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Marco knows Shanks is dead.
He couldn't have missed it. Not with the way dark lightning tore the world open, visible even from where Marco had been trying to help the Strawhats' little doctor. Shanks has always been magnetic, in his Haki, drawing in attention. When that force of presence vanished, it was like gravity could suddenly assert itself all the stronger. The weight of his absence is crushing.
There's no point to finding the body. Marco goes anyway.
It started raining an hour ago. The ground is saturated, and Marco has to drag himself through heavy mud. In places, water pools almost up to his calves. He doesn't have the energy to fly.
Every time he turns over a muddied corpse to identify it, he finds another old rival-ally-friend. It's almost a shock when he finds Benn Beckman. Somehow, he'd thought that it would be them, at the end. First mates and first officers, long after their captains were gone. Marco lowers him back down to the ground, bitterly jealous.
He doesn't expect to see anyone alive. Much less a man wearing the uniform of a Knight of God's and the same red hair as Shanks.
He doesn't look up as Marco approaches. He's slumped on his knees in the mud, curled over a limp body. Crying. The jagged, helpless sobs of someone with no reason left to stifle their tears. The body, still and empty, lays in the mud, head tipped towards Marco.
It's Shanks. Of course.
The stranger doesn't seem to notice Marco until he's only a few steps away. His head lifts, he picks up a fallen sword, and whirls around to level it at Marco. "Don't touch him," he says, voice hoarse.
Marco stops in his tracks.
The sword is Gryphon. Its blade is dull, handle bloody, but it's unmistakable. Maybe that's what makes Marco's heart skip a beat for just a second, when he sees the stranger's face, but-- it's not Shanks. It can't be. It looks like him, but it's not.
But he looks like Shanks, and he's bleeding from the shoulder, a gaping wound from a severed arm, and Marco finds himself moving forward despite himself. The stranger lashes out with Gryphon, but Marco barely feels it, healing immediately. He crouches to hold a handful of phoenix fire to the stranger's injury. "Hold still."
The stranger stills, seeming shocked into obeying.
"You killed him, didn't you." Marco can't muster up the anger he should feel. He's empty inside. He might just have enough left in him to keep the stranger from bleeding out.
"I didn't want to." The stranger's voice, grief-stricken, cracks. "It wasn't meant to be like this-- he's my brother, he was supposed to come back."
The stranger-- the Knight-- Shanks' brother. He sounds genuine. Marco glances around and finds the missing arm, still clutching a bloody sword. Of course, that doesn't mean much: everything on the battlefield is bloody now.
"But you killed him."
"They made me."
"But you killed him, damn you--" Fury ignites from ashes, and Marco finds himself gripping the Knight's shoulders to shake. "You killed him!"
"I would have died first if I had the choice!" The Knight looks Marco in the eyes for the first time as he shouts, ragged and desperate. It seems to break the damn that had shored up his grief, and his shoulders slump, tears spilling over once more. "I would have-- he was my brother."
Marco has claimed many siblings, openly and joyfully. Shanks, to the best of his knowledge, only claimed two, and those he claimed quietly but firmly.
Whatever happened between Shanks and Buggy after Roger died, it was dire enough to split them apart permanently. But Marco still remembers them as boys, chasing each other and bickering and posturing while Roger fought Whitebead, a matched set. The sons of the Roger Pirates, everyone knew. Shanks hadn't talked about his first brother in a long time, but on the rare occasion that someone asked about Buggy, his smile would slip into waxy nostalgia. Marco, with all his own siblings, knew what it meant.
It was only after Ace died that Shanks told Marco he'd known about him. Known he existed, rather. Known Roger had a son. He'd had his suspicions about Ace himself, but he'd never come out and said anything to the kid.
"I should've . . ." Shanks had said, after the funeral. Six cups deep and still far too sober. "Should've told him. Gaban and I, we talked about him, y'know? He would've been my brother. My little brother."
"He can be your brother," Marco had replied. "We can share."
It wasn't often that Shanks' iron mask broke. But that was one of the few times Marco saw the true depths of grief buried under it.
If Marco had known the words to ask, would Shanks have admitted to having a third brother? A twin, a Celestial Dragon, a Knight of God: the story behind that must be stranger than Marco can imagine.
He's never going to be able to ask Shanks what the story was, he realizes suddenly.
Marco takes a breath. "You can't stay here," he says. The rain is only getting heavier. That arm will go septic if it isn't properly treated.
"I can't leave him."
They're surrounded by the dead. They're the only two left living on the whole battlefield. It wasn't even a field when they started; there used to be mountains here. They can't bring all the dead back. It would be a monumental challenge.
But this-- this is Shanks.
As the Knight pries his sword out of his own severed hand and sheathes it, Marco pulls off his cloak to lay it over the body in front of him. Shanks' head lolls as Marco picks him up. The Knight tsks and reaches out, hand shaking, to lift his head back up and tuck it more securely against Marco's shoulder.
