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One of the few good things Shanks could say about Mariejois was that the drink was otherworldly.
Really, it had better be. For everything they stole from the Blue Sea, if they couldn’t at least use it for their own benefit rather than waste it completely, that would somehow feel like even more of an insult.
At least when pirates plunder, they don’t pretend that they’re doing you a favour.
He took a deep swig as he focused on not stumbling over his own feet, letting that and the pleasant burn pull his thoughts away from the here and now.
He was happiest when he wasn’t thinking. For a while now, but especially now. And especially here.
It was so beyond exhausting, having to constantly remind yourself who you’re meant to be.
He forgot, sometimes, what he actually was in this place. He forgot that he wasn’t a human among world nobles, he was ‘one of them’. An equal, by lottery at birth alone. He was allowed to tell them no if they got tipsy and touchy, without worrying that he’d be executed for it. He had rights here that those ‘lowly humans’ didn’t.
Here, he wasn’t even ‘just’ one of them, he was a Figarland. The son of the knight commander. The man was many, many things, few of them good, but he did seem pure in his care for his children, whatever ‘pure’ meant from someone like that. It would be so easy - ‘daddy, daddy, they’re being mean to me’, and the spoiled child’s whines would snuff out a life, or at least keep him from being bothered again. He refused to. But he could. He knew he could. There was a kind of twisted satisfaction to the thought, to swindling a monster.
And yet, he could still feel their hands. He didn’t know why he chased the feeling in his mind. Maybe to feel something, anything at all, before he went insane.
He tried not to feel, nowadays. He failed, regularly, but he still tried. It made it hurt worse.
To keep his cover, he’d had to act like them. They showed him a surprising degree of understanding for his lack of ‘decorum’, the poor poor feral child (he took another particularly aggressive drink then and fought the urge to spit), but that could only go so far; to keep them from seeing what his goal here was, he’d still done terrible things while they nodded their approval.
(Only under their eyes. And when he wasn’t, he did what he could. He fought back the shame as it threatened to drown him. He prayed to gods, nameless and deaf, for the people he’d had to hurt. He helped; at least, he hoped he did.
He hoped that that was enough. He knew damn well that it wasn’t. If Hell existed, that was where he was going, for the sake of the world.
He told himself that was what the burning was. He told himself he deserved it.)
When the weight was too much, all he wanted to do was sleep. Another day down. Endure. Endure.
It burned. He endured.
…
He was passing through Shangara on his way back to his quarters before he did anything other than feel sorry for himself.
Instead, he noticed.
He noticed that Shangara was … oddly active, for this time of night. Someone was in the training grounds. Someone was never in the training grounds this late. Some of the Knights were surprisingly dedicated and disciplined for … being Celestial Dragons, but even then, Shanks had never gotten the impression from any of them that they had ‘2am training sessions’ levels of dedication. So what was this for?
… Ah.
Right, that was probably his fault. he would never apologise for it, fuck no, but ... it was probably his fault. Shanks hadn’t caught that Fishman’s name before he escaped and it honestly pissed him off something fierce, but even he hadn’t anticipated that breakout being that successful, and there was no way it wouldn’t piss these bastards off.
Alone, in silence only interrupted by his own footsteps and the sound of whoever-it-was training, he let himself grin for the first time in who knows how long. The satisfaction burned as pleasantly as the drink did.
Good. The goal wasn’t primarily to make them squeal, but he wasn’t complaining; let them sweat a bit, let them feel inadequate, let them worry about their positions. It was a fraction of the suffering those poor slaves went through, and all the people who called this place home deserved worse.
He hated them. Fuck, he hated them. He hated them all, every last-
… Well, maybe not-
… Huh?
“... Shamrock?”
A second, more focused Observation Haki check to confirm a more absentminded first.
And yes. The one in the training grounds was Shamrock after all. Shanks hadn’t seen him in a while, either, maybe this was where he’d been all that time. Which really shouldn’t be unexpected; he was absolutely one of the most dedicated Knights, if not flat-out the most, forever desperate to impress the sack of rats in a trenchcoat the two of them called ‘Father’. If any one Knight would have taken the breakout as a wakeup call to get stronger, not a single soul in Mariejois would be surprised for it to be him.
There should be nothing abnormal about this at all. Shanks should have no reason to not just keep going back to his room.
‘Should’. And yet …
Shanks stopped walking. The haze of alcohol in his brain cleared, everything uncomfortably brisk.
He tossed the now empty bottle and changed his course.
Something was wrong.
Well. It was Mariejois, everything was always wrong, no matter what anyone said. But something was very wrong.
