Work Text:
A surreal feeling settled in his chest. Soft and fuzzy like a ball of cotton, slowly branching out through and out of his ribcage, filling his insides with an unfamiliar type of warmth; the kind that left you light-headed if not tipsy—not drunkenness, by the sort that made you metaphorically melt from within. It had been a discomforting sensation at first, but he’d learned to live with this… queer malediction.
The reason for this new, unpredictable emotion—happiness, his steward named it rather warily, was a new most joyous reality he relished facing; he was a grandfather.
Uta was her name. One not of a holy origin, but certainly not common amongst the… tainted masses. Quite exotic in the ivory heaven of the sacred land, and Saint Figarland Garling was one of those avid collectors whose treasuries harboured many unique artefacts and specimens.
He couldn’t help but allow this… mindnumbing fuzz to spread, allowing himself a small private moment of happiness. Finally, after all this time, he managed to acquire a grandchild. A continuation of his meticulously crafted legacy.
To think that Shanks; the wayward son, the traitor—child borne a saint, yet tainted by the sins of those wretches who all but forced him into a life of piracy, endless conflict, debauchery and bloodshed became a lowborn cur himself—managed to create something as bright, and as good as Uta was most unexpected, certainly not unwelcome.
Uta’s mere existence was a solid proof to Garling that the younger could at least bring some contribution to the family name, no matter how small (or great, in Uta’s case.)
Garling sighed, a sound so soft it may have been a whisper in the wind, before he leaned back into the hard embrace of his throne. Pressing two gloved fingers against his temple, he rubbed small circles in a soothing motion, quelling the rising irritation before his infamous temper could get a hold of him.
Now was not the time to have a Haki outburst. Keep it together, fool.
Garling scowled at his desk, pupils narrowing into pinpricks as he regarded the files neatly arranged before him with mild disgust.
These reports have been rotting on his desk since noon, a courtesy from Sommers, that thorn-wrapped leech. He hadn’t truly managed to go through any of the paperwork (all alphabetically categorized and properly labeled based on their importance, type and origin of each individual case).
He had been… distracted for the past month, for the lack of a better description. And to be perfectly honest, Garling couldn’t find a nerve to care. Shamrock has proven quite the skilled leader, although his communication skills are severely lacking and his Figarland temper is nearly as prickly to manage as Garling’s own.
Still, allowing Shamrock to gain more control and responsibility over the Order will only strengthen his own post within the God’s Knights and his leadership over those uniform-cladded pests. Which, of course, would leave Garling with a loose schedule and more time to spend with his granddaughter. The thought nearly made him smile.
The Figarland patriarch’s scrutinizing gaze slid towards the farmost corner of his study, settling upon a homely-looking arm chair. An upholstered piece of furniture that was very out of place in this dull, however richly decorated environment, old and shabby, unworthy of being in a god’s proximity. A stark contrast to its cold, monochrome surroundings; a chaos of warm colours that demanded your attention, amongst carefully arranged order of bleakness and unrivalled power.
And in the arm chair laid a wispy girl of eight, one too small and too thin for her age, with long hair of fiery red and pale silver framing her round face. She was smothered by a fur-trimmed cloak of lavender-scented velvet, the only embrace Garling could give her whilst he was preoccupied.
Garling’s merciless eyes softened. The cotton fuzz branched down like vines, crawling into his stomach at a snail’s pace, a vile unpleasant form of…of tenderness squeezing his innards.
Ridiculous.
Garling was anything but tender.
Still.
He drank in the shallow rise and fall of Uta’s chest, the small flutters of her lashes, the occasional pained sigh already dissolving in the air before it could deepen into something raw.
Nightmare, most likely.
No surprises there. The Elegia Incident was still a fresh canvas, a gory painting clearly depicted in the minds of all those present on the island on that fateful night.
Even Garling had trouble sleeping the first night.
Not because the Incident moved some undiscovered good side inside of him, no.
The smell of rain-soaked ground, mud mixing with ash and blood cloying the stained air was no different than any other battlefield he’d commanded in the past—no different from God Valley.
The sight of charred corpses—only bits and pieces at a time—peaking through the cracks of fallen houses brought no tears to his eyes. He’d been the cause of worse travesties than this… what did commoners call it again? Ah. Genocide.
The “tragedy” itself was nothing in comparison to the wailing girl he and the Knights encountered in what once used to be the kingdom’s plaza. Or the gut-wrenching screams clawing out of her hoarse throat as she cursed Akagami no Shanks and his crew to three hells, right until her voice gave out and the hollow night was only filled with her sobs.
No words could describe the way silence swallowed the ruins of Elegia as her wide eyes singled him out from the approaching entourage, greedily searching for a familiar face within his own. Or the way her wet face twisted in anger, then reluctant hope and finally, animalistic despair.