"Undignified," the Knight chides. There's a quaver in his voice that threatens to split down the middle. He picks up Gryphon again. Shifts his grip on it awkwardly, but holds it like a like a lifeline.
Marco doesn't have the fire left for anything other than sympathy.
-----
Somehow, Benn ends up watching over Shamrock.
He should've expected this. Shanks has to sleep at some point, after all, and there's no way they can leave Shamrock unguarded. But Benn still feels slightly betrayed.
"Beck," Shanks says, utterly serious, "you're the only other person on the crew who's gone head to head with him. I know you're not thrilled to have him here--"
"Captain," Benn interrupts. "I'll do it. You don't have to talk me into it."
"I know," Shanks frowns up at him. "But-- I've been talking to him. I think we're going to have to keep him around a little longer than expected."
Benn isn't thrilled to hear it, but he's not surprised either. "I'm still waiting on a full explanation, captain."
"You'll get one," Shanks promises. "Soon as he's lucid enough to explain it to you himself."
Predictably, Shamrock spiked a fever not long after they set off to catch up with the Whitebeard Pirates. Hongo says he's been sleeping, mostly, while he recovers from having his arm lopped off. He probably can't cause any trouble, but better safe than sorry.
Benn takes one step into the sickroom and shoots a scowl over his shoulder. "Shanks."
"What?"
"Why does he have a sword?"
"He felt better with it."
The sword, much to Benn's displeasure, is sheathed and laying on the floor beside Shamrock's bed. Benn swears it growls at him as he crosses the room to sit on the chair by the bed. He sighs, resigned, and sits down. He has a shirt that needs patching after the shoulder tore through, and he's not going to let a possibly-living sword and unfortunately-living Celestial distract him from his mending.
Shamrock's sleep is fitful and disturbed. He doesn't toss and turn, but he twitches in his sleep. Occasionally, he whimpers faintly. Benn isn't sure whether it's pain, fever, or nightmares leaving him so unsettled. It could well be all three.
A few hours into Benn's watch, Shamrock stills. Benn glances over when he realizes that he hasn't heard any of the quiet noises in a while, wondering if Shamrock has fallen into a deeper sleep--
Only to find him awake and watching Benn.
Benn jabs himself with his mending needle, curses, and drops his shirt while trying to staunch the blood dripping from of his finger. "You're awake," he says.
Shamrock just blinks. "Where's Shanks?"
"Sleeping." Benn leans down to pick the shirt back up and shake the dust out of it. "Don't worry. If you stay put, we won't have any trouble."
Shamrock snorts. "You could hardly be a match for me if I did decide to leave."
"I scared you off once, didn't I?"
After Shanks had broken into and back out of Mariejois, Shamrock had started showing up to try to persuade him back. Every time, he and Shanks had clashed, fought to a deadlock, and Shamrock had left disappointed. It had seemed like it might become a permanent fixture in their lives: Shanks' evil twin brother who demanded he return to Mariejois and become a proper noble, showing up to fight at the most inconvenient moments.
And then Shamrock had shown up three weeks after Shanks fed his arm to a Sea King. Even if Shanks hadn't still been recovering, losing his dominant arm had been a blow to his skills for years. There was every chance Shamrock might beat him.
Benn had stepped in. Backed his captain, been the cover fire and lookout that Shanks needed to compensate. It hadn't been easy, but it had been enough to make Shamrock back down.
That had been the last time that Shamrock had ever shown up.
Benn has always been quietly proud of that. It had been a breaking point, he'd always assumed. Undeniable proof that, even if Shanks was injured, even if Shamrock could take him out, the crew would still muster behind their captain. That Benn would be there for Shanks, always. That Shanks would never be alone, never undefended. Shamrock must have understood that, he'd thought, and realized that his quest was hopeless.
But Shamrock just blinks at him. "Scared?" he scoffs. "Of you?"
Benn taps the scar at his temple. One lucky slash from Shamrock; a souvenir from that fight. "What do you call this? You never came back."
Shamrock's mouth twists. "I was ordered to cease my attempts to bring my brother home, you self-important . . ." He trails off, glancing away. It seems he's too tired to think of a proper insult, because he weakly finishes with, ". . . pirate."
It's almost more offensive than being insulted would have been. Benn bristles. "You would never have been able to take him," he says.
"I would've." Shamrock glowers at him. "If you hadn't been there, he would've come home then. You stole my last chance to have my brother back."
"I protected my captain." The sword on the floor is definitely growling now, but Benn doesn't pay attention to it as he leans forward. "If you want him back, feel free to fight for him." He can't help but twist the knife. "Or do I have wait for you and your delicate constitution to recover first?"