Discomfort had become an old friend by now, but Shanks hadn't felt this tense in a while; before he knew it, he’d gone from walking to jogging to running so fast he couldn't feel his feet.
Something was wrong with Shamrock.
…
The training grounds seemed even larger than usual with only two people there.
The sounds of battle were loud before, but they were even louder up close. Slashes at training dummies, metal on metal, crackling Haki heavy enough to feel in your lungs. This was anger. Shanks saw Shamrock angry so rarely, he was calm to the point of absurdity.
But that wasn’t the strange part. The strange part, the part that made the alcohol churn in his stomach, ice-cold and toxic, is that although he knew he was watching Shamrock move in anger … he also knew that the anger wasn’t Shamrock’s.
It wasn’t Shamrock’s Haki, either. That was the part he’d noticed immediately, the part he’d thought, hoped, was a drunken mistake on his part. But no.
At least, it wasn’t entirely his, and that was somehow more uncomfortable than if there was nothing there of him at all; at least then, Shanks could tell himself that this was an imposter somehow.
But no. The person in Shamrock’s clothes, using Shamrock’s techniques and Shamrock’s sword, with Shamrock’s body and Shamrock’s face … wasn’t Shamrock. It wasn’t his soul. Rather, it wasn’t just his soul.
Something else was in there. Controlling him. Weaving into him and using him as a puppet. And because Shangara was a ghost town at this time of night, Shanks was the only one who knew this was even happening at all.
… This was dangerous. So very dangerous. The other presence … it was keeping itself constrained while it played with Shamrock like a toy, but even with that constraint … Shanks could taste the power. He wasn’t a weak man, and Shamrock wasn’t either, but this … this dwarfed them in sheer power, a light breeze compared to a typhoon. Something ancient, a force of nature.
If this thing decided it wanted to fight, to hurt, Shanks would lose. Badly. He knew it in seconds, as fundamental as the sunrise. This … this was a monster.
A monster that had been alone with Shamrock for who-knows-how-long, by who-knows-what-method, and for who-knows-what-reason. Shanks couldn’t just … keep leaving Shamrock alone to this thing, not when he was so helpless to it.
He could get hurt, and now that Shanks knew, it would be his fault.
But what could he do?
His mouth felt dry. His hands were shaking. He wanted, needed to run, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.
You’re the only one who can do anything to help him right now.
He didn’t know what ‘help’ looked like here, but-
He didn’t need to think for much longer. He couldn’t; his shaking hand resting ready on his sword handle made it rattle in its sheath. Just for a second, but it was enough.
The effect was immediate. Shamrock’s body paused midswing like someone had frozen time; posture adjusted to something more stable, it turned his head just a bit too far for a human neck.
It stared, maybe at Shanks, maybe through him. He couldn’t read the emotions in those too-wide crimson eyes, but he knew that they didn’t belong to Shamrock.
He really might die here.
The thought came quietly, but it was hard to dismiss. Another little fact of life to add to the pile. It should have probably scared him, but he was past the point of death being the scariest thing here.
At least the moment had arrived. No more time to think, for better and worse. It was sink or swim now.
That suited him more than waiting, anyway.
He unsheathed his sword, settling into a battle position that looked so much more confident than he felt, knowing that he couldn’t show weakness now. Haki crackled around the blade, an impotent warning but a warning nonetheless.
This was all he could do. He just had to pray it was enough. Nothing new, then.
“Let him go.”
Those eyes just … kept staring. Bright and deep enough to glow in the moonlight, almost hypnotic. Shamrock’s head cocked to the side, and Shanks could finally read an emotion in the monster, incredulousness mercifully great enough to drown out the offense, shock having dulled the rage.
Shamrock looked like a doll like this. Eyes unblinking, face unmoving, moving like being pulled on strings. Shanks’ fear was rapidly bubbling into fury.
Leave him alone, you rat bastard.
“Know'st thou to whom thou speak'st?”
Shanks clenched his jaw shut to try to still his chattering teeth.
The voice, too, was Shamrock’s but not. Shamrock’s voice at the same time as something else, also monotone, but not in the same way his was. It was unaffected to an oppressive degree, like whatever this thing was, Shanks and Shamrock were both like ants to it in their insignificance.
Maybe they were. Shanks found it difficult to care.
“No, I don’t. But I know you're not Shamrock. Let. Him. Go.”
A pause. Shanks’ mind unhelpfully tallied his regrets.
The thing sneered with Shamrock’s face but not his eyes, all teeth and no soul, and Shanks’ hand tightened on his sword.
He’d gotten this thing’s attention. Its curiosity, albeit not its respect. Hopefully he wouldn’t live to regret that.
Either way, there was no turning back now.