She threw herself at him with a choked cry, a blur of red-and-yellow colliding with his shins—he had no time to respond accordingly, her quaking arms already wrapped around his legs, fingers clawing at his uniform.
“Please. Please, take me h-home… I-I want to go home. Please. I won’t c-cause trouble. Just take me a-away from here.”
The other Knights could only stare at her, faces almost carved from rock, cold and callous, yet their eyes betrayed hints of unease and… pity, perhaps?—their tongues tied inside their mouths.
Garling just stood there, motionless; a statue of god carved from the finest marble, beautiful in his divinity, and too out of place amongst the base wreckage of this unholy place.
Yet, what comfort could a statue offer to a living soul? What words could the silent stone offer to a weeping child? How could he be of any use to his own blood, when he could only stand and watch as Uta unraveled right before his eyes?
Garling sighed, a sound too close to understanding.
He knelt down, the motion agonizingly slow—time stretched out and then folded into itself, and Garling had never felt his age come crashing down at him as terribly as it did now—one knee drenched in mud, edges of his cape stained with ash.
Uta looked at him, shoulders rising towards her ears, bruised hands tightening their grip on his long coat.
Garling took in every feature—roudness of her cheeks, thickness of her brows, the sad glint in her eye—committing her entirely to his memory.
He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. What could he say? A simple “hello” would be unrefined and inappropriate considering the situation, and “I’m your grandfather, will you come with me?” coming out of a stranger (from her point of view) would be… well.
So, Garling raised his hands and slowly wrapped them around her lithe form, pulling her into a tight, albeit awkward hug. One hand splayed against her back, the other soothingly combing through her wet hair, pressing her head against his chest.
“You are safe now, sweetling.” Garling muttered against the crown of her head. “I am here for you.”
“I… I want to g-go home,” she whispered, her hoarse voice muffled by his vest.
“Then that’s exactly where I’ll take you.”
And home they went. Garling carried Uta all the way up, bundled up in his cloak, just as she was now, clinging to him (and he desperately clinging to her) with all of her eight-year-old might right until they passed the gates of Figarland Manor.
Uta became his second shadow since then. Garling couldn’t blame her for her avarice, not when he himself felt uneasy every time he had to leave his granddaughter in care of someone else—even Shamrock couldn’t be trusted with his niece, not with his visage frightening the poor girl out of her wits.
Honestly, sometimes one must wonder if incompetence is a disease one could catch from his ill-bred lessers, or if people are simply born from an unfitting womb to cause such… hindrances.
The soft rustle of expensive fabric caught Garling’s immediate attention, his eyes wholly focused on Uta’s moving form. Garling was on his feet and by Uta’s side before he could process what was going on, one hand squeezing the arm chair’s ragged frame, the other settled on Uta’s shoulder, steadying her as she sat up.
Uta yawned, one hand rubbing sleep off her eyes, tongue smacking against the roof of her mouth. Garling resisted the urge to ruffle her messy hair, although it was a close battle.
“I had a strange dream,” Uta murmured instead of greeting. “We were in a garden, you and I, drinking tea and… I think Father was there, playing Binks’ Sake on His violin.” Uta chuckled, her voice still thick with sleep. “You were glaring at Him, just like you’re doing now, muttering how highly inappropriate it is for a noble lady like me to sing along to a pirate’s tune, before chucking a whole tea pot at His face.”
“It is inappropriate,” Garling tutted. “Dream me is very wise to—what did I do again?”
“You tossed a tea pot full of boiling water at Father’s face,” Uta giggled, her small hand patting his, “You should’ve seen His pout, it was silly.”
Garling sniffed, red eyes narrowing. “How immature, and He calls Himself a god? Honestly, someone ought to teach Him a lesson.”
“It Would’ve Been A Cute Attempt,” a familiar and very irritating voice chimed in, popping out of nowhere.
Garling groaned, lips curling into a sneer, whilst Uta beamed across her grandfather’s shoulder, a god-to-honest smile. Garling felt his insides melt like cotton candy, before the cruel reality of having to share this moment with Him of all… well, just Him, really, settled in. Must He ruin everything?
“Father!” Uta waved with contagious enthusiasm. “You’re here! Grandfather and I were just discussing our dreamed up tea party.”
Garling turned around in slow, nearly agonizing pace, wishing for Him to simply disappear and let Garling enjoy this afternoon with Uta in peace. Alone. Just the two of them.
A person stood nearby, His silhouette bathed in streaks of sunlight passing through the closed, arch-shaped windows of Garling’s study. His presence was overwhelming, filling up the entirety of this room, yet at the same time maintaining a tall, lanky figure of slightly disproportionate human.
Except He wasn’t a human. Not even close.
His face was far too otherworldly to be considered of this world, of nearly ethereal quality. A face a human eye surely couldn’t appreciate.
