Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now

He was the fifth swordsman to try to kill you this week. 

You ran a wet rag over Button’s blade, frowning when you noticed a small nick on its hilt. Damn. You’d need to rewrap it, or drag yourself into a boat and sail to the nearest island to get it fixed. But that would become a whole thing as soon as someone recognized you, and the Navy would probably be called, and you’d probably be blacklisted from another island for accidentally cutting it in half as you tried to escape, and ugh. 

“This sucks,” you told the corpse lying at the bottom of the crater. “You couldn’t have done this before my supply run?”

The man didn’t respond, probably because there was a watermelon-sized hole in his chest—a neat, elegant hole you’d made with a lazy thrust of Button and a half-step forward. You remembered how arrogant he’d been when he first barged into your campsite, rambling on and on about the women and gold and fame he’d get when he took your head to Marine Headquarters; how quickly arrogance turned to apprehension turned to terror when you swung Button and the top half of the forest behind him splintered into pieces. 

On any other island, the man would make a fine swordsman. Not the best, obviously, but he could win a couple tournaments, earn himself a nice bounty, maybe even defeat a few Paradise rookies. 

Just not good enough.

One less person to fulfill your brother’s dream. 

You hopped back to your campsite. A couple more feet and it would’ve been swallowed by the crater you’d created when you slammed the man to the ground, or by one of the massive fissures spiraling outwards from the impact site. But you were lucky. The firepit had been snuffed out, but the charcoal glowed with embers and the island bird roasted cheerfully on the spit.

With a sigh, you sat next to the fire and stroked the back of Button Four’s soft ears. The old goat snorted and shuffled closer, pressing her warm pelt against your bare thigh. She hadn’t moved an inch since the fight had started, too used to your challengers to bother shifting away from her cozy napping spot.

You used Button to slice off a bit of crispy brown skin from the bird’s bulging shoulder and took a bite. Immediately, you spat it out. 

“Ugh,” you said, shuddering. “Needs salt.”

Then

Your brother was three years older than you, and he was the biggest dork in the world.

“Because it’s cool, ” he said vehemently when you asked why he was skipping his chores to watch the blacksmith’s son practice swordsmanship in the forest. “Besides, you have no idea how long it took to find him again.”

“Did you get lost?”

“No!”

You snorted. Liar.

Your brother was sitting on the fence, chewing on a stalk of foxtail and swinging his legs like he was five instead of nearly ten, and you wanted to shove him off and call him a creep. But if you broke his foot, your mother would give you a neutral face of disappointment and your brother would get all smug because you both knew who her favorite was. So you settled for kicking the base of the fence, making your brother yelp.

“Do your chores if you’re so cool, dummy,” you said, ducking out of the way when he tried to smack you. The feed needed to be restocked, the pens cleaned, the manure shoveled, and your mother would definitely yell at the two of you if she returned from the market and found the animals ungroomed, hungry, and thirsty.

Your brother sniffed and hopped off the fence. His well-worn boots—you both needed new ones, but it was either that or a leaky roof, and you’d rather have wet socks than a wet bed—squished as they landed in the mud. He was all of nine and a half, but something in your chest stilled as he spat out the well-chewed foxtail reed and flashed you a grin. 

“You don’t get it. Swords are the best,” he said, and you knew it was true because his eyes glittered in a way they hadn’t since your dad died. “I’m gonna find the kid and ask him to teach me swordsmanship. Properly, this time.” 

Your brother was right. You didn't get it, just like when he ran away to learn loom-making from the village seamstress, and the month before that when he ditched you to ice-fish with the old man by the pond, and the month before that when he decided he wanted to be the best wood-carver in the East Blue. You didn't get it, but when the Year’s End festival marched through the village and the blacksmith’s son pranced at the top of the mache boat, long tails of ribbons trailing from his wrists and ankles, your brother fell in love with the arc of metal through the air. 

At least ice-fishing or wood-carving was useful. What good were swords when your biggest problem was hoof infections?

The blacksmith’s son liked to practice in private, away from the bustle of the dojo his father had created when the village first accepted him into their fold. But your brother was relentless. He spent the next three days chasing the poor blacksmith's son, begging when talking didn’t work, hiding when begging didn’t work, and watching from afar when his hiding spot in the bush was sniffed out.

He even made you do all his chores—pumping water, feeding animals, shoveling manure—so your mother wouldn’t notice he was missing. You agreed with the condition that he snuck back candy. Real candy, made with sugar and maple sap. He groaned and pouted about his dwindling allowance, but he wasn't a liar, least of all an oath-breaker. Just for fun, though, you made sure to eat all of them in front of him.

On the fourth day of trying and failing to shake your brother off his tail, the boy relented and took your brother to meet his father. It wasn't long before your brother would come back from each trip to the village with bruises all over his torso and legs, grinning so wide you’d think he was training specifically to get hurt. 

You helped him hide the new bruises with bandages. Lasted about a week before your mother found out where your brother was disappearing off to in the middle of the day and forced the two of you to kneel in the dirt, ranting for hours and hours about responsibility, honor, and filial piety. By the end of her lecture, you’d lost all the feeling in your legs and began to question where your torso went.

Then she gathered her saved pennies and commissioned the village blacksmith for the best sword she could afford. 

(Your brother would deny it until the end of the world, but he sobbed like a baby when your mother returned with the long bundle in hand. You both knew your mother was saving up for a new gravestone for your dad. The fact that your mother was smiling and pinching your brother’s cheek gently meant she was giving up on a proper burial for your dad. 

Or, you thought as you watched your brother unwrap the bundle with trembling hands, maybe she found something else to believe in.

But, ugh, that misspelled tombstone would bother you forever. Lolonoga. What kind of name was that?)

“This is Aoiyuhi no Yoake,” your brother said as he raised the long sword to the sky, sunlight glinting off the blue blade. It was patterned with waves and matched the color of your brother's eyes, which he thought was super cool and you thought was ridiculously dorky. “It means dawn of the blue sunset.”

Actually, if you were remembering correctly, Yaoke meant daybreak. Figures your brother didn’t care enough to pay attention to your mother's lessons.

“That makes no sense,” you said, munching on a piece of dried jerky. Too salty for the market, so your mother had tasked you with finishing the batch so she could replace it. “Sunsets are orange, and dawn is in the morning.”

Your brother stared at you, stung. “I didn’t choose the name. She did.”

“She?”

Your brother smiled, small and embarrassed. “Yoake. Sensei says that the name will sound right when it fits, and, well.”

Carefully, he sheathed his sword and slid the scabbard beneath his belt, where it swung gently with his breaths. It was almost as long as he was tall, which was terribly clunky for a weapon. But he never let the tip touch the ground, even when he rested his foot on a rock and posed for an invisible audience. “The blue sunset at the end of the Grand Line, the rarest sight in the world. That’s her name.”