“Make mu.”
Alright then.
Shanks launched forward without a breath, without a blink, without a thought. The stranger blocked the strike with all the ease he’d expect of Shamrock’s body; the clash of their swords was loud, but their Haki was louder, screaming and howling and pulsing like a storm.
Shanks was thrown back into the wall, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d left a dent in it; Shamrock’s body was only pushed back a few feet.
It didn’t even flinch. It just seemed amused.
It flexed Shamrock’s sword-
O-Oh shit, Shanks was going to DIE, MOVE-
And launched his body forward in turn.
A flurry of counterattacks came, crackling with lightning and fire, digging holes in the walls and floor and very nearly Shanks, as he dove and ran and dodged for his life.
If any of these hit him, then he would die, he knew that for certain.
If any of these hit you, then Shamrock will never forgive himself.
… Where did that thought come from-?
Too late-
An overhead hit came in too late to dodge, and Shanks was forced to block instead.
The power, the Haki, the oppressive weight, he couldn’t breathe, he was being driven down into the ground and felt his consciousness fading-
You can’t die yet. You have something you need to do.
A roar coursed up and out through his throat with all the adrenaline he could muster as he somehow fought Shamrock’s sword back, enough to send it flying-
Now’s your chance now’s your chance don’t die don’t die don’t die-
I don’t want to die-
His teeth grit in a snarl, he stabbed the enemy clean through, again and again and again and-
He made the mistake of looking at the other’s face.
His own face, Shamrock’s face. Still the enemy’s, but … another feeling was there now. And regardless of the mind, the body was still-
His mouth dried to ashes and something twisted in his chest.
Did … did he just-
He lost his chance.
The flying sword had spun all the way back down to them, and before he could even think about that, the thing in Shamrock’s body caught it in his hand and slashed, hard.
If he hadn’t blocked, he would have been sliced in half. That would have made for an awkward discovery in the morning. He almost laughed at the concept, and it just made him dizzier, slammed against another wall with every muscle crying out in protest.
He couldn’t move. It had only been a few seconds of this, and he already couldn’t move.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to-
… Huh?
He forced his eyes open and tried to focus through the world spinning; he’d gotten used enough to drunken stupors to push through it.
And Shamrock’s body, the creature’s eyes, just … stared.
It didn’t attack. It didn’t even move. It just stared, observing, leaving Shanks as a bug under a microscope. It was clearly thinking about something, but as for what, Shanks didn’t know and didn’t really want to. He just wanted the death to be quick at this point.
It sneered again after only a few seconds, and Shanks wanted the blank expression back, it felt less gross on Shamrock’s face.
“Yes … thou shalt prove sufficient.”
… What did that even-?
Shamrock’s body jolted like it was electrocuted. He nearly stumbled to his knees as his eyes rolled back in his skull.
His eyes. His eyes.
The oppressive air was gone. The Haki too.
So-
So, then-
“Shamrock!”
As much as Shanks’ entire body and soul hated him for every twitch, he ran to catch Shamrock before he fell, and lowered him as gently to the ground as he could while he groaned in discomfort.
It-
It was over, then? Just like that?
Why?
He couldn’t help himself but hover around Shamrock with his hand on his sword, watching for anything in the shadows using a Devil Fruit mind control effect or … something, he didn’t know, he had no clue what just happened but he couldn’t let it happen again, not a chance, not a chance-
A hand was placed on his, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
The hand was Shamrock’s, and he laughed a little too; Shanks couldn’t help but be calmed by the fact that the smile reached his eyes again, before trying to re-steel his resolve.
“Calm down, brother, you’re acting like a rabbit … it’s alright, you can relax now, it’s alright …”
‘Calm down’, like it was unreasonable to be worried? Did Shamrock not know that he just got possessed? Because that seemed like a pretty fair reason for not being calm!
He was talking to Shanks like a stupid child again, damnit.
“Do you not remember what just happened? You can’t know if it’s really alright, you don’t know if that thing’s still around here-”
“Don’t call Them a ‘thing’.”
Shanks blinked. That was sudden.
And Shamrock was deadly serious, too; tone and expression oddly firm for how he usually spoke to him, all offense and reverence (and a healthy undercurrent of fear).
It completely derailed Shanks’ train of thought, but … at least if Shamrock was this sure that there was nothing to worry about, there was hopefully nothing to worry about. Hopefully.
He sheathed his sword and settled down more comfortably, eyeing Shamrock with curiosity as his expression softened again; he could never be mad at Shanks for long.
“‘Them’? So … you know-” don’t say ‘what’- “-who that was?”