His skin was light-blue, forehead and root of His sharp nose and base of His long, bat-shaped ears violet.
A lone eye stared down at the two Figarlands, golden with large, purple iris—the same shade of amethyst Uta’s eyes had—hooded by thick lashes, curling at their sharp ends.
His golden curls brushed against the high ceiling (gods be good He was a giant even when playing at a mortal beast), two-toned they were—another trait Uta apparently inherited from Him—one side the colour of liquid gold, the other of honey, both cropped short just enough to reach His broad shoulders.
Dressed in an extravagant conductor’s suit, smiling at them with His hundreds of sharp, yellow teeth was the Demon King of Music, in the flesh. Odd. He shouldn’t be capable of constructing a physical form outside of His prison. Unless…
“Tot Musica,” Garling greeted gruffly, proud back bending just low enough to be still considered appropriate. “What a pleasure. Why the sudden visit?”
“Oh, Come Now, Figgy. Can’t A God Visit His Family From Time To Time?” Tot Musica’s smile grew even wider, a rather nauseating sight.
Garling’s brow rose in an elegant arch. “I wasn't aware I was a part of your inner circle.”
Tot Musica let out a theatrical scoff, followed by a laughter that could only be described as an orchestral migraine.
“Well Of Course! You Are My Sweet Uta’s Grandfather! That Is Not Something One Could Dismiss So Idly!”
“Hm,” Garling tilted his head, watching as Uta jumped down from her seat, bare feet padding against the cool floorboards—the dull tap tap tap bouncing off of the walls—as she ran towards the towering monstrosity, her doe eyes lit up with excitement.
“Father! Father! Guess what? Last week, Grandfather taught me how to use Arnament Haki! Before that, I couldn’t punch through stones, but now I can, like this: whoshaah!—See?” Uta made a number of undignified noises unbefitting her Figarland name as she punched the air several times in order to show off her progress.
It was, Garling had to admit, quite an adorable display.
Tot Musica let out a delighted chuckle, clawed hands clapping with child-like joy. “Wonderful! You Must Simply Show Me! Now, My Disharmony, Figgy And I Are Going To Have A Little Chat, Just Between Four Eyes.”
Uta cocked her head to the left. “You’re not going to fight, are you?”
“No, sweetling,” Garling knelt down, cupping Uta’s face in one hand. He smiled at her, an odd but honest curve. “Me and… Him just have a lot of catching up to do, that's all.”
Uta’s eyes searched Garling’s face for any form of deception, the amethyst irises drilling into his body, it nearly made him shiver. Then, her thin lips pursed into a pale line.
“Okay,” she nodded, “I'll, um, ask maids to make some tea.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I Have Their Freshly Plucked Souls In Mine?”
Garling shot the Demon King an irritated glare, Uta simply chuckled.
“No.” they replied in unison.
Tot Musica’s lips formed a grimace in mockery of a sad theatre mask. “Tsk. You’re No Fun.”
Uta left, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
Ominous silence danced in the air, the sort of quiet that gnaws on your bones if you stay still for even a second too long. Garling could barely shoulder the magnitude of His one-eyed gaze, his own eyes stubbornly glued on the closed doors. The silence stretched for another minute. Garling bit the inside of his cheek, careful in keeping his expression neutral.
Tot Musica took mercy upon him after what felt like ten minutes, and spoke: “Uta Is In Danger. My Nephew Is Already Too Curious About Her Nature For My Liking. I Could Feel His Prying Eyes Looking Through You Whenever She Rests. And My Power—Limited As It Is—Cannot Conceal Her Soul, Or Lack Thereof, From Him For Ever.”
Garling blinked once. The Great One has been watching Uta? Through him? How? Surely Garling would’ve felt it if his connection to the Great One’s Abyss would stir on their side. If The Great One had somehow managed to keep his presence hidden from Garling’s Observation Haki this entire time…
Garling’s eyes narrowed. “Is the Great One aware that you currently reside in his domain?”
“Perhaps, But I Find It Unlikely.”
“Why?”
“As Far As I Know, Mu’s Knowledge Of My True Whereabouts Are… Murky. He Is Certain I Am Still Imprisoned—Which Is, Unfortunately, True. However, I Don’t Think He Is Aware That Uta Ate The Sing Sing Fruit. Only That I Briefly Marked Her During My Possession.”
Garling’s fingers briefly brushed against the pommel of his saber, both as a physical reminder that if the Demon King chose to attack, he had means to effectively defend himself and to soothe his prodded fury. Garling may have accepted Tot Musica’s role as Uta’s ‘Father’ in her life, but he’ll never forgive, nor forget, all the agony He had put her through.
“If The Great One does realize what Uta is, or rather, what she isn’t… Would he be capable of harming her?”
