Work Text:
When Usopp had been a child, the first week of autumn, had always been his favorite. And for good reason, too. Sometimes it felt, like autumn had been invented strictly for Syrup Village and Usopp was one of the lucky people who got to experience this every year. The days and nights still held the remnants of the summer temperatures and in the orchards, the trees with their colors yet to start changing, near buckled under the weight of the fruits they carried. Syrup Village had the best apples of the East Blue, perhaps even the whole world. Usopp had always been sure of that.
Before his mother had fallen ill, the two of them would take one day of that first week of autumn to wander out to one of the orchards. High on top of a rolling hill. There they would spend the entire day on a picnic. His mother would prepare a basket with a blanket and a few slices of bread and cheese and they would lie on their backs and watch the clouds go by, and Usopp would tell her about all the adventures he wanted to go on, when he was older. They would eat their meager meals and count the shapes they spied in the sky. Then, once their food was finished, and they were just about ready to head home, they would fill the basket with apples and for the following weeks Usopp would wake up to the delicious smell of apples in their little home. Of course, none of the trees had belonged to them, but their neighbors were usually kind, and the harvest bountiful enough, that they would spare a few for the single mother and her imaginative child.
And besides, the first week of autumn sometimes felt like a single continuous celebration, and everybody all throughout Syrup Village was in a good mood. The whole town was adorned in all sorts of decors and where the houses stood closer together celebratory pennants were strung from window to window, creating a canopy of colors. As a kid, Usopp would run beneath this canopy, his head thrown back, as watched the colors rush by. Once he got home, he would paint the most wonderful pictures of all the shapes he had seen in them and imagine a place where the sky truly looked like that. Where people lived in high towers and would string the sky up each morning and replace it each night.
In the evenings, when the townsfolk of the village had finished their day jobs, they would come together in small neighborhood groups, and they would talk and bit the last few warm nights of the year goodbye. During that week the baker would bake a special bread and hand slices, still warm and smelling like walnuts and honey, to the children that ran around the streets excitedly.
But the best part of it all, the spectacle it all culminated in, was the Harvest Festival. During the last night of the week, the entire town met up at the top of a hill close to the village. There they lit a tall bonfire they had constructed during the previous days. They sat on foldable benches, drank, and ate, and celebrated the harvest they would have this following autumn. Each year the mayor threw an apple into the flames and if you stood close enough, you could smell the sweet scent that originated from it.
The following days the harvest started. Life returned to its usual course, and people would collect the apples from their trees, and turn them into all sorts of wonderful things. Apple Wine, Apple Pie, Apple Jam, but most importantly, Apple Syrup. The export good that had, according to legend, earned Syrup Village its name
The first week of autumn was a special time in Syrup Village. Everyone was happy, and, as far as Usopp was concerned, there was nothing bad in the world.
And then his mother had fallen sick. That was the first year they didn't make it out to the orchard. She had felt bad about, it had been written all over her face, but she had simply been too weak to take the hike. Back then Usopp had been disappointed. And even more disappointed, when she hadn't been back to her feet by the time the festival had rolled around. She asked neighbors to take him to the hill, so he could have fun with the other kids and enjoy himself. And Usopp, who had been just a child and who had not yet grasped the severity of the situation, had gladly went along. He knows now, that his mother had been truly entertained, when he had come back that night and told her about the major's fumble with the apple, and how his sleeve had almost caught fire, when he had leaned too far forward, while tossing it into the flames. He knows that she had gladly listened while he had told her about the games he had played with the other children, and how the baker's wife had given them dough to put on sticks and roast in the fire. He knows that she had wanted him to be a child and be happy, and spent time with his friends. And still, to this day, Usopp can't help but feel guilty. If only, he hadn't gone along with his neighbors that night. Because while the rest of the town celebrated, with high spirits, ready for a new harvest. His mother lay alone in her bed, in the cold house, waiting for her son to return. She must have been lonely.