“That is,” you said, “so dumb.”

He shot you a glare. “Shut up. You’re just jealous.”

You popped another piece of jerky into your mouth. “Of what, your dorky outfit?” 

“Hey! This is what all great swordsmen wear.” Instead of dirty blue overalls, he was wearing a mint-green yukata like the ones the blacksmith and his son favored. He stretched out his arms and let his long sleeves billow behind him. He looked like a ghost, or a weirdo trying to be cooler than he actually was.“Don’t I look awesome?”

Creepy was what it was. Your brother must’ve dug through your dad’s old clothes to find something that fit.

“Are you even allowed to use that thing in the dojo?” you asked, gesturing to his oversized stick. 

His face brightened, like how it always did when he talked about things related to the sword. “Sure! Live steel is allowed as long as you’re good enough.”

“No way you’re good enough. You nearly broke Nelly’s leg this morning,” you said, wrinkling your nose. The poor nanny goat had refused to glance in his direction until he got on his knees and apologized with a bushel of fresh hay. 

Your brother grinned. You blinked. “Don’t tell Tomo, but sensei says I’m his best student. They’re even thinking of putting me with the older students. Soon I’ll be able to kill my enemies with a single cute. Like this!” 

He made a cutting motion with his hand. 

"That's dumb."

“It’s not,” your brother said, and the genuine tinge of anger made you glance towards him. The sun danced through his vibrant hair. His free hand had drifted back to rest on the hilt of his sword, fingers tangling themselves in the dangling ornament tied around its pommel and skittering down the leather grip. He touched the weapon like he couldn’t believe it existed; like he was trying to prove how much he deserved its affection and attention. 

You pursed your lips, taken aback. You brother had never looked at the humongous loom he'd dragged home with such reverent devotion, nor had he been nearly as excited to learn ice-fishing. The last time he'd smiled like that—

Huh. It must've been when your dad was still alive. Your old man used to drag the two of you outside as fireflies rose from the fields and show you how to make whistles out of blades of grass, and your brother would lean over your dad’s thigh and pester him with questions. How’d you meet mom? Why’s your hair green? Are you a plant? Your dad would make something up— in the sky, she was so pretty I thought she was a star; I ate too many vegetables as a kid; maybe I am! Does that make you a blueberry, sweetheart? —and tickle your brother until he collapsed to the ground in a fit of exhausted giggles. Once, your dad told a joke about a horse, a News Coo, and a bartender that was so bad your brother choked on his own spit. Your mother came outside, saw your brother rolling on the ground in a fit of breathless wheezes, mud on his hair and his freshly laundered clothes, and smacked your dad so hard he face-planted on the ground.

“Hey," you said. "Show me what you’ve learnt.”

Your brother smiled. He drew his sword and led you through a series of katas: first slow and clumsy, then faster when he forgot about your presence. Step, slice, parry, return. Repeat until he fell in love. 

He swung, and grass leaped into the air, cut into a perfect circle around his feet. 

You jammed the rest of the jerky into your mouth and chewed thoughtfully. You didn’t know about the whole “killing your enemies” part, but something that could shear wool or harvest wheat would be useful to carry around.

Your brother stopped short at the stable door. “What is that?”

“You forgot what a sheep looks like?” you said, distracted. As Bonney bleated and flailed her hooves, struggling to escape from her spot between your legs, you jammed your arm against Bonney's fluffy chest and murmured comforting words into her ear. You were just trying to shave off the matted wool on her chest, but she was acting like you were butchering her for meat. Drama queen.

“I know what a sheep is. I’m talking about that.”

He pointed. Your grip around Bonney’s fluffy middle loosened, and she leaped out of your arms with an overjoyed bleat. Your brother, the useless chunk of meat, stepped out of the way and let Bonney charge out of the stables.

Maybe if you glared at him long enough, he’d spontaneously combust. “You’re useless.”

“Sorry,” your brother said, not sounding sorry at all. He was back in his blue overalls, yukata presumably somewhere in the laundry basket to be scrubbed, so the scabbard dangling at his side looked as out of place as you in a dress. “But seriously, what is that?”

You looked down at the sword in your right hand. To be honest, it could barely be called a sword: slightly shorter than your forearm, the perfect length to shear wool with. Nowhere as unwieldy as your brother’s. “Button."

Your brother blinked. “You named your tantō Button?” 

“It’s a cheese knife, not a dango,” you said. “And Tomo’s dad made it for me.” You went to the blacksmith with the allowance you’d originally saved to buy the cute little goat you saw at the market a few months ago. Cost you a pretty penny, but Tomo’s dad had kept his word. It fit perfectly.

“Cheese— Okay, I’m not even going to ask. But that’s a stupid name.”

“Says you, Mister ‘my sword’s name is sunset’,” you said, flipping Button over your knuckles. It was the name you would’ve given the goat, but you thought the sword deserved it more, considering that you’d never see the goat nor her equally cute owner again. You flipped the sword into the air and caught the hilt on the tip of your finger, where it balanced with barely a wobble. 

“He looks more like Sting or Fang,” your brother said.

"Lame," you said.

He scowled and stretched out a hand. "Give him to me. I'll show you how to use him properly."

He couldn't hide the stupid eagerness that snuck into his voice, even though he tried to sound stern and commanding. You rolled your eyes and sheathed Button. The sword freak just wanted to get his hands on another blade. “Like I need your help using a cheese knife.” 

Your brother’s face fell. “Swords are meant to slay armies and kings."

"Okay? And?"

“And you don’t respect swords at all,” he said, flitting his fingers over the hilt of his sword. 

"I've got plenty of respect," you said, feeling your hackles rise. “Why do you think I'm using it to slice cheese? Idiot."

Your brother scratched his neck and glanced away, you softened. Maybe you were too mean. It had been a while since your brother and you did anything together that wasn’t chores, and you kind of missed his attempts at quippy retorts and his vibrant blush when he said something dumb.

You opened your mouth to suggest that you head into the village together—the weekly market always had a bunch of fun stalls set up, from glassblowers and candy makers to stonemasons who made hand-sized gargoyles you could put on your front step to ward off evil spirits—when your brother suddenly shook his head and clicked his tongue. Suddenly you wanted to kick his shin and watch that shit-eating expression crumble into pain. 

“You better take good care of him," he said, frowning. At that moment, you made a decision. Button would be the most useful sword in the world, capable of a million miracles. Way better than Yoruke or whatever your brother called his sharp stick. 

"Yeah, yeah," you grumbled. "Aren’t you supposed to be at the dojo right now?”

Your brother kicked a lump of hay near his feet. Suddenly, he couldn't look you in the eye. “Got sent home. Sensei forbade me from using Yoake for a month.”

You frowned. “What’d you do, kill a man?”

