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The Roger Pirates' ship was anchored by a shoal at the edge of the Calm Belt, the sea as smooth as a spread of blue silk. The crew had just finished a small skirmish-or rather, a one-sided cleanup. The target was a transport ship flying the World Government's covert flag. There wasn't much of value on board-only a wooden chest locked inside an iron cage.
The chest wasn't large, its corners trimmed with gilded iron, the lock bearing the World Government's cross insignia. Rayleigh split the lock with his sword, remarking that if this turned out to be weapons, he'd boil his blade and eat it for dinner.
When the lid swung open, everyone froze.
Inside was a baby.
A red-haired infant, lying atop a pile of treasure, dressed in a pink baby onesie, barefoot, staring up at the circle of pirates surrounding him with wide, round red eyes-and laughing.
Any ordinary child would have been screaming in terror by now.
But this baby was laughing.
He tilted his little head, his wet red eyes studying Roger with curiosity, then reached out a chubby hand and grabbed hold of Roger's shirt.
Roger stared in amazement at the tiny fist gripping his clothes, then looked into those curious red eyes. Suddenly, he burst out laughing-so loud the deck boards trembled.
"HAHAHA! Interesting!" Roger carefully lifted the baby out of the chest, his movements clumsy-it was his first time holding such a tiny infant. He cradled the baby's head in one hand and supported his bottom with the other, his posture awkward as hell. "This kid's not afraid of us! Hey, Rayleigh, come take a look!"
Rayleigh leaned in, his expression turning serious: "Red hair, red eyes... that's not a common combination."
"Doesn't matter whose kid he is-from now on, he's ours!" Roger lifted the baby with glee, settling him in the crook of his arm.
The little one gripped Roger's shirt tightly, pressing his cheek against Roger's chest with a laugh, as if getting acquainted with this stranger's scent.
Rayleigh leaned closer, examining the baby's onesie carefully. On the back of the pink collar, a few letters were embroidered in gold thread.
"There's a name here."
Hearing this, Roger turned the baby around and read the inscription.
"Shanks. His name is Shanks." Roger patted the baby's back approvingly. "Shanks-good name. You're with us from now on."
At naptime, Shanks was carried into the captain's quarters and placed gently on the bed. Roger surrounded him with a ring of pillows to keep him from rolling off, then patted his chest with a big hand, signaling him to sleep.
Shanks looked at the pillows, then at Roger, and obediently closed his eyes.
Roger thought that was that. He turned to leave for the deck to discuss their course with Rayleigh-but he'd barely taken a step when he heard a tiny whimper behind him. He spun around. Shanks's eyes were open, his little mouth pursed, tears rapidly filling his eyes.
"What's wrong?" Roger rushed back to the bedside, voice tight with anxiety.
Shanks was barely a year old. He couldn't speak, couldn't walk, couldn't express himself with words. All he could do was stare at Roger with tear-filled red eyes, his mouth turning down in displeasure-and then he let out a heart-wrenching cry.
It wasn't the sharp wail of an ordinary baby. It was a sound of suppressed grief-as if something deeply important had been taken from him, and he had no way to say it. His little hands flailed in the air, grasping at nothing.
Roger panicked completely. He'd faced Marine admirals, storms, and countless powerful enemies without flinching-but a crying baby had him sweating and utterly lost.
"Shh, don't cry, don't cry-" He scooped Shanks up, patting his back awkwardly, babbling reassurances. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
Shanks only cried harder, his tiny hands clutching at Roger's collar. Roger carried him out of the cabin and shouted desperately across the deck: "Someone help! The little one's crying!"
First came Rayleigh. He took Shanks carefully, adjusting his hold, and gently tapped the baby's hand with his sword: "Look at this-want it?" Shanks glanced at the blade, then turned away and cried louder.
Next was Jabra. He poked Shanks's cheek with a thick finger, like teasing a kitten. Shanks hiccupped, stared at him through tear-blurred eyes for a moment-and cried even harder.
Then came Crocus with a bowl of warm milk. Shanks caught the scent, stopped crying for a second, took a few sips-then turned his head away, facing the door, and resumed wailing. His little face was flushed, sweat beading on his forehead, his fists clenching and unclenching in the air as his whole body shook with effort.
