Chapter Text
This is for your own good
Shamrock tries to keep his breathing steady. His haki focused. No room for error, no slip ups, or the too-warm body slumped against his back may go entirely cold in short order, and above all else Shamrock cannot allow that. No matter if it happens at Father’s hand. No matter if it reinforces the natural, the correct, order of things.
This is for your own good
At the very least, Shanks still being unconscious means his Voice is quiet, hardly more than a faint whisper to catch anyone’s attention. It means he isn’t trying to help, nevermind the fact he can hardly put one foot in front of the other right now, let alone move with the speed and precision it will take to successfully slip out of the Holy Land. Shamrock has been in training to become a Knight of God, to become Father’s right hand, practically all twelve years his life - a handful of paltry swordsmanship and haki lessons from uncouth pirates can hardly measure up to that, no matter what inane statements Shanks will insist upon saying out loud at the least opportune times.
This is for your own good
His brother is going to live. His stupid, foolish, imbecilic long-lost twin who has spent the past week infuriating Father to the point of physical harm is going to live, no matter what Shamrock must do to ensure it. He’s already fully embraced certain aspects of piracy, by stealing supplies and one of Father’s large cloaks, kidnapping his brother, absconding from the Figarland Estate in the middle of the night. Shamrock is perfectly willing to kill anyone who gets in his way at this point. (He’s been willing to beg, but against Father in a rage, that did little good.)
Seas, why did Shanks have to be so stupid?
Getting in the way like that. Inciting Father to physical violence, and then putting himself directly in the crosshairs, catching that first whip strike on his arm rather than allow it to land across the slave’s bowed back.
You still consider yourself on the same level as insects such as this, hm? Very well then. I will allow you to experience firsthand why you should not bother. And remember, Shanks - this is for your own good.
The lesson didn’t end with five lashes of the whip. Or ten. Or twenty.
It didn’t end when the slave in question, kept kneeling directly in front of Shanks the whole time, subsequently died from a strike of Father’s sword.
As it turned out, Father didn’t intend for the lesson to end at all, countermanding Shamrock’s call for a physician, insisting that Shanks had earned both the initial agony and subsequent healing process for his injuries. That he would be made to lie untended in his assigned quarters, until he begged Father’s forgiveness.
Shanks wouldn’t.
Shamrock knew he wouldn’t, to the depths of his very soul.
And Father, perhaps, knew it too.
A full day Shamrock lasted, before sneaking into his brother’s bedchamber and discovering that yes, of course the wounds were already inflamed and infected. Even worse, when he prodded Shanks awake and demanded he ask for medical assistance, the stupid moron just smiled, and said no.
“‘M gettin’ outta here, one way or ‘nother,” he slurred in a whisper, fingers fumbling across the silk sheets to find Shamrock’s hand and squeeze. “Ev’n if my- crew- my crew can’t come get me, ‘m gettin’ out.”
Dying.
He meant dying, just out of sheer spite.
Shamrock didn’t scream then.
Nor does he dare make a sound now, adjusting his grip around his brother’s legs and leaning forward just enough to resettle how Shanks is laying against his back. One more set of guards. Just one further checkpoint to evade, and they’ll be clear to slip aboard a bondola, and descend to the Northwestern Red Port, on the New World side of the Grand Line. It would perhaps make more sense to take the Southeastern option instead, towards Sabaody, a trip Shamrock has made a few times before with Father or friends - but Shanks had been in the New World when he was found by a Knight and retrieved. That’s where the Roger Pirates should be. The only ones strong enough to chase Father away should he try again to reclaim Shamrock’s wounded brother.
So. To the Northwestern Port they go.
Once they actually reach the port itself, Shamrock has only faint designs upon commandeering a vessel, or perhaps simply hiding aboard one long enough to reach an island, but- it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. He’s getting his brother out, and Shanks will live, and Shamrock can figure the rest out as they go along.
He can. He will.
...an hour later, it turns out he needn’t have bothered.
The descending bondola is still a good fifty feet or so above the disembarking platform when alarm klaxons begin ringing out, and for a moment Shamrock is convinced they’ve been found out, that he and Shanks will be hauled back to the top of the Red Line and all of this has been for nothing.
For just a moment.
And then something heavy crashes into the bondola, as explosions begin going off down below, and between the cacophony and bursts of light Shamrock can only make out a large shape ripping away the main doors and landing inside the transport. Shanks, partially tucked behind the controls console Shamrock has been standing on tip-toe to operate, makes a loud groan. The shape turns towards them. Panicking, Shamrock scrambles away, draws his sword, tries to copy Father’s imposing manner while standing defensively in front of his brother. “Begone, villain! I’ll not let you or anyone else harm him!”
(He can admit to being panicked. He will never admit to borrowing a line from one of his favorite childhood storybooks.)
The paltry attempt at intimidation fails. A deep, booming laugh erupts from the intruder, who, a split second later, seizes Shamrock’s sword in an Armament-coated hand and rips it away. Then he is seized, as well, and abruptly finds himself trapped, pinned in place between a massive arm and chest. Hands unable to move, flailing legs too short to do any good, Shamrock is almost willing to resort to biting his captor before he looks down and actually registers what’s happening.
Shanks. Smiling.
Shanks, eyes oh so barely squinted open, leaning into the broad fingers gently, tenderly, stroking his sweaty hair.
Shanks, speaking, far too softly for Shamrock to hear against the explosions and battle cries and clashing steel below the bondola, but he can still make out the shape of the words ‘came for me’.
Oh.
This is- this is a pirate, pinning Shamrock, scooping Shanks up off the floor to cradle in his opposite arm. This is one of the Roger Pirates. Who did, in fact, come after Shanks, when he didn’t think they’d be able to pull it off.
Shamrock, falling still, feels suddenly very small.
(Would Father have come after him, if this situation had been reversed?)
Another booming laugh. Sudden steps, and a leap, and Shamrock needs to squeeze his eyes shut against the howling wind as they soar through the sky. At least, if nothing else, he can blame that for the few tears that slip free.