“I destroyed the training dummies,” he mumbled, fair skin glowing in a blush. 

“Like…” You sliced your hand through the air. “In half?”

He nodded.

“All of them?”

He nodded again.

You imagined your training-obsessed brother running through his katas deep into the night, so engrossed in swinging his blade that he didn’t notice the dojo falling to pieces around him, and laughed so hard you nearly collapsed.

When you were thirteen, pirates raided the island. 

Marines disdainfully called everyone who sailed the seas and didn’t fall under their jurisdiction pirates, but everyone and their mothers knew there were two types of sea-farers that angered the Navy. One was peace-mains, adventurers who spat in the face of the World Government’s tyranny and chased the horizon for their pleasure alone. The not-yet Pirate King was rumored to belong to this category, though he killed and conquered enough to qualify as either. The other type was morganeers, just as vicious and hateful to other pirates as they were to marines. 

Truthfully, you didn’t think it mattered. You would’ve killed them all the same for putting a sword to your mother’s throat.

“Oh,” your brother said as he stopped at the mouth of the alley. A million emotions flickered through his expression at once: surprise, hope, regret, resignation. The last one lingered. "You're okay."

At sixteen, your brother loomed over the rest of the crowd, yukata draped over his shoulders like a banner and sword settled at his side. He’d ran when the raid warning first came—not away from the bustling market, as your mother had urged him to, but towards the port and the screams. He must’ve made for a reassuring sight, tall and broad from your dad’s genes and his insistence on training every day of the week. But he’d never used live steel outside the dojo, had never faced anyone who’d actually come at him with the intent to kill rather than dominate. 

Still, he ran. You did too, following the crowd as it flooded towards the outpost until you couldn’t. 

A barbed retort rose to your tongue. You swallowed it and hugged your mother closer, feeling her trembling arms wrap around your waist. She was wordless, the bruises around her throat preventing her from cursing out the pirates or sobbing in your arms. Her long, beautiful, blue-black hair had unraveled, flowing down her back in knots of blood and dirt.

“Kill anyone?” you asked instead, looking at the blood dripping from his sword. It formed a small puddle at his feet, oozing towards his boots. 

Your brother flicked his wrist. Blood splattered to the ground in a graceful arc. 

You wanted to be angry with him. Maybe if he was more triumphant about his first fight, some grand event he’d get a dorky tattoo of when he was older and drunk out of his mind to prove he’d joined the ranks of the best killers on the Grand Line, you'd yell and scream and punch him until he apologized for leaving.

Instead, he just looked tired. His heaving, desperate pants had slowed to a hiccuping rhythm, but a faint sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and the hems of his sleeves were ripped, more likely from his sprint across the island than any pirate. He gripped the hilt of his long sword until his knuckles turned white.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes so soft it nearly hurt. “Did you?”

There were scrapes running up and down your legs and patches of hair missing from your head from when the pirates dragged you across the village square by your hair. Your mom was practically curled up in your lap, her shirt torn to her collarbone and her skirt ripped to her upper thigh, and even though you couldn’t see it, with her face pressed against your neck and arms wrapped around your waist, you knew that one of her eyes was swollen and bleeding and the other was filled with rage. 

Strewn about the alley were the bodies of the pirates who’d climbed onto the island to strip it bare. Button was still embedded in one of their necks. You didn’t have to look to know it was the man with the crooked teeth and the snarling eyes, who’d raked a finger down your mother’s cheek and mockingly called you sweetheart.  

You spat out a tooth and watched it roll away from you, white and red against the dark gray cobblestone.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

In total, fifty-seven pirates raided the village. They took a warehouse worth of winter provisions, some of the seamstress’s best weaves, and two chests of gold that Miss Kotetsu’s dad had been saving for her dowry before the village subdued them. 

Thirty-five fell to Tomo, Tomo’s father, and the rest of the dojo.

Seven to your brother, who locked himself in the cellar and spent the next few days polishing and repolishing his sword.

Seventeen to fire when some clever kids snuck into one of the ships and set the whole thing ablaze.

The last five to you. 

(“Go away. We don’t have anything.” you said as the pirates cornered your mother and you in the alley. It was supposed to be a shortcut. Safe. You and your brother had taken this route a million times to sneak over to the nice old lady who sold cubes of sweet candy when your mother wasn’t looking, and you’d only paused because Nelly’s hoof had gotten stuck in a crack in the ground. But by the time you yanked her leg out and glanced up, everyone else was gone and the pirates were swarming towards you, slimy grins stretching their cracked lips. 

“Mom! Mom— Don’t touch her, you filthy bastards. Don’t touch her!” you said as they dragged your mother away, giggling like creepy monkeys. Nelly bleated loudly, then yelped in pain. Before you could lunge at them, someone grabbed your hair and yanked your head backwards, and you screeched and dug your fingers into something soft and squishy and clawed. Laughter turned to agonized screams. Later, as you picked bits of white from your nails, you realized you’d gouged out someone's eyes and couldn’t find it in you to be ashamed. 

The third time you didn’t say anything at all. You’d been using Button to cut squares of cheese for people to sample, so it smelled like feet as you drew it from its scabbard, rose to your feet, and sank it into the pirate’s forehead. The blade met resistance when metal pierced bone, but you shoved down and the pirate buckled as half his brain matter oozed out the back of his head.

It felt no different than killing a sheep or putting down a rabid animal.)

“No.”

“You can keep the money,” you said. The workshop was sweltering even without a fire blazing in the forge, but you kept your forehead on the ground, knees folded beneath you and hands pressed to the floor. “I just have one request.”

Footsteps. You lifted your head slightly. A pair of sandaled feet came into view, then a flower-patterned black yukata, and finally an unimpressed face with eyebrows grown in a straight line across his forehead. Tomo’s dad took a long drag of his pipe and exhaled a plume of smoke into your face. You wrinkled your nose and suppressed a sneeze. “Exactly,” he said. “Your request is stupid, and I’m not gonna do it.”

You grit your teeth, batting away smoke from your face. You didn't remember the old man being so rude, though that could've been your mother's influence. “You don’t get it. I can’t use this sword.”

“Can’t,” he said, taking another drag of his pipe, “or won’t?”

You didn’t reply. 

“Get up.”

You stood. The man did the same. The swords strapped to his side barely made a sound as he returned to his chair and sat down with a grunt, surveying you with a half-lidded gaze. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of your forehead, though it had nothing to do with the workshop’s heat. “How’s your brother?” he asked suddenly. “Had his first real fight, didn’t he?”

You shrugged, irritated. You hadn’t spoken to your brother since he helped you carry your mother back home from the pirate raid and then disappeared to take care of his sword instead of his family. “Don’t know.”

“And Aoiyuhi no Yoake?”

“Fine.” 