It was Shamrock’s turn to blink in surprise, dovetailing into a mild embarrassment, like it never occurred to him that Shanks wouldn’t know, and he was reminded again that he was an outsider here, no matter how much anyone tried to pretend that he wasn’t.
And thank goodness for that.
“Yes, yes I know. They were The Great One.”
… Okay, who the hell was ‘The Great One’, because that definitely sounded important. He’d need to ask again when he could. If not now, then later.
“It was nothing to worry about, really. But … you really were worried, weren’t you?”
He sounded honestly remorseful. Before this year, Shanks didn’t know that Celestial Dragons could feel remorse at all. He would rather have gone his life without knowing that than come here to learn it, but he had learned it.
“Of course I was worried. How could I not be? I saw you like that and I thought-”
Shanks choked on air and Shamrock’s eyes widened.
Shanks had to fight back surprise for himself. He … honestly wasn’t expecting to get that choked up about the idea of Shamrock being … hurt.
They were enemies. They should be enemies, they were going to be enemies as soon as Shanks stopped lying and left Mariejois behind him. And yet …
… Shamrock put his hand on Shanks’ back. His hand was warm. Shanks felt something crumble in him; he refused to think about it now.
“... You had the right to know. I should have told you.” A whisper, oddly tender, oddly vulnerable, so alien from what he expected only a few months ago, and from what he knew would be coming in the months to follow. “I should have thought about this and cleared it sooner … that was my mistake. I’m sorry, Shanks. Truly. But I promise you, I’m fine.”
He took his hand off Shanks’ back and an insane part of him missed the presence, before the rest of him noticed that Shamrock did it so he could take off his jacket, roll up his sleeve, and gesture to the tattoo that all the Knights had.
(That Shanks had too, as a God’s Blade. Garling had been so happy when he’d gotten it. Shamrock too; it was one of the few times he’d seen that normally inexpressive face actually smile, “we match now”, a man who had everything you could ever want in this world and it was like that was all he’d ever wanted.)
… He really didn’t like thinking about that.
“That’s just … something that happens sometimes. Every now and then. Part and parcel of being a Knight. Once our bond with The Great One is established through these marks, they must be maintained, in the same way that you would whet your weapon.”
… What.
The world seemed to … tilt, like he’d had far more to drink than he actually had. The taste of vomit at the back of his throat didn’t help the feeling. His body felt hollow and heavy at the same time, everything and nothing and sheer helplessness.
The words hung in the stale air as Shamrock stayed oblivious to the panic bubbling under Shanks' skin.
What?
‘Our bond with The Great One’? Those tattoos? He thought they were … they were meant to be ceremonial! Just regular tattoos! That’s what those five old dumbasses had said, at least, so they lied? And they knew about this ‘Great One’ too, they’d have to for whatever-this-arrangement-was to work, so did everyone in Mariejois know? Had Shanks’ ignorance just completely fucked him?
He’d been planning on getting this thing removed as soon as he got back to the Blue Sea! What did Shamrock mean, that it actually meant something? What did he mean, that it meant that? So this stupid tattoo meant that thing being able to get into your body?
… Shamrock said ‘Knights’, but … did God’s Blades count too?
Suddenly, the title felt less like an intended honour and more like a death sentence. The feeling of being a bug under a microscope returned with a vengeance; his entire body felt numb aside from the strengthening taste of vomit and his heart pounding against his ribs.
And the tattoo itself … the fucking brand that he’d waltzed into getting without realising it, it burned against his skin, and he had no way to tell if that was symbolic, paranoid, or literal.
Oh God … Could it also get into your mind?
Was that thing listening right now? Did it already know he was a traitor? Could he hide from it? How do you force yourself to stop thinking about something?
Was it already too late? Was he already completely screwed? Was he just waiting to be executed at this point; were they just letting him think he could get out of here before they snatched the carpet from under him? Garling, Shamrock, the other Knights, the Elders, the ‘Great One’, how many of them knew that there was a rat in their midst and what the hell would they do to him when they decided to act?
He’d been too careless. He was in the lions’ den and didn’t appreciate that until his head was in its mouth.
“It seemed a prudent measure, what with that Fishman’s recent riot. They will likely be doing the same with the others soon. I simply volunteered to be first. If it gives me even the slightest edge, it would be worth it. I would rather not repeat such humiliation.”
Shamrock scoffed like it was an entirely normal conversation. Numbly, Shanks understood that to him, it probably was.
… Okay. Shanks didn’t know about anyone else right now, but he knew that Shamrock didn’t know. He was certain of that. He just continued on as if nothing was wrong, as if the floor hadn’t just collapsed under Shanks’ feet and he wasn’t the most scared he’d been since that day in Loguetown.
