Chapter Text
The threat is an infant.
Or, no- old enough to no longer be a babe in arms, but very small, and very young, and staring up at Shamrock with wide, terrified eyes. Not of an age to entirely understand the situation at hand, but there are two Knights of God with bared steel who stand before it, and sheer instinct surely tells the tiny thing to be afraid.
“The devilspawn offspring of Gol D. Roger,” Father says, preemptively pleased. A flick of his sword disperses the pirate blood spilled from fighting their way into this mountain hovel, and then the Commander sheathes his weapon. “Strike it down, my son, and we’ll be able to use this achievement to elevate you to a Deep Sea Pact without delay.”
It is a point of pride, after all, for House Figarland in general and Saint Garling in particular to have such a young son already at the rank of Devoted Blade, bearing the first of three marks that tie the Knights directly to their patron’s power. To be able to skip past further years of tedious missions and minor accomplishments and promote Shamrock past older adherents... any Celestial should feel glad to claim such glory.
However.
“Father,” Shamrock says slowly, selecting his words with great care, “Would it not be better to take the spawn prisoner? Add it to our household slaves, or- or perhaps make a pretense of taking it to an auction house-”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Damn. The incredulity in his father’s voice is hardly encouraging. “Kill it and have done with this, Shamrock.”
He should. Obey the command, earn the accolade, except, except- “But others from Roger’s followers may come for it, if we advertise the spawn’s capture; this could be useful, Father-”
“Shamrock.”
Ah. That flat tone never bodes well.
“If this is an attempt to attract your errant twin’s attention, I will not tolerate such foolhardiness.” Efforts to retrieve the second Figarland son ceased years ago, when Shanks himself briefly attacked Saint Garling in defense of some other whelp the Roger Pirates kept aboard their ship. Shamrock has never been given all the details, but suffice to say, his brother suitably frustrated their father to the point that the man grows cold and furious any time his renegade child is mentioned.
Which means that this discussion has moved from unstable ground to the narrowest sliver of already-cracked ice.
But.
(In the deepest corner of his heart, Shamrock has never wanted anything besides the chance to bring his brother home.)
“Please, Father, it would only be beneficial to-”
SLAP
The blow takes him by surprise. Knocks Shamrock into the side of the tiny cabin, subsequently cracking the other side of his face, and the dual sources of ringing in his ears are enough to make him drop to one knee. “Do not force me to repeat myself, Shamrock,” Father bites out. Past flat, straight into furious. “Kill the spawn, so that we might report a successful mission to the Throne, and elevate your position forthwith.”
He should.
He needs to.
He will be disobeying a direct order if he doesn’t.
But, but, but-
Shanks would come, for the child of the man who raised him. Shanks would be grateful, if Shamrock were able to boast of saving the spawn from death. Shanks might then choose to stay with him, his true brother, and- and Shamrock cannot bring himself to give up on that chance, no matter Father’s decision.
So.
Shamrock stands.
And levels his sword. “No.”
For a moment that draws itself out into an agonizing eternity, they hang in silent stalemate, father and son, Commander and Knight. Saint Garling can gain nothing of true substance by killing the devilspawn himself, nor will he be able to pass off a deception to the Lord of the Empty Throne. Neither, of course, can Shamrock truly stop him if the man decides to slay the spawn regardless, and truly put an end to this momentary madness, the whims of a youth defying his elder.
They stare at each other, one unreadable, the other trying desperately to ignore his pounding heart.
And then Saint Garling strikes.
To his credit, Shamrock at least manages to get his own blade up to block the blow; to his detriment, the blow that his father lands sends him flying through the wall of the hovel, skidding and rolling once he collides with the ground outside, until coming to an abrupt, painful stop, crashing into the cliff.
“What would they think of you,” Father asks, stepping through the shattered hole, stalking slowly closer as Shamrock attempts to get his bearings and rise. “Our relations, the rest of the Knights, all of Mary Geoise - what would they think, Shamrock, of you being swayed by this foolish attachment to a boy you’ve never even met!”
Shamrock finds himself unable to answer. Something is wrong with his left leg, and moving it sends a blinding burst of pain coursing upward through the limb.
Scrabbling for his fallen sword is pointless; Father’s boot kicks it out of reach, and then presses down hard enough on Shamrock’s wrist to break it with an audible snap. “I will not tolerate this insubordination,” Saint Garling hisses, looming, face cast in shadow when Shamrock darts a wary glance up. “So. You will remain here, until that devilspawn is dead, and only then will I allow you to return to the Holy Land. Consider your priorities very, very carefully, my son.” And with that, the Commander of the Knights of God turns, steps away, and vanishes through a dark gateway that sparks up from the ground.
Devoted Blades cannot activate such gates for themselves.
Shamrock has a transponder snail, but no food, no medical supplies with which to treat his injuries.
Only his sword, his target, and the foolish longing of a lonely child.
Captivity, for all intents and purposes, trapped atop this mountain plateau until he calls his father to beg forgiveness and confirm the mission’s completion. The rope ladder used by those who’d lived here looking after the devilspawn is long gone, cut away to prevent escape; to attempt to descend the rugged cliffs by hand may have been possible, but not before sustaining both a broken arm and leg.
Movement.
A tiny face, peering out from the ruined hovel.
Swallowing, Shamrock sets himself to the agonizing task of dragging his injured body across the ground towards his sword.