Tomo’s dad leaned back in his chair. You couldn’t be bothered to feel bad about your curt remarks. If he was going to be annoyingly vague, you had every right to be annoying back. “If you don’t like your sword, pick another one,” he said, nodding towards the display wall. It was more of a command than a request.

With a frown, you went over and heaved one off the rack. The scabbard was heavy but intricately decorated, and the blade made a clear whistle when you unsheathed it, which you guessed meant it was pretty damn good. You rapped it against your open palm a couple times, then gripped it loosely in one hand like a whip.

“Hold it properly,” the blacksmith said. 

“What?” 

“Two hands.” He demonstrated with his pipe, and you tried to copy him. The pose felt awkward and stiff, though, and you let it go after a few seconds. “Now swing.”

You gave the sword a half-hearted flail. The blacksmith snorted. “You don’t got your brother’s heart, that’s for sure.”

“Didn’t want to,” you said, sliding the sword into its scabbard and returning it to the wall display.

“I’ll say it again. The swords I forge aren’t refundable, so I’m not going to take it back,” he said. Ash fell to his feet as he tapped his pipe against the wooden armrest. “The moment you picked it up, it became yours. Use it to cut vegetables or pick your teeth. I don’t care.”

You rubbed Button's scabbard. “Isn’t that disrespectful to the sword’s soul?”

“What soul? It’s a chunk of metal. The only soul we put into it is our own.” He crossed his legs and exhaled. “If you want to use it as a kitchen knife, so be it. If you want to kill and maim, so be it.”

Bone, you remembered, was as brittle as candy.

“I don’t,” you said. Softer than you’d intended, and you cleared your throat and repeated with as much sincerity as you could summon, “I don’t.”

“Then don’t. Be a farmer. A well-kept tantō is sharper than any scythe. But,” his eyes flashed with uncharacteristic anger. You went still, “don’t blame the quality of your own soul on my swords. Swords are beasts, and we tame them for our own use. Never construe it the other way around. If you can’t control the nature of your sword…”

He trailed off. You got the hint. 

“Sure,” you said. Now you felt ridiculous for getting on your hands and knees and begging the man to take Button back. “Tame the sword, get my money’s worth, right?”

He grunted. “I’m glad someone in your family has a brain.”

“Says the blacksmith obsessed with swords.”

The man rolled his eyes and flicked a piece of ash at you from his pipe. “Watch it, little lord. I’m a swordsmith.”

Someone had been knocking on the door for the past five minutes. 

“Go away,” you said as you yanked it open. Then you blinked. 

“Hello,” the man—boy, really—said, hand frozen in the air where he’d been pounding on the front door. “Is, hm.” He eyed you, from the tips of your tangled bed-hair to the oversized shirt sliding off one shoulder to the sandals jammed over your bruised feet. “Is your brother home?”

The straight black ponytail and dust-yellow yukata roused some memory in the back of your head. You cocked your head, examining the boy’s smiling black eyes and wide forehead. “You’re Tomo. My brother’s friend.”

The boy’s smile twitched. “Tomo? You're rather old for nicknames, no?" he said, kind but condescending. 

You closed the door. 

You opened the door.

“Are you gonna be nice now?” you asked the boy, who looked stunned by your audacity. 

“Haven’t I always?” he asked.

“No. You’re being condescending. Stop that or I’m not letting you in.”

You couldn’t tell if the mixture of emotions that crossed Tomo’s face was irritation or astonishment. But you got the sense he was reevaluating his initial impression of you as his friend’s naive little sibling. “I apologize. I’ll behave.”

“Okay,” you said. “Brother’s in our room. You can go upstairs, but don’t go through the door to your right. That’s my mom’s room."

You meandered to the kitchen and put a pot and water on the stove. The contents of the cabinets were sad and pathetic, since you could barely muster enough energy to feed and clean after the animals, let alone go into the village to trade. Still, you rummaged through the dusty compartments, shoved aside decade-old cans and containers, and found a packet of tea that didn’t smell like mothballs and dust. You dropped it into boiling water and poured three cups.

“Give this to my brother,” you told Tomo, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen and gazing around like your house was an exotic animal. He jolted, and jeez, he was pretty jumpy, wasn’t he? The place wasn’t anything special, just an abandoned outpost your dad had repurposed into a farmhouse. 

“Alright,” Tomo said, faint but much politer than before, and accepted the two cups when you offered them to him. He took a sip and grimaced, black eyes curving with displeasure. “This is quite an interesting tea.”

“It’s just some leaves. My brother likes it,” you said, pulling out an old cut of dried ham from the pantry. 

With an easy twirl of Button, you diced it into tiny cubes and dumped it all into a small bowl. You popped one into your mouth but didn’t offer any to Tomo. 

“You’ve been practicing,” Tomo said from behind you. You made a noncommittal noise of agreement. “Has your brother shown you how to use him yet?”

“Nope," you said, setting Button down on a cloth. 

“Tantōs are unparalleled at close-quarters combat, and the aikuchi-style is even more versatile than the tsuga-style blade,” Tomo said. “Are you a grappler? You’re small, so a tantō suits you. If you’re interested, we can spar and I can show you the best ways to take out your opponents.”

You took a deep breath and turned around with the brightest, most innocent smile you could muster plastered on your face.

“I appreciate it,” you said, as earnestly as you could manage. “Why don’t you see my brother first, though? You’ve come a long way, and I don’t want to keep you waiting with my amateur-ish attempts to use my sword the way I want.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, the mocking flattery flying over his head. “Excuse me.”

“And give the tea to my brother!"

He bowed and went upstairs. The smile dropped from your face, and you sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and the bowl of diced ham. You popped a piece into your mouth, took a sip of tea, and immediately spat out bitter liquid.

Tomo was right. It was gross. Grimacing, you took another sip anyways. 

Two muffled voices started talking upstairs. It got louder, almost escalating into an argument, before dying down into murmurs. You tapped the table and waited.

Finally, your brother came down the stairs, sword in one hand, cup of untouched tea in the other. His eyes were glued to his feet, and you waited for him to address you.

He said your name. You kept waiting. 

“Where’s mom?” your brother said instead.

You scoffed and almost called him a coward. “Upstairs,” you said. "Like always."

“Can you get her?”

“What’s the magic word?” you said, sweet as sap.

His head bowed lower. “Please,” he said, almost meekly. 

As you brushed past him to get to the stairs, he leaned away so your shoulders wouldn’t touch. With a scowl, you clambered up the steps to your mother’s room. You pressed your ear to the door, then eased it open.

“Mom? Are you awake?”

“Hi, sweetheart,” your mother said. Huh. Surprise, surprise, she was already up, sitting at her vanity with a tiny comb and trying to tame the massive crow’s nest on the top of her head. “Did I oversleep?”

“Not really,” you said, taken aback. “You’re up early.”