If he’d known, then whatever his reaction would be after that, he wouldn’t be so placid. A life in Mariejois didn’t exactly teach you self-control in spades.
One problem down … approximately 99 to go. Oh joy …
And if the not-so-Great-One knew, then it was already too late, so there was nothing to do on that front … double joy …
“At least after tonight, They and I know that it works well. Although …”
Shamrock pinned Shanks with a glare, and he tried not to hide that his attention was bought with a flinch.
Just because he doesn’t know now, doesn’t mean that he can’t figure it out. And that’s not even counting all the others who could suspect you. You’ve already slipped up, but do not let down your guard again.
“You hesitated.” He was serious again, somehow more serious than when Shanks said what he now assumed was some form of blasphemy. “You had your conclusions about what was happening to me, and still, your strikes hesitated. If you had been right that I was in danger and that the other presence in my body meant us harm, that hesitation would have doomed us both. So why?”
… Why?
Shanks tried staying on guard, but that seemed like such a strange question that he almost slipped.
“What do you mean ‘why’? I was worried about you. No matter who was helming the ship, the ship itself was yours. The body was you. And I didn’t …” Another choke came, and he restrained it this time. This time, he was able to finish his damn sentence, albeit whispering it out like the shameful secret it was. “... I don’t want to hurt you.”
The seriousness melted again, fast as a blink. The line of Shamrock’s mouth didn’t move an inch, but the rest of his face softened so much around it, he looked like a kicked puppy.
… He was so transparent, it would be funny if it wasn’t upsetting. All the Celestial Dragons were. Some were like robots learning to be human, others were like overgrown children. None of them understood emotions properly, but they could all be read like a book. None of them had the shame or tact to view anything as needing to be hidden.
Moral infants with the bodies of grown adults and a power beyond kings.
That made Shamrock dangerous. It made them all so beyond dangerous. But being here even for a few months, seeing the culture around them, he couldn't really blame any of them as individuals for turning out this way. They still made his blood boil, obviously, maybe even more than ever before now that he’d seen so much of what they did on the daily, but now it wasn't just that, now they also made him feel … just sad. Sad and uncomfortable and empty inside.
“... You could never hurt me, Shanks.”
… I will. One day. If you really love me, then one day I’m going to hurt you like you’ve never been hurt before.
Unbidden, his mind summoned an image of Shamrock crying; it felt alien and horrifying and made his chest feel like caving in, so he tried to shove it down, down, down.
Anything else, anything else, anything else to think about, please-
“So … I didn’t hurt you just now?”
At least there was that, if so.
“Not really.”
“Isn’t that weird? I mean … I did hit you pretty hard.”
Honestly it felt weird for him to be so calm.
Shamrock scoffed. He smiled. His calmness was disgustingly infectious.
“That you did, little brother, that you did … but there’s no need to concern yourself with me like that. Once you become a fully fledged Knight, your covenant with The Great One will offer an undying body; even wounds like the ones you gave to the ‘intruder’-” he did little air quotes with his fingers like that was a ridiculous idea and not objective fact- “would never last for long. All I feel now is fatigue, easy to sleep off.”
… Okay. Log all of that for later. Hopefully he’d still be willing to elaborate then, otherwise it was sleuthing time, and that was never Shanks’ strong suit.
“It’s been like that for so long that anything else would feel ‘weird’.”
… Oh?
“‘For so long’? For how long? Just curious.”
That … wasn’t really a relevant question; for what he was in Mariejois to find out, Shamrock’s personal story was pretty damn useless. And yet, he asked anyway.
Shamrock hummed briefly in thought. He brought his hand up to rest his chin on, and Shanks had it confirmed then from a look; no stab wounds.
Good to know. But still freaky as hell.
“It must be at least a decade now since I started serving with Father. My covenant changing from Shallow to Deep came … a few years after that. You’re rising through the ranks much faster than I was.”
He looked so proud.
Shanks felt sick.
A decade ago …? They were kids back then … and Garling had been a Knight that whole time, so he must have known … had he seriously knowingly fed his son’s soul to a demon with a smile on his face?
He did it twice.
Shanks shuddered.
Shamrock noticed.
Fuck.
“Sorry, just … all this talk of covenants is making my head spin.”
If he actually bought that, then that would be incredible.
“Yes, you must be surprised. There’s probably nothing like this in the lower world.”
And he did buy it. Because goddamn, Shanks had this man wrapped around his finger.
Again. Just upsetting.
“You’d be right. There’s nothing so …”
‘Monstrous’? ‘Infuriating’? ‘Terrifying’?
“... Sophisticated.”
