his gloomy castle with his two companions in misfortune. He would have preferred to be alone, brooding and enjoying his solitary abode, but after a few months in their company, he had resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be getting rid of them anytime soon. Roronoa and Perona were both too stubborn to leave, no matter how much they disliked him. At least the three of them had managed to agree on that point early on.

They weren't a family, just three mismatched individuals who didn't particularly like each other but were forced to live under the same roof because of Kuma. Admittedly, they'd fallen into a comfortable routine, with Mihawk cooking, Perona setting the table, and Roronoa washing the dishes. Furthermore, Perona was also an avid reader, while Roronoa easily understood Mihawk's language of swords, but their similarities ended there. There was no way Hawkeyes was going to break his routine to celebrate Christmas for them.

So, he again refused to take them to Shanks's party when Perona came to offer him a cup of tea as a gift—as if he could be so easily bought. He shooed the young woman away but still drank the warm, comforting contents after the long, cold day. In her excitement, Perona had poured far too many leaves, and the berry flavor quickly became cloying. Hawkeyes then set the cup aside and retrieved his book; this time he was determined to read rather than let Shanks get inside his head again.

Hawkeyes had read an entire chapter and was about to accomplish a similar feat with the next when, suddenly, his eyelids grew heavy. He felt the book slip through his fingers, but couldn't catch it. He frowned as he felt his heart rate slow. Suspicious, Hawkeyes grabbed the teacup and swirled the contents to see the bottom covered with a suspicious white layer. His tea had been drugged. Hawkeyes stood up, intending to kill Perona, but his vision blurred as a powerful dizziness overwhelmed him. He took one step forward only to discover his legs were too weak to support his weight, and he collapsed forward.

The master of the castle was unconscious before he even touched the ground.