Your mother hummed, struggling to yank her comb through a stubborn tangle of hair. “Had a feeling,” she said, and didn’t mention that her feelings always preceded some disaster. (Your brother falling off the cliffside and breaking his leg. Your dad’s diagnosis. The pirate raid.)

The stone in your gut solidified. You slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behind you, shutting out the sounds of Tomo and your brother shuffling through the kitchen. “Brother wants to see you.” 

Your mother tugged, and a clump of hair fell off her scalp and came off on the teeth of her comb. She stared at it, then giggled. “Oh? I better get moving, then.”

You held out a hand, and she indulgently handed you the comb. As she tilted her head and let your fingers run through her hair with a satisfied sigh, you spotted a ring of bruises lined the muscle between her neck and shoulder. 

A flash of red consumed your vision. You bit down on your inner cheek, hard enough to draw blood. Nope, not going to think about it. 

You helped your mother stand and tied a pale green ribbon around her waist as she washed her face using the prepared basin. The whole thing was done in minutes, habitual and efficient from years of practice, and you led her outside, thick hair plaited and dress swishing around her ankles. In reality, she didn't need help with her morning (or mid-afternoon) routine, but the little habits comforted her as much as it did you. Before you took over, the role had fallen to your dad. It was probably one of the few things that reminded her of him, so she never asked you to stop, and you never suggested it. 

As the two of you descended the stairs, your mother blinked at the sight of the two boys sitting in the kitchen. Your brother’s name escaped her lips before she paused, eyes fixed on the stranger in her home. “And you must be…”

Tomo’s face went blank as soon as he spotted your mother, and he didn’t reply until your brother nudged him. You zoned out as Tomo introduced himself, unwilling to care. Besides, he smiled like he had something to hide, vacant with no real joy behind it. It made your skin crawl. 

He was staring at your mother too. What a creep. 

“I see,” was your mother’s only reaction. Any residual sleepiness had fled her tone, and you felt ridiculously smug when she inclined her head at Tomo instead of rushing over to offer him tea or snacks like she would for any other guest. “Thank you for taking care of my son. He can be a handful.”

Tomo offered her a thin smile. His voice was strangely placating, more respectful than a boy would usually be to his best friend’s mother. “It was nothing, ma’am. We all have our vices.”

Your mother hummed. “How is your father, by the way? Between these two little rascals,” she pinched your arm, and you rolled your eyes and fought the urge to smile, “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to pay him a proper visit.”

“He’s working on a new project.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhm,” Tomo hummed. His fingers rapped against the table. Tat-tat-tat. “His best work yet.”

Your mom gazed into the distance. “Will he be at the market next week?”

“I’m sure he can be convinced,” Tomo said, tilting his head so that his ponytail slipped over one shoulder, a sleek waterfall of black. 

Your brother cleared his throat and gestured to the seat across from him. His gaze flicked from Tomo to your mother. No doubt he’d picked up on the strangeness of their conversation as well, though he chose to ignore it. You couldn’t see it from your current angle, but you bet his leg was bouncing like crazy beneath the table. “Mom, can you catch up at a later date?"

“Don’t rush me, blueberry,” your mother said lightly. Your brother flushed and ducked his head. “But yes, I will.”

You helped your mother into her seat. She squeezed your hand and kissed your cheek, murmuring her thanks. You drew back and took your seat next to your brother, stepping on his foot for good measure. He winced but did nothing. Bastard. 

For a moment, the four of you stared at each other in silence. Your brother opened and closed his mouth multiple times, words failing. 

With a sigh, your mother reached across the table and dragged your brother’s cup of tea towards her. She took a sip, hid a wince, and set it down. 

“It seems you wish to tell me something,” your mother noted. Her voice hadn’t fully recovered from the pirate attack, but it was still soft and bladed, holding the steely quality that made your dad swoon and you and your brother cower. “Go on, blueberry. Don’t be shy.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Get on with it.”

Your brother’s eyes flicked to you. “Mom,” he said, and took a deep breath. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, fiddling with the ornament tied to the pommel. Then he laid the scabbard across his lap and bowed his head.

“Tomo and I are leaving the island,” he said. “We’re heading to the Grand Line to become the greatest swordsmen in the world.”

Your cup shattered in your grip, spilling scalding tea all over the table. Tomo jumped back before the shards could reach him, while your brother looked quietly resigned. He brushed a shard of clay off his knuckles and used his sleeve to wipe off a spot of tea from his cheek.

Your mother blinked very slowly, lashes fluttering over her cheeks. She splayed her hand out on the table, a pale spider with slender nails and knobbly joints that your dad had jokingly called old women fingers before kissing each one, a supplicant to their god. 

“I see,” she said faintly, probably remembering her feeling when she woke up. She gripped the edge of the table and closed her eyes, brows furrowing. "Please give me a moment."

The shock of your brother’s abandonment hadn’t set in yet. She still thought she could hold on while the world flipped on its axis.

Your hand came down on the table. The old wood creaked, and Tomo shot you a startled look. Your brother merely stared back, blue eyes placid but mouth pinched, a brewing storm. 

“Coward,” you said, enunciating every syllable until it reverberated in your chest. 

“We need to be stronger,” your brother said.

“You want to kill more people,” you said.

“We want to protect our family and friends,” he corrected, scowling like you were five and he was trying to make you understand that dad wasn’t coming back, but you kept asking and asking until he blew up and roared, he’s dead, stupid!  “We can’t let something like the attack on the market happen again.”

You didn’t remember when you stood up, but it put you at eye-level with your brother. “Then why are you leaving? How can you protect us from three oceans away?”

“Sweetheart,” your mother said. 

Your brother held up a hand to stop her. Arrogant prick. “I also can’t protect you if I lose to every Grand Line pirate who comes by,” he said, and you didn’t miss the switch to first person. Tomo wasn’t even a thought on his—or your—mind.

“So you’re getting stronger to kill more people!” you spat. 

You wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake until he realized how dumb this whole thing was. Greatest?  What did that even mean? Was he going to go around and fight everyone in the whole world, the babies and toddlers and people who could barely tell a knife from a stick, just to prove some arbitrary standard of superiority to a world that would forget him in a few decades?

Your brother rose to his feet, his shadow falling across the table. His face twisted into a wordless snarl. "Just because you’re a coward doesn’t mean I’m the same.”

Like you hadn’t vomited lunch and breakfast and bile when you remembered the corpses with missing faces, shivering in your bed as you desperately listened for your brother’s snores to make sure he was still alive, that one of the dead bodies wasn’t his. 

“Then you’re an idiot who wouldn’t know swordsmanship if it spat at you in the face," you said.

The stars were just as far away from the peak of the mountain as the bottom. Why didn’t your brother understand?