Yeah, that would do. Shamrock clearly viewed it as a great honour, so this was one more thing he couldn’t be honest about.
But still, saying that your father had entered you into a contract with a demon as a child while smiling like that … Shanks didn’t know that Mariejois could still surprise him with how uncomfortable it could be, but goddamn, they always managed to find a way.
“With the Shallow Covenant you already have, you could feel Their presence now, if they so wished.”
Ahahahaha, no thank you!
“I don’t know if now would be a good time for … their blessing. I’d need to mentally prepare, you know?”
Shamrock nodded like that made complete sense and Shanks wasn’t just talking directly out of his ass.
“And besides … I hope they’re not offended by my actions today. I attacked them, and … generally, that’s not a good first impression.”
Shamrock actually snorted with laughter. Shanks remembered hearing chatter around the city that he never did that before he’d returned to the Figarlands this year, and hated his own brain for the reminder.
“You’re correct on that much, but I wouldn’t worry. You didn’t know any better, and you were just trying to protect me, that’s noble, and you should hopefully be forgiven with simple remorse.” Shanks highly doubted that, but for as indoctrinated as Shamrock was, he did objectively know more about this guy then Shanks did, so he’d just have to take his word for it for now. “Besides, I have no doubt you impressed Them. You held your own against me for a while, and that would earn Their respect. You’re probably next up on the list of Blades to be promoted.”
… Another memory, and a feeling like his lungs were inverting in his chest, wringing the breath out of him.
“Yes … thou shalt prove sufficient.”
… Shanks felt cold and sick at the same time. Well, if he wasn’t in the hot seat before, he would be now.
Ignorant to that thought, Shamrock smiled again, oddly wide for him; it made it uncomfortable to look at, and the unguardedness of it only made it worse.
“We can finally serve Them together … side by side, as we always should have been …”
… Shanks had to get out of this place before that happened. And Shamrock’s dream could never come true.
He had to leave this conversation before that became too uncomfortable; he already had enough guilt on his conscience doing all this, he did not need more.
He forced a smile, forced himself to stand even with his muscles still aching, forced himself to pretend that whatever ‘The Great One’ was or whatever these covenants were didn’t scare the shit out of him, he forced, forced, forced it all, as he extended a hand back down to Shamrock on the floor.
“Yeah, well that’s still a bit of a ways off, Shammy. For now, let’s get to bed, it’s way too late.”
Shamrock looked at Shanks’ hand and quirked an eyebrow; Shanks’s lips couldn’t help but twitch into a smirk.
“Don’t be silly, Shanks, I can-”
He tried to push himself off the ground and stumbled, but Shanks caught him once again.
As expected.
“Nope. You can’t. You said you were tired. I listened.”
All he did here was listen; it felt good for it to come in handy immediately, it felt good to feel like his soul wasn't wasting away here for nothing.
Shanks adjusted himself so a grumbling Shamrock rested more comfortably on his shoulders and back.
“Even so, you don’t need to carry me, Shanks … just call a slave or two, have them do it.”
He hoped like his life depended on it (which it probably did) that Shamrock didn’t notice his breath stutter a little after that.
Ah. Right. That was normal for them. Not something terrible that should be punished in a just world. He couldn’t let himself forget. He couldn’t.
But he couldn’t arouse suspicion, either. Even Shamrock’s trust would have its limits somewhere.
Hopefully.
“But I don’t want to. Important things should be done yourself, to make sure they’re done right. And … and you’re important.”
He thought of the boy with the Shallows Covenant, and tried to feel sympathy for him rather than rage at his father, rage at this country, rage at the world. It only mostly worked.
Shamrock was quiet for a second, before acquiescing. Too softly, for a man with so much blood on his hands.
“... As you wish.”
… He couldn’t explain it to Shamrock. He didn’t know how to explain the sheer wrongness of the life he lived. And even if he tried, Shamrock wouldn’t understand, none of these people would. It was all they’d ever known; it would be like trying to explain colours to someone who was born blind. Just with the added pressure that if the wrong person heard you try, if the wrong person knew you’d said something as simple as ‘all lives deserve dignity’, you’d be strung up on the executioner’s platform faster than you could blink.
Shanks wondered if Garling would do the honour himself. Father of the year …
He imagined a teenage Shamrock being signed over to the ‘Great One’ for the covenants, for military service, eager to please as always but confused and probably so very scared … and as he walked, he held the man on his back just a little bit closer.
…
“... Shanks, you reek of drink. What happened?”
“Heh. It’s about time you noticed. For it to take until now, you must be really out of it.”
“Shanks.”