Roger leaned against the railing, watching them take turns trying to soothe the crying baby, his frown deepening: "Rayleigh, don't you feel like he's looking for something?"
Rayleigh gave up and handed Shanks back to Roger, wiping his brow: "I don't know. But look-he keeps staring at the cabin door. Every time someone comes in, he looks, sees it's not what he wants, and goes back to crying."
Roger gazed anxiously at the baby in his arms. Shanks's eyes were wet, his lashes clumped with tears, his face flushed from crying too long. Yet he stubbornly kept staring toward the door-as if waiting for someone.
Just then, the door swung open and Shakky walked in, drawn by the commotion.
"What's going-" She came closer, saw the red-faced crying infant in Roger's arms, and froze. "Where did this one come from?"
"Found him in a treasure chest." Roger answered honestly. "Little guy won't stop crying. We've tried everything-no idea what he wants."
Shakky stepped closer, studying Shanks's face carefully. Her expression shifted from confusion to a complicated understanding. "Roger. Turn him around."
Roger complied, turning Shanks so Shakky could see his face clearly. Shanks kept crying, his little hands grasping at air, his mouth opening and closing around broken syllables drowned in sobs.
Shakky's eyes narrowed. She reached out, gently turned down the back of Shanks's collar, and saw the gold embroidery. Her face lit up with recognition: "He's looking for his brother."
Roger blinked: "What?"
"His twin brother." Shakky said. "I saw them in God Valley. When I was brought up on stage as a 'prize,' some Holy Knights brought two infants with them. Two identical red-haired babies in matching pink onesies. One was named Shanks-the other was-"
She paused, cupping her chin, straining to recall the details.
The image was clear in her mind: two babies in a stroller, lying side by side in peaceful silence. The one on the left had his tiny hand wrapped around the other's finger, and the one on the right had his cheek pressed against the other's arm. Even then, she'd thought it cruel to bring children to such a place.
"The other was named Shamrock, if I remember correctly." Shakky said, a little uncertain.
Roger looked down at Shanks, and suddenly everything clicked. He wasn't throwing a tantrum. He wasn't hungry. He was looking for his brother-the one he'd been with since the womb, the one who shared the same heartbeat rhythm.
Rayleigh frowned at the mention of twins. He gazed sympathetically at Shanks's tear-streaked face and murmured: "So... he's looking for his brother?"
"Yes. Twins have this reaction when separated. They've been together since birth-their body heat, their heartbeats, even their breathing are synchronized. Suddenly separated, it feels like half of them is missing." Shakky shrugged helplessly.
Roger pressed the sobbing Shanks tightly against his chest, letting him hear his heartbeat. Shanks's little hands gripped Roger's shirt, his knuckles white, his cries going from loud to hoarse, from hoarse to broken hiccups.
"He's missing his brother. No one can comfort him out of this. He wants Shamrock. Without him, he won't stop." Shakky added.
Roger carried Shanks back to the cabin and sat on the bed, adjusting his position so the baby could rest more comfortably on his chest. Shanks was still crying, but the sobs were softening into intermittent hiccups-each one followed by a sharp intake of breath, his little shoulders shuddering with leftover grief.
Roger's large hand rested on his back, patting gently.
"Shanks," Roger said softly. "Your brother's name is Shamrock, isn't it?"
At the sound of that name, Shanks's grip on Roger's collar loosened slightly. He lifted his head, his swollen red eyes searching Roger's face with desperate hope-as if asking: You know?
Roger looked into those expectant red eyes, and something twisted painfully in his chest.
"I've memorized that name. Shanks, listen to me. When you're a little bigger, I'll take you to find him." Roger promised, his voice sincere.
Shanks didn't understand the words, but he understood the promise in the tone. He hiccupped twice more, then buried his face back in Roger's chest. His grip on the collar slowly relaxed. Tears still flowed, but the crying had stopped-just occasional sniffles.
He had finally cried himself out.
Roger watched the now-quiet baby with a heavy heart, feeling the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat echo through the small body pressed against him. He wiped away the remaining tears from Shanks's cheeks with his rough thumb.
"Shamrock." Roger repeated the name, as if carving it into his memory. "I'll remember. Someday, I'll take you to find him."