Your brother packed his things and left the very next day. He and Tomo took bread, a pot of fresh lemons to drive off scurvy until they docked at the nearest island, dried meat, and cheese from the pantry your mother had insisted they take. You wanted to give them the moldy stuff in the back cabinets, but your mother leveled you with a look and you slunk away.

It seemed like half the village had come out to watch your brother leave. Your brother greeted them with the familiarity of old friends, shaking hands and giving out hugs like blessings. You saw several women weeping into their father’s shoulders, as well as a few teary-eyed men who sniffed and swore to follow in your brother’s footsteps. 

Someone nudged you, making you stumble forward. You looked down to see Nelly staring at you with a strangely reproachful look. "Seriously?" you asked, frowning. "Whose side are you on?"

She bleated. 

Your mother chuckled and stroked the back of Nelly's neck, making the small goat sigh with happiness and lean against her thigh. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. The wind brushed through her hair, thin and slightly dull, drawn away from her face in a low ponytail. She was dressed in her Sunday best, an intricately sewn kimono that she hadn't worn since she first arrived to the village. Supposedly, it was the kimono that made your dad fall in love with her, though you thought it was more likely the fact that she could stare a Marine admiral in the eye and offer them tea while a sword hovered millimeters from her throat.

You crossed your arms with a haughty sniff. “Who’d want to say goodbye to that ass?”

“Oh, so I’m an ass now?”

As your brother came to a stop before you, you jutted a finger at him, ignoring Tomo lurking behind him. “Of course you are. A tiny, pathetic little ass.”

His brow furrowed, and he glanced behind him, hyper aware of the circle of people watching with wide-eyes. You glared at them until they peeled their eyes away and muttered nervous excuses about checking on their crops. As they drifted away, leaving just your family and Tomo standing at the dock, the black-haired man took a polite step back and averted his gaze, giving you some semblance of privacy. 

Your brother had never apologized in his entire life unless your mother was pinching him by the ear or you were dragging it from his lips, one piece of bribery candy at a time. But now he lowered his head and murmured, “I hope you’re happier after I’m gone.”

All the clever quips and insults you’d come up with last night withered away. “How could you say that?” you said, choking.

Dammit. Your eyes were wet. 

You scrubbed your face with your sleeve. Then, before your brother could say anything dumber, you lunged forward and squeezed your arms tight around his waist. The hilt of his sword dug into your stomach.

“Don’t die,” you said into his yukata. “And if you’re not the greatest swordsman in the world by the time I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

His arms enveloped you. He clutched you close, and you didn’t think you imagined the wetness in his voice when he said, “Okay.”

You watched until their dinky little boat and stupid flag disappeared into the horizon and the tearful goodbyes of the villagers faded into awed murmurings and gossip. 

The axis of the world should’ve stopped right there. It felt like losing your dad again, except your dad’s corpse was buried in the backyard and your brother’s corpse might never come back to you. If it did, maybe it'd be cut in so many pieces you’d never recognize him except for a lock of vibrant hair, or the scar on his shoulder he got when he was seven and you dared him to jump into the river naked. Or maybe his corpse would sink to the bottom of the ocean, where future archeologists would dig him up and wonder, huh, what kind of idiot broke his leg twice in the same place?

Your brother was alive until proven dead. He was dead until proven alive. 

The village slowly settled into its usual baseline of activity as people came down from the buzz of excitement and vendors set up their stalls for the morning market. You stumbled after your mother, still light-headed as you ran through the familiar motions of unpacking the tent from Nelly's wagon, setting up the baskets, and labeling the items. Usually your brother would draw in half of your customers by simply standing there. Village girls would come over to flirt, and the boys would ooh and ahh over his sword, which he’d allow until they tried to touch, whereupon he’d gently but firmly nudge them away. But now the only thing people wanted to talk about was adventures, the Grand Line, all the strong and interesting figures your brother would see in Paradise.

“I heard there are pirates who can swim through rock just as easily as water. How terrifying! Imagine meeting someone like that on the street,” an old woman tittered as she examined the spread of meat. You smiled through gritted teeth and recommended that she try the beef jerky.

“Back in my day, those damn pirates destroyed an entire island,” one of the old men said. “No, really! The Navy wiped it from records and forbade us from talking about it, but I swear it’s true.”

“Sweetheart,” your mother called as the market wound down and you began to pack up leftovers to take home. Too tired to resist, you let her draw you into her arms, inhaling her sweet scent of wisteria and hay. “Don’t worry. Your brother is strong, and he has Tomo. They’ll look out for each other.”

Your mother’s heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear. You stared over the curve of her arm at the rest of the dusty street. “Like you and dad?” you rasped.

She stroked your hair and said nothing, and you knew that you were right. You buried your face in her collarbone. Dragons flickered across the back of your eyelids. “Why did you let them go? You know he’s dumb. He’ll probably trip and fall to his death before he even gets to the Grand Line."

“He has a dream, and he won't die until he fulfills it,” she said.

She was lying. Your dad's dream was to take your mother back to her homeland. He’d built a boat—the same boat your brother had sailed off on—and started researching paths through the Grand Line. He’d managed to convert half the farm into dried goods, things that would last months on the sea, before he left it all behind when he started dropping things and forgetting where he put his tools. 

It wasn’t that people with dreams never died. It’s that the people who survived often broadcasted their dreams louder than others. Correlation, not causation, and your brother was no outlier.

Nelly nudged your hip. You released your mother and crouched down to press a kiss to her furry forehead. She nuzzled you, dragging a wet tongue across your cheek.

“Let’s go home,” you said.

The fields were oddly empty without your brother testing out his new moves on the crops or yelping at the animals for chewing on his yukata. You led Nelly back into her pen, gave her one last scratch behind the ears, and stored all the leftover goods away in the pantry as your mother prepped dinner. She was pulling out rice and fish and old seasonings from the back of the cabinet, probably an attempt at comfort food.

You weren’t in the mood to be comforted. You wandered upstairs, and suddenly you were back in your brother's and your room.

Just your room now, you thought.

It looked bigger without your brother’s clothes scattered around the room, his blankets always dangling halfway off his bed. Emptier. You blinked and found yourself hovering over his bed. With a startlingly stable hand, you touched the chip on the windowsill overlooking his mattress, where he’d always prop up his sword—far enough where he wouldn’t accidentally knock it over in his sleep, but close enough for you to tease him about. Thought you were too old for teddy bears. He'd grab his scabbard from his bedside and try to smack you with it.

Slam! 

Your head shot up. The wind had flung the door shut, yanking your attention towards the two columns of lines nicked into the wood, each year labeled with careful letters as the lines creeped upwards in sync before spreading out. Your brother had been upset when you started outgrowing him, which had immediately transformed to smugness when he turned twelve and shot up like an overgrown weed. 