“Before She Masters Her Powers? Certainly.” Bitterness dripped from His words like honey, slow and plentiful.
Garling wondered if Tot Musica was the only one from the Pantheon who delighted Himself with creating Avatars, and if the Great One’s distaste for them extended only to those belonging to Tot Musica.
“I love Uta,” Garling declared out loud, hands crossing behind his back. “And I would do anything to keep her safe.” Tilting his head upwards, he gave Tot Musica a meaningful glance.
Even from you, was left unsaid, but by the small growl-turned-cackle that Tot Musica exhaled, the Demon King got the memo.
“She Is My Daughter, My Only Daughter,” the Demon King replied, “And Woe Befall Anyone Who Dares To Steal What Is Mine Ever Again.”
Garling nodded, not in agreement but in understanding; he was familiar with this brittle feeling—envy mixed with venomous hatred. The same acidic emotion that seized his heart after God Valley.
Garling turned around, heels clicking against the floor, as he faced Him head-on. He slid his shades down to the tip of his nose, crimson irises hooded by blond lashes, hiding the mistrust beneath apathetic gaze. “There is a way, I presume.”
Tot Musica’s singular eye narrowed, lips painted blue stretching into a cheshire grin. He tilted His head, sharp chin lowered, hands planted on hips, as if He was ready for a round of tango.
Garling frowned, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Let me guess; a sacred contract.”
“Clever Boy,” Tot Musica cooed.
Garling’s left eye twitched, before he swallowed down a scalding comment. No need to get on His bad side just for one off-putting remark.
“Fine,” he sneered, “I wish to hear your demands.”
“Ah, Well, It Is Quite Simple, Really.” the Demon King raised His index finger, counting. “My One And Only Demand Is As Follows: You Will Become Uta’s Swornsword; You Shall Guard Her Life, Serve Her And Protect Her From Any And All Harm That May Befall Her. And You Will Give Up Said Life For Hers, If Fate Sees To It.”
Not an unreasonable request to ask. Although Garling would prefer to be alive to do his duties, he was certain that thanks to his advanced regeneration and contract with the Abyss, he had nothing to fear from anyone (except the Great One himself.)
Garling inclined his head. “Very well. I shall comply with your request under one condition.”
“Which Is?”
“You must swear to me you’ll never bring any form of harm upon me or mine, both by your own hand or through orders given to your demonic generals. And that list includes Akagami no Shanks as well.”
“Hm. Very Well.”
Garling blinked, once, then twice.
His compliance was a second too fast for his liking, as if He already knew Garling would’ve agreed and simply wanted to get the tedious parts over as soon as possible.
“There’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Will the Great One be aware of this new contract between us?”
“No. Gods Cannot Meddle In Affairs Of Other Deities. Each Individual Contract Is Unique And Completely Separate From Each Other—Just Like Timestreams—Hence My Nephew Will Be None Wiser To Our Devious Scheme!”
“Very well.”
He regarded Tot Musica with a weary gaze. “If this is all, then I wish to make the contract.”
“Ah!” Tot Musica’s eye lit up with malicious glee, his irises growing bleaker in the shadows. “Not So Fast, Figgy! You See, Before I Draft The Contract For You, We Must First Discuss The Form Of Your Payment! You Simply Cannot Get Something From Nothing You Know.”
“I personally don’t think I have anything in my possession that you might find riveting. And, as you surely know, my Soul is currently bound by the Great One’s contract, so…”
The Demon King waved a dismissive hand, lips forming a small, secretive smile. “No, None Of That, I Have No Interest For Any Of Your Worldly Possessions, Or Your Soul. No, What I Desire From You Is Something Much Simpler, A Mere Token—A Trifle!—You Wouldn’t Even Miss It!”
Tot Musica stepped aside, His frame swallowed by the shadows, only the lone eye and His yellow teeth glinting like gems in a mine. Garling’s eyes followed Him as He kept circling the study like a predator, each step followed by a rhythmical click click click, creating an unstable melody that smelled of decay and collapse.
“What I Want From You Is…” Garling’s eyes widened. When did that beast manage to get behind him? Garling gritted his teeth as Tot Musica leaned down, curls caressing the calloused, wrinkly skin of Garling’s cheek. “...Your Voice.”
“My voice.” A clarification, not a question.
“In Exchange For Uta’s Safety,” He whispered, the edge of His voice taking an urging tone.
If you truly love her, you would take the deal in a heartbeat, were the unspoken words.
Garling exhaled a resigned sigh. He lightly shook his head, before he slid the shades back up, pressing them tight against the root of his nose. Well. This better be worth his bloody time.
“The things I do for love.”
Tot Musica’s irritating headache of laughter echoed through the Figarland Manor, and out into the sacred land's crisp (artificial) air, its frightening melody carried right towards the setting sun.