Mistake. Shamrock actually does push himself up to take a swing at Benn, but with his ribs shattered on one side he can't hold himself up. Benn has to catch him and, when Shamrock tries to struggle his way out, pin him to the bed by his uninjured shoulder.
"If you don't settle down," Benn threatens, "I'll call Hongo in to yell at both of us."
Shamrock scowls up at him, but slowly relaxes enough that Benn can let up without worrying about the bastard lashing out again. He can feel the heat of Shamrock's fever through his shirt. One of Shanks' shirts-- which doesn't help with the old memories that Benn has been trying to ward off. At least when Shamrock is glaring like that, he doesn't look anything like his brother.
But that's no reason to bait him into a fight; Hongo will be furious if Benn lets Shamrock pull his stitches. For now, he has to play nice.
He sits back down, abandoning his mending for the time being. Curiosity gets the best of him and he asks, "You were ordered to stop attacking us?"
Shamrock doesn't look at him. He just aims that cold scowl at the ceiling. "Yes."
"Why?"
His hand drifts absently towards his own severed arm. "Without the seal, what good was he to--" Shamrock cuts himself off abruptly.
Well. Fuck. It was nothing Benn had done, then. It was nothing to do with Shamrock at all. Benn feels suddenly guilty; he'd been furious with Shanks, after he'd lost his arm. Furious and afraid. A Sea King never should've been able to get one over him. And then the captain insisted it was a good thing. Benn had thought-- had assumed for years-- that it was just Shanks being reckless. Taking the most efficient path to his goal instead of the smart one. He'd been afraid for Luffy, and it made him thoughtless.
Now, he has proof that Shanks had understood far better than Benn how high the stakes were. And maybe that was by design, at least in part. Shanks had never said how dangerous the seal really was. Just that it might be able to affect him and his actions, and that they'd have to be careful near the Redline now.
With both brothers having resorted to desperate, painful, foolish means to free themselves of their marked arms, Benn thinks he needs to ask Shanks what exactly that seal could have done.
"I saw you dead, you know."
There's no malice in Shamrock's words. That's the most alarming part. If it had been a threat, Benn could have responded in kind. But the words are just weary. Almost sad.
"But we couldn't take your body," he adds. "Marco had to carry Shanks."
Benn stands up and turns to the door. Shamrock's fever must be getting worse. If this is the first sign of delirium, Hongo will need to know.
But when he turns around, he finds a pale-faced Shanks, frozen in the door, looking utterly stricken.
"You didn't tell me Benn died," Shanks says. He barely glances at Benn, all his attention on Shamrock.
Shamrock tips his head to the side to look at Shanks. "I said everyone died."
"But you didn't say Benn died."
Shamrock makes a motion with his head that might have been a shrug if he weren't injured. "Marco wanted to bring him," he says. "But there was no one else to carry him."
The small, wounded noise that eats its way out of Shanks' throat is the last straw for Benn. "I think I need that explanation now, captain," he manages.
Shanks looks at him with wide eyes. He steps all the way into the room and closes the door behind himself. He takes a breath. Lets it out. Then leans against Benn, like the swaying, drunken teenager he'd been when they first met, not sober enough to keep his feet under him.
"Shamrock saw the future," he admits. "Or lived it. We're not sure which."
It's not a joke. Shanks wouldn't joke like this. Not when Benn can feel him shaking.
"How?" Benn asks.
"I don't know," Shamrock says tersely.
With enormous effort, Shanks straightens and crosses to sit at the foot of Shamrock's bed. "But it's not like there aren't Devil Fruits that can wreak havoc with time. I know of one that can go forwards, but that doesn't mean there couldn't be ones that work the other way."
Benn sets his questions about the mechanics of the thing aside, and focuses on the issue at hand. "We died," he says. Then, making himself read between the lines, "Shanks died."
"I killed him," Shamrock says quietly. He raises his hand to look at it. "I was a vessel. Lord Imu decided Shanks' life needed to end, to break the sun's heart, and saw to his death personally." He closes his hand into a fist. "It was only when Shanks was dying that I-- that my lord--" He shakes his head. "There was a moment of distraction. Shanks severed my arm and I was suddenly myself again. Free to realize what I'd done, but too late to stop it."
"When--" Benn's voice breaks. He has to swallow. "When did you see all this? Or, when did you come back?" He rummages through his pockets for cigarettes.
"A few days ago." Shamrock finally lets his arm drop.
"And then you made sure that you couldn't be used to kill Shanks again," Benn says. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
Shamrock tips his head to the side to meet Benn's eyes.
He still doesn't like him. But if nothing else, Benn can understand this small piece of Shamrock. To protect Shanks, to keep his captain alive and whole, Benn would do a lot more than just cut an arm off. Maybe Shamrock knows that too, if he really did see Benn die. He has no doubt that he died defending Shanks.
Maybe there's even a part of Benn that's quietly grateful to Shamrock.