You sat down on the floor, right between your bed and the empty space where your brother used to sleep. Very slowly, you closed your eyes and put your face in your hands. 

“Don’t die,” you whispered.

Chapter Text

Two weeks after your brother left, you found yourself standing before the medicinal shop with a frowning man blocking your path. 

“I’m sorry,” the herbalist repeated, “I’m afraid we’re out of stock.”

“Of mint?” you asked.

The herbalist crossed his arms. He was a tall and broad man, though not as muscular as your brother. Regardless, he loomed, requiring you to crane your head back to look him in the eye. “Are you so pressed for time, little one?”

You refused to dignify that with a response. 

The shop wasn’t the only herbal store in the village, but it was the one your mother had trusted—at least until he emerged from your parents’ room that final night. The memory of your mother crumpling to her knees, ragged screams shaking her shoulders, was still fresh on your mind. It was the first and only time you’d ever seen her lose her composure. When your brother tugged you away, his grip had been tight enough to hurt, and you’d asked (innocently, stupidly) if your dad was going to wake up in time for your birthday. 

You weren’t so petty as to blame the herbalist for your dad’s death. But you wished he wasn’t such a coward.

“What about fabric?” you asked, long enough that the silence stopped being awkward and started being infuriating. “Something sturdy that’ll last me a while. Your wife’s a seamstress, isn’t she?”

“She is,” he agreed. 

Your thumb rubbed over Button’s hilt in circles. The herbalist’s eyes flicked down, then up. Somewhere behind him, you caught a glimpse of black and pink darting behind a display of paper fans. Hiding, you thought in disbelief. Even though you barely reached the herbalist’s sternum.

You fought to keep your expression placid and calm, but you couldn’t stop your shoulders from hunching in or keep the disheartened quaver out of your voice. This was the third shop who told you they were out of wire, or nails, or whatever else you tried to ask them for. Unless every single industry in the world was undergoing a shortage, people were avoiding you like the plague. “I'm not looking for trouble. I’ll leave once I get what I need.”

For a second, it looked as if the herbalist might refuse. Then he heaved a sigh and uncrossed his arms. “A shipment of fabric from the West Blue will be arriving soon. You can wait here until then.”

“Thanks,” you said.

“But,” he said, holding out his hand, “give me your sword.”

Sword? You almost laughed before remembering the knife shoved haphazardly in your belt. Button was barely big enough to count, but you unbuckled it with trembling fingers and shoved it into his hand. His brow furrowed, caught off guard by the swiftness of your acquiescence. “Anything else?”

It was almost funny how delicately he held it, blade carefully laid across his palm like it was a devil fruit instead of, you know, a knife. “Fine,” he said, and you forged past him into the store before he could change his mind. 

The shop looked the same as always; smelled the same too, an oddly comforting combination of fivespice and the soap they used to wash the kimonos. Shelves of neatly organized herbs and spices filled the room. The wooden ceiling hung low, but the scattered paper lanterns made the space feel cozy and quaint instead of suffocating. The glimpse of pink you’d caught darting out of sight solidified into a smiling girl standing behind the counter, her hands folded in front of her.

“Welcome!” she chirped, and didn’t flinch when the herbalist shot her a warning look. “What can I help you with today?”

The herbalist’s presence stepped behind you, as subtle as a crouching tiger. “Our dear customer is looking to buy some fabric,” he said before you could open your mouth. You shot him a glance. His mouth was pressed into a firm line, and he held Button across both palms, as gingerly as a father with his first child. “Why don’t you offer your help, Eri?”

“I’ll be fine by myself,” you said, at the same time Eri said, “It would be my pleasure!”

She skipped out from behind the counter, and you almost blushed when she turned the full force of her smile on you. She was pretty, with sleet-like black hair and round, dark eyes. 

“Remember our lessons, Eri,” the herbalist added. “I don’t want to see a repeat of last week.”

Eri’s smile flickered before returning full force, though with a noticeable twitch on her cheek. “I know."

Her arm hooked around your elbow, and she tugged you behind a row of shelves. The feeling of her fingers against your bare skin killed the protests on your lips, and you stumbled after her helplessly, eyes locked on her trailing braid. The herbalist’s attention stabbed into the back of your neck like knives. 

“What kind of fabric are you looking for? Any particular style in mind? Oh, and what are you using it for? New kimono? Bed sheets? Pillowcase?” she asked, fast enough to make you sputter.

“Uh,” you said. “Kimono?”

“Okay!” 

She dragged you around a corner, and suddenly there was a waterfall of fabrics, each with their distinct colors and patterns. “Go ahead, pick one," she said, strangely eager. 

You rubbed the edge of one swatch of fabric. Delicate white flowers were stitched along the hem. Not quite your style. 

“It’s nice, but do you have anything darker and thicker?” you said, looking up. Then you blinked. 

Eri was staring at you, her lips twitching into a fervent smile. Her hair glistened in the lamplight like oil, spilling over her shoulder in a long plait. You froze, suddenly hyper-aware of the yukata you’d thrown on that morning. You hadn’t gotten around to the laundry yet, and the only thing that wasn’t covered in mud or didn’t stink to the high heavens was one of your brother’s old yukatas, long enough that it almost dragged against the ground. You had to roll up the sleeves three times to fit your arms. Her kimono, on the other hand, was much nicer than anything you could scrounge up, sakura-pink and threaded with bruise-purple blossoms. 

“Can I help you?” you nearly squeaked out. 

“Was it really you?” she asked, leaning closer. There was a freckle on her nose. You focused on it as you took a careful step back. 

“Me?”

Up close, her eyes were dark brown, almost violet. “You’re Arashi’s sibling, right?”

“Last I checked.”

She giggled. “So you’re the one who defeated those pirates.”

Killed, you thought, and closed your eyes against the memory of Button breaking through bone like hard-candy, brittle and crisp and easy. “Not really. The dojo helped too.”

“Yes, but—”

Footsteps behind you. A pretty older woman with Eri’s violet-brown eyes descended down the stairs in a beautiful green kimono. “Eri, darling, are you harassing another customer?” she asked, yawning. You had about two seconds to register Eri’s pout before the woman spotted you. “Oh!”

Eri’s thin hand wrenched you back around. The corners of her mouth wobbled as she said, “Of course not, mother. I was simply explaining the different fabrics we have available.”

Some of the warmth seeped out of the seamstress’s voice. “I see. And who is our newest customer?” Cold and professional, but not hostile. It reminded you of the look in the herbalist's eyes: the wary acceptance of a wounded animal into their home. 

“Furiko’s youngest,” the herbalist murmured, drifting by with a tray of tea. He handed a cup to his wife, who accepted it with a hum.

“I see.” 

There it was again, that switch from geniality to wariness you’d seen echoed in the blacksmith and the potter and the other herbalist on the opposite side of town. Your frown turned into a yelp when Eri squeezed your hand, desperate to catch your attention. 

