Chapter Text
Mihawk has always been a favorite son of the sea.
When he was born in the armada of his people, before everything was destroyed and taken from him, he was kissed by sea breath before he was even held against his mother’s bosom.
He always has a strong current, always a fair breeze.
His Hitsugibune has never needed a sail or a rudder, the sea just understands where he needs to go. Sometimes she knows before he does, but Mihawk has never questioned her ways. Trusts that whatever course she sets will get him to where he needs.
So as he comes up on floating debris, all he does is raise a brow.
He saw no smoke in the sky as he approached, so whatever event transpired it had happened a while ago.
He stands on his ship, taking in the sight of a charred, wooden fish slowly sinking into the dark waters.
He hums to himself wondering why the sea has brought him here. But as his sharp eyes take in the scene he spots an unusual color on the water. Yellow.
And less unusual colors of white, blue, and red.
His ship makes a careful way to the form that clings to a large piece of wood, maybe a door or a table.
The child raises its blond head from a slump on the wood, must feel the shift of water from Hitsugibune’s prow.
The child pulls out a kitchen knife, the fine steel flashing in the midday glare.
Mihawk hums in appreciation, it is fine craftsmanship even from this far away.
“What happened, child?” Mihawk asks, indifferent if he gets an answer or not.
The blond boy growls but tears begin to fall, “Some coward attacked the geezer’s restaurant!”
Mihawk takes in the child’s sunburnt face, can imagine the sting of the salt from the tears and the waves. He sighs internally; the ocean led him hear for a reason.
“Are there any other survivors?”
The child bites his lip harshly and his hands pull at the crown on hair of his head, but shakes his head no.
Mihawk nods. “Come, child. The Sea has chosen me as your guardian.”
He watches impassively as the boy scrambles inelegantly from his floating wood to Mihawk’s small boat.
They sail away from the wreckage in silence, the boy still crying, clutching a roll of what must be chef’s knifes to his chest.
Once the grisly mess of wood and blood splatter is past the horizon and the sun light has given way to the black night speckled with stars, light glowing from 6 moons, all in different stages, the boy speaks again, “I’m not a child, you know. I’m 12 years old.”
Mihawk hums in acknowledgment that he’s heard him, but doesn’t dispute the fact that that definitely makes him a child, especially compared to Mihawk’s 34 years.
“My name is Sanji,” the child whispers again.
Mihawk nods, and keeps his lips tight until he feels the boy’s– Sanji’s– eyes looking at him, even with one covered by a wave of fair fringe. “I am Dracule Mihawk.”
“The world’s greatest swordsman?” He doesn’t ask with excitement but with trepidation.
“The very same. I’ll take you to somewhere where you will be safe, but that will be where I leave you.”
The boy bites his lip and nods, curling himself into a small ball, still clutching the knives.
It’s not until Hitsunebune hits Kuraigana’s black sands that Mihawk truly understands that the ocean has chosen him to keep this child as his own.