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That date marked the day when, long ago, a single pirate met his end in the waters of the Gulf of Guinea.
Ritsuka Fujimaru had chosen—deliberately—to Rayshift to this sea on that very anniversary, together with Bartholomew Roberts, under the pretense of an investigation.
The same equatorial humidity as on that day in 1722 clung to the air, and the fierce sun shattered its light across the ocean’s surface. Fragments of broken ships drifted upon the water. Scattered powder barrels. Naval vessels sailing in formation toward the horizon. The scent of gunpowder carried on the wind, mingled with the cries of seabirds.
This was no simulator cabin.
The two of them stood now on the deck of a small reconnaissance vessel.
“…So this is the place,” Ritsuka murmured.
She wiped the sweat from her brow and leaned over the railing. Before her stretched a deep, vivid blue sea—one that seemed to have swallowed the cruelty of history only moments before.
“Yes. Right here,” Bartholomew replied. “I confirmed the precise coordinates with Da Vinci. February 10th, 1722—though I nudged the clock slightly off from the exact moment of the battle. It would be tasteless to show you my dying face, after all. Still, this is where the last great pirate, Bartholomew Roberts, was struck in the throat by grapeshot from the English warship Swallow, and met a remarkably abrupt end.”
Standing beside her, Bartholomew gazed toward the horizon with an uncharacteristically solemn expression.
His attire, meticulously maintained—or perhaps newly prepared just for this day—was flawless. It stood in stark contrast to Ritsuka’s light, practical outfit. A finely tailored navy coat, crimson velvet trousers, a golden chain, and the plume of his hat all fluttered proudly in the sea breeze.
“…Doesn’t this hurt?” she asked.
“Not at all. If anything, it feels refreshing,” he answered. “To be able to look upon the place of one’s own end in such pristine condition—such a luxury could only be afforded by becoming a Servant.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly and let out a soft, self-mocking laugh.
Ritsuka remembered something he had once told her.
He did not understand what people called romantic or sexual love. And yet, every account of his death suggested that he had been loved.
“Bartholomew,” she said quietly. “You once told me you don’t remember your final moments.”
“Ah. It happened in an instant,” he replied. “The moment I felt something hot pass through my throat, my consciousness had already dissolved into the air. I suppose I should consider it fortunate that I never felt pain.”
Tracing his fingers lightly along his throat, he continued as if speaking to himself.
“According to the records in the library, my body was buried at sea just as I had ordered. Don’t hand my corpse over to the enemy. Dress me in my finest clothes and consign me to the ocean. Those drunken rascals of a crew honored such a selfish request, even under heavy fire.”
“…Heh. I may not understand romance, but perhaps I’m allowed to indulge myself now and believe that I was loved by my men.”
There was something in his voice—not romantic affection, but a firm, unmistakable trust.
“That’s not indulgence,” Ritsuka said. “I think it’s because you respected them more than anything.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “There’s no doubt they were part of my aesthetic. Their instincts and my laws didn’t always align, but even so, they served me with respect—and I rewarded them in turn. And now, here I am, as your Servant, seeking to repay you. Life truly is strange.”
From within his coat, Bartholomew produced a small branch bearing white blossoms—a tropical flower he had picked earlier on an island whose name neither of them knew.
“A modest offering,” he said. “For the man I once was. For the end of the Age of Great Pirates. And for all those we trampled upon in our pursuit of becoming the greatest.”
He cast the branch into the sea. White petals vanished into the blue waves.
There was no sweetness to it, no tenderness like flowers offered to a lover—only a composed, almost ceremonial gesture of respect.
“Master,” Bartholomew said. “I will never be someone who loses himself to passion. I lack the circuitry for maddening desire or consuming longing.”
He pressed a kiss to the rosary at his chest, then turned to face her fully, meeting her gaze. His eyes were the same color as the sea below.
“And yet—perhaps this, too, is guided by the Lord. To look upon this sea with you on this day, and to speak together in quiet companionship… I find it profoundly beautiful.”
“…For me, this moment is worth staking my life upon.”
“I know,” Ritsuka said gently. “And I think that’s the most you way it could be.”
When she smiled, Bartholomew nodded in satisfaction, his usual lighthearted tone returning at once.
“Well then! Enough of this somber talk. The anniversary rites are complete! Since we’ve gone to the trouble of a Rayshift, it would be a shame to return immediately. Master—shall we head for that inlet over there? I doubt we’ll find any mekakure natives, but at least let’s plunder some rare treasures!”
“No plundering!” Ritsuka protested. “This is an investigation, remember?”
“My, how strict. Then let us call it the collection of beauty. Hard to starboard, Master!”
The sun climbed high overhead, casting the same brilliance upon the sea as it had on that day in 1722. The small vessel changed course.
◇
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Master. I’ve secured some excellent spoils—ah, pardon me. Collected items.”
Just before the signal came in announcing their return to Chaldea, Bartholomew strode back to the boat with a satisfied air, a small box clasped in his hand.
“…What’s inside?” Ritsuka asked.
With a proud smile, he opened the lid.
Inside were neither golden crosses nor costly jewels.
Instead, there lay pieces of sea glass—deep green and amber—worn smooth by long years in the ocean, their edges softened, their surfaces transformed into something like frosted crystal.
“I was surprised when you called it spoils,” Ritsuka said. “But this is… basically just broken glass, isn’t it?”
“Oh? ‘Just,’ you say?” Bartholomew replied. “This is an artwork crafted by the sea over time—no less exquisite than the finest velvet.”
He held a green fragment up to the sunlight.
“Once, it may have been a bottle from which someone drank rum—or medicine. A decanter proudly displayed in a merchant captain’s cabin. Or perhaps a bottle repurposed as an incendiary weapon in naval combat. Shattered, battered by waves, stripped of its malice, it has become something harmless—and beautiful.”
“…What do you think? This, at least, no one will complain about if you place it in your room.”
He gently set the box into Ritsuka’s hands.
“Flowers wither. Jewels are too heavy. But the remnants of something that should have vanished into the sea… somehow, they remind me of the kind of man I am.”
Ritsuka felt the sea glass in her palm. Beautiful. Smooth, yet firm. Unmistakably reminiscent of the man she knew as Bartholomew Roberts.
Yes—he had picked up himself.
He did not speak of passionate love; it was something he did not need.
But if a past stained with blood could, over the long span of history, be transformed into a radiance rivaling gemstones—and if one chose to entrust that transformed self to someone else—
“…Thank you,” she said softly. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Heh. No need for thanks. I told you, this is my ego. I merely wish for those I deem worthy to receive the things I find beautiful.”
With that, he turned away, flipping his coat as elegantly as ever—though just a little bashfully.
“Come. Let us return to Chaldea. It would be a shame to leave it forgotten in some corner of the vaults—find it a proper hiding place.”
“Of course!”
There was no heavy oath exchanged between them.
Only the quiet light lifted from the sea remained, resting gently in the space they shared.