They’d gotten back to their rooms without incident, without even seeing anyone else out in the ghost town, thankfully. Now, Shanks was just making sure that Mr-two-left-feet got into bed okay before he went to his own room and screamed into a pillow until he passed out. That seemed like a good plan.
But there was still a bit more to do until then, apparently.
“... Don’t worry about it, Shams. It was just a bad night, that’s all.”
“A ‘bad night’ because of who?”
His gaze was steely, and it would have been intimidating if Shanks hadn’t spent the last few minutes watching him fumble with his buttons.
He really was more tired from today than he tried to let on. Shanks tried to not feel bad about that. He failed.
He shrugged.
“Don’t know. Don’t remember.”
Honestly, any ‘bad nights’ he had in this place were for every reason under the sun and more, but he couldn’t exactly say that to Shamrock without fucking everything up, so a lie it was.
“Do you remember anything about them? Anything at all? This can’t be allowed to stand.”
“Shamrock, please, it’s not that serious-”
“Yes it is, Shanks. This is your home. You should be safe and happy here.”
Shanks couldn’t tell if the irony made him want to laugh or cry. The obliviousness worked out in his favour so often, but that didn’t stop it being so painful.
Celestial Dragons were so much less horrifying before he knew that they were capable of love.
Somehow, the sheer sincerity of this place and everyone in it proved one of the worst parts. No-one had any self-control or anything resembling subtlety, so what you saw was what you got, no subterfuge or smoke and mirrors. The worst of humanity made its home here, unchecked want with no rules or restraints.
And what Shamrock wanted was Shanks. He’d wanted his brother back for his whole life. The horrific honesty of this place made it impossible to forget that this man loved him. And sooner or later, he was going to break his heart.
In another world, maybe Shanks could have loved him too. Without conditions, without shame. Because he did love him, sometimes; and then he did or said something that reminded Shanks that ‘oh right, this is a Celestial Dragon, and he’d kill everyone you loved in a heartbeat’.
If only Figarland Shamrock didn’t exist. If only it was just Shamrock, co-captain of the Red-Hair Pirates. How much easier would this all be? How much less weight would hang like an anchor on Shanks’ damned heart?
How much could have been different if they had both ended up in those treasure chests that day? If the Captain had sailed away from the West Blue with two babies, not one? Would Shamrock smile more? Would he have smiled open and mischievous like the Captain, small and proud like Rayleigh, sharp and playful like Gaban? Would he have been the example Crocus used for a good patient, not like you, Roger, you stubborn shit? Would he have liked Oden’s cooking and helped to show him the ropes in the crew’s final voyage? Would he have been able to play with Momo, to calm Hiyori down when she started fussing? Would he have cried at all their goodbyes?
Would Buggy have liked him? Would they still all be close now, if Shamrock had helped him find the right words to say that day?
What could have been if not for this godforsaken place?
Shanks was different from all the other Celestial Dragons he’d met on this mission. But as much as he didn’t like thinking about it, that was just because he hadn’t been raised … here. In the same way as all the rest. It was a terrible thought, that the person he was now wouldn’t exist at all if not for sheer insane luck in a time before he could even remember, but … again, just so sad at the same time.
If not for a twist of fate, he would have been just like Shamrock. Just like any of them.
But by the same breath ... who was to say what any of the others could have become if they had been lucky like he was? Could they have been philanthropists, artists, adventurers, doctors, scholars? How much good could have come to the world if they'd been raised as humans and not gods?
And once this city was brought down, as it should be, as it had to be ... was there any fixing this? Even if it was theoretically possible, could the people on the Blue Seas ever accept it? Was there any redemption for hands that he had seen whip and tear the flesh from a slave's bones as they begged for mercy, but then hold their own children with such softness only seconds later? Or did the fact that they could do that without seeing the issue with it inherently mean that they were beyond redemption regardless?
… He wasn't smart enough for this. He'd never been the smart one, anywhere. Benn, Yasopp, Roux, he'd even take Uta right now, she’d probably do a better job.
… He missed them all. Dearly. The longer he went with staying here and not with them, he felt so dirty and wrong that he couldn’t take it.
He didn’t belong here. He wanted to go home. Not Shamrock’s home. His home.
“You can’t blame me for being protective, Shanks.”
But what he wanted hadn’t mattered for a while. He was here now, and he had to deal with it until he couldn’t, whatever that looked like. Getting lost in his own head would only mean that he wouldn’t react ‘right’ to reality, and that could screw him in an instant.
He was grateful to Shamrock in that way; as much as he gave him a near-endless stream of existential crises, there was also nothing that grounded him quite like him. A painful little paradox, but it worked well enough; not well, but well enough.