The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, setting the sky and sea ablaze with red. The same red as Shanks's hair, as the warmth clenched in his tiny fist even in his dreams.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the sea, in the highest tower of Mary Geoise, another red-haired baby sat on a cold carpet, also crying.
Shamrock had been born minutes before Shanks. He was the older brother. He had the same red eyes, the same red hair, the same pink baby onesie-only the name embroidered on the back of his collar was different.
"Shamrock."
When he was taken away, Shanks was already gone. He didn't know where Shanks had gone, didn't know if he'd ever see that face identical to his own again.
But he knew, instinctively: that person was gone. The one who'd been pressed against him since the womb was gone.
So he cried.
When Garling entered the room, Shamrock was being held by a maid, his little face red from crying, his voice already hoarse, reduced to tiny animal-like whimpers. The maid looked exhausted-she'd tried every position, patting, rocking, humming-nothing worked.
"What's going on?" Garling's voice was cold.
"Sir... he won't stop crying... we've fed him, changed him, checked his temperature-nothing's wrong... but nothing calms him down..."
Garling walked up to Shamrock and looked down at him. Shamrock slowly looked up, his swollen red eyes wary as they studied this unfamiliar man-and cried even harder. His little hands waved in the air, his mouth forming vague sounds.
"...Sha..."
Garling's brow furrowed.
He'd heard it clearly-though broken by sobs, it was indeed "Sha." The name of the other child. The one who'd been lost.
"He's looking for Shanks. This happens with twins separated." Garling said coldly. "Take him to another room. Board up the windows. If he can't see outside, he'll stop thinking about it."
The maids exchanged uneasy glances but dared not object. One carried Shamrock toward the door. His little hands clawed desperately at the air-five chubby fingers opening and closing, reaching for a hand that should have been there. A hand that would have clumsily grasped his, pressed a warm cheek against his.
But that hand wasn't there.
He cried harder, his voice almost gone, only tears still flowing. His little hand stretched toward the door closing behind him, toward the direction of God Valley-the place where Shanks had disappeared.
He didn't know the names, the places, the distances. But he knew that direction was right-because that person was somewhere over there, crying just like him.
The door shut with a dull thud. The sound of crying was swallowed by thick walls, fading into the empty corridors of Mary Geoise.
Shamrock was carried to another windowless room at the end of the hall and set down on the cold carpet. The maid left him there. The door locked. Silence fell like a tomb.
He sat alone in the center of that empty room, crying without sound, only tears streaming endlessly. He didn't know where Shanks was, didn't know if anyone was holding him, if he had a blanket, if anyone knew he was afraid of the dark.
All he could do was cry in that hollow, silent room.
That night, in two places half a world apart, two red-haired babies were crying. One in Roger's arms, crying until exhaustion finally claimed him. One on a tower's cold carpet, crying until he had no voice left, but the tears kept coming.
Roger gently placed the sleeping Shanks back on the bed, tucking the blanket around his belly. In his sleep, Shanks sniffled, his tiny fist twitching, fingers curling-as if grasping something invisible.
Roger crouched by the bed, watching that clenched fist. There was nothing in it. But he held it so tightly-as if in his dreams, he'd already caught the hand he wanted.
That other hand, far, far away, was clenching just as tightly.
Between them lay half the world, countless waves and nights, and the World Government's endless walls and iron gates. But they held onto the same thing-the bond that had been entwined since the very beginning of life. The thing that could never truly be broken.
Near dawn, both babies fell silent at the same moment. One in a drifting ship's cabin, clutching a sea-soaked pirate's collar. One in Mary Geoise's cold tower, gripping empty air.
Their hands reached toward the same direction. Two tiny fists, half a world apart, clenched and opened in the darkness-as if in dreams they'd held each other's hands, only to let go at daybreak.
They shared the same dream-of another small hand grasping theirs, warm and soft, filled with the warmth of blood from the same heart.
Then that hand slowly slipped away, drifting farther and farther.
Both babies let out a simultaneous cry in their dreams, then fell silent at once. Across oceans, across walls, across impossible distances-they reached out in their dreams, wanting to catch each other.
Neither caught anything.
But the direction both hands reached toward was always the same.