And despite everything, everything he’d ever said and felt about this place and its people … it didn’t feel nice to see Shamrock upset. Quiet and muted as his feelings so often were, but … honest. Agonisingly so.
“... I missed you.”
If there was one person in Mariejois that Shanks felt awful for deceiving, it was him. Shamrock with all of his terrible innocence.
“For years and years, I’ve been worrying about you. Back when Father had any idea where you could have been, he wouldn’t let me try to go find you. He was so scared to lose another son to the damn D clan.”
He looked honestly furious, but there was an undercurrent of fear. Shanks didn’t know whether to be offended or amused at the Captain getting that kind of reaction out of anybody, so he schooled his face into neutral sympathy as best he could.
‘Lose another son’, though … if Garling viewed what had happened to Shanks as ‘losing him’ (which, fair, he absolutely did, Shanks would never call himself Garling’s son once he had any choice in the matter), then oh, how badly Shanks wished that had happened to Shamrock too. He wished that a child Shamrock had mustered the courage and the wit to leave Mariejois against Garling’s knowledge or wishes, and found the Oro Jackson to try and bring him ‘home’. Everyone could have convinced him to stay, he would have learned to be better, there wouldn’t be this war in Shanks’ chest every time he had to play the part of the perfect Celestial Dragon brother.
And Shamrock wouldn’t be tied body and soul to some weird ancient secret demon that the Elders kept in the basement. That was the big one. He’d be free, or close enough to it.
… Dwelling on hypotheticals was a fast way to make himself go crazy. He wanted to stop, but it was just so hard to ignore.
He couldn’t put into words just how much this all sucked.
“I understood his hesitance. At that age especially, I firmly believed that the damn bastard would have eaten me.”
… Okay, screw the fight against that ‘Great One’ today, it was truly the hardest effort of Shanks’ life to not burst out into laughter at that. At least that mental image cheered him up a little.
“But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.” Shamrock seemed deflated at the memory, but a thought that crossed his mind soon after raised his spirits too; it was a quiet joy, but joy nonetheless. “And now you’re here. Every day feels like a dream come true. But … I was too young to help you back then. So … I just want to protect you this time. That’s all.”
… And the guilt always came in waves.
This man loved him, and it would all be so much easier if he didn’t.
From the moment they’d met again this year, all Shanks was able to see in Shamrock was a stranger who shared his face. But Shamrock saw the other half of his soul, returned home at last.
He said it himself; it was his dream come true.
And Shanks could never give him that. He didn't even want to, but the fact that he couldn't … it ate him up far more than it should.
He didn’t want to hurt this man. Very few things in his life had ever felt more true than that.
Even if every Celestial Dragon that had ever been raised in this place truly was beyond redemption ... he didn't want to believe that about him. He didn’t want to hurt him, and he definitely wouldn’t want to kill him. The rest could burn for all he cared, but … was wanting one exception so wrong of him?
Buggy was right. You are a coward.
… He missed Buggy. He wanted to go home.
God, he wanted to go home. Back when things made sense, and he lived a life that felt entirely his, not like he was wearing the skinsuit of a version of himself that only existed in worst-case scenarios and delusional fantasies.
He wished that Figarland Shanks was his own man so he could stab him through and never have to think about any of this again. But no. Fate was cruel.
So very cruel.
“And instead, it seems you’re the one helping me, more than anything. Thank you for today. Truly. So much was unnecessary, ultimately, but the intent does mean a lot.”
… You need so much more help than you know. But you’ll never accept it. And one day, Shanks would have to accept that in turn.
He forced a smile even though so many parts of him wanted to cry.
“No problem. What else are brothers for?”
The word ‘brother’ tasted like ash on his tongue, but it made Shamrock smile like the sun.
And then, for once, Shamrock noticed. But bizarrely, Shanks didn’t feel afraid.
Just … sad.
“... You look like you want to say something. What is it, Shanks?”
… Whenever Shanks left, Shamrock would be alone here. He would be leaving Shamrock alone to the monsters after all. Any chances of him being anything else, as slim as they were, would die the second that Shanks returned to the Red Force.
… I can't stay here forever. If I asked you to leave with me, would you at least consider it? Or is it really too late for you? For us? Are we just ... damned to the end from the start?
“... Nothing. Just … the night is getting to me, I think. I’m getting tired.”
Shamrock hummed in agreement. Always so trusting.
“Quite fair. We should both have been long asleep by now.”
Shanks nodded smallly and turned to leave as Shamrock yawned.
“Goodnight, brother.”
His footsteps nearly faltered. An innocent little dagger in his heart.
But he forced himself to keep walking away.
“... ‘Night, Shamrock.”
… I’m so sorry.