“Let’s go,” she whispered. You let yourself be pulled along as she babbled on and on about the larger store of fabrics in the backroom, and how she wasn’t supposed to let customers see it but she’ll make an exception just this once. But the herbalist and the seamstress's words followed you like ghosts.

“So that’s the one,” said the seamstress, low and murmuring.

“Five bodies. Jozo saw them, crystal-clear.”

“Eri’s the same age. Can you imagine becoming a murderer that young?”

“No,” said the herbalist quietly. “Not at all.”

“Eri,” you said as she maneuvered you onto a chair, “are your parents mad at me?”

“Mmph,” she said, tape measure clamped between her teeth as she lifted your arm and checked the distance between your shoulder and hip. “Mmmph!”

“What?” 

Eri spat out the tape measure. The backrooms, as she called it, was a tiny storage closet stacked from floor to ceiling with boxes. The only source of light was a dangling light bulb above your head, casting long shadows across her face. “Would you like to commission a matching haori?” she said, tucking a piece of hair behind ear. She wasn't meeting your eyes. "The weather is getting colder, and a komon by itself won’t be enough if you’re working outdoors all day. Or we can stick to the basics, so you don’t have to worry about changing outfits daily."

You caught her hand before she could dart away. “Do your parents hate me?”

Eri shook her head furiously, braid nearly whacking her cheek. “No! They like you, they’re just old and stupid. They’ll believe anything they hear, even if it’s meaningless gossip.”

“Gossip,” you said slowly. An old, patient fury swelled in your chest. “What kind of gossip?”

“You know,” she said, turning red. “About the pirate attack, and how you defeated five pirates all by yourself.”

“Killed,” you snapped, and then immediately felt guilty when she blinked, guileless. You released her hand, expecting her to jump back and call you a creep.

Instead, she leaned over the back of the chair and bracketed you in with her arms. “It’s all my parents talk about nowadays, how Mister Jozo found those bodies in the alley. Apparently, you’re a murderer and a psychopath.”

Your neck hurt from craning your head back so far. Her hair fell into your face, smelling like dried herbs and lilies. “Apparently?”

Eri’s mouth twisted. “Double-standards,” she said, and the genuine vitriol in her voice made you blink. “They don’t call Arashi a murderer! He’s a hero, while you’re— you’re—” She groaned and finally, finally took a step back. “Anyways, I don’t think you’re a murderer. You’re a hero for defeat— er, killing those scumbags. They just don't get it."

You flexed and relaxed your fingers on your thighs. The chair was hard and uncomfortable, but you couldn’t exactly ask for a replacement. “Thanks, I guess.”

She brightened. As you settled back in your seat, she picked up her tape measure and finished your measurements. “I’ve always wanted that, you know.”

“What? To kill someone?” you asked, feeling her comb her fingers through the wisps of hair on the back of your neck. 

The tape measure around your waist tightened, nearly strangling you. You wheezed. “To be treated with respect.”

You didn’t think glares and passive-aggressive comments counted as respect. But you digressed.

There was a loud crash. Eri’s head whipped around, and she threw down the tape measure and rushed out the door. You leaped out of the chair and chased her.

There was an orange man in the front of the store, his foot resting on an overturned shelf. And you didn't mean that metaphorically. Everything from his suit to his eyeshadow was a terrible shade of orange that blended into his equally awful tan, and he kept tapping the brim of his (also orange) hat like it made him look cool rather than an idiot in tangerine cosplay. 

Shattered glass and herbs were scattered across the floor. Half of the remaining shelves were missing just that—their top halves were conspicuously missing, like a very big dog had taken a chimp out of them. Near the door, the herbalist had stretched himself to his full height, arm outstretched to hide the trembling seamstress behind him. 

The seamstress, you realized at the same time that Eri snarled, who was cradling her bruised cheek. 

“I didn’t realize we had a problem with our terms. Is fifty jars of dawndew for half of my stock of Northern silk not good enough for you?” the man said, clucking his tongue. He must be the merchant the herbalist had been waiting for. Grand Line, by the look of it. Only people who’d seen the worst of the world pranced around with no fear of death. 

“Mother,” Eri said, stopping just before the wreckage.

“Eri!” cried the seamstress, struggling to her feet. Her eyes were unfocused and wandering. Concussion?

“Eri, stay back!” snapped the herbalist. He gripped Button like a prayer as his frantic gaze met yours. “You too! Furiko would never forgive me if—”

“Eri? Oh, this must be your darling daughter.” The merchant raked his eyes up and down Eri’s body, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. You weren’t the only one who shuddered. “Well, well, well. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“This isn’t what we agreed to, Jasper,” the herbalist said, low and growling. 

“It wasn’t,” the merchant agreed, eyes still fixed on Eri. “But renegotiations are required if one side is unaware of the full terms."

What a creep. And a showboat too, if he was violating a pre-written contract for...

You cut that thought off with a grimace. Gross. Adults were super, super gross.

The herbalist shuffled sideways, trying to edge around the merchant and towards Eri. Then the merchant shoved his foot, and the shelf next to you collapsed into a mass of splintered wood, cutting you and Eri off from the herbalist and the seamstress. You backed up as chunks of the shelf and glass scattered around your feet. Eri didn’t, her hands clenched at her sides. 

Respect, she’d said. You swallowed and crept towards the basket of umbrellas on your right.

“I spent a pretty penny acquiring these goods from the North Blue, and you know how close those Germa folks guard their secrets,” the merchant continued, as if nothing had happened. “I think I deserve more than ten jars of leaves.”

Leaves? You weren’t even a herbalist and knew how dumb that was. Dawndew was practically a cure-all. Fevers, stomach-aches, rashes—your mother stored a small jar of it in the back of a cupboard for epidemic season. The plant was notoriously difficult to cultivate, involving a long and complicated process of harvesting, drying, roasting, and pickling to draw out the herb’s full potential. The silk'd better be fresh from the worm’s mouth if it was worth ten jars.

The seamstress let out a ragged hiss, eyes unfocused. “We can’t, we’ll never last through spring,” she said, grabbing her husband’s elbow. “The flu will wipe out our elders and youngest—”

The herbalist’s mouth twisted. He touched his wife's hand, and then raised his chin. “Don’t threaten me, Jasper,” he said quietly. 

“Good sir,” the merchant said, pressing a hand to his heart dramatically, “how could you accuse me of such a thing? I’m not so crude as to resort to baseless showboating.” He shifted, and the yellow sword on his side glinted. “It’s simply a promise. Give me the girl, and perhaps I’ll leave this quaint little island of yours alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Eri snarled, at the same time you said, “You’re not even a pirate.”

For the first time, the merchant glanced at you. You barely had time to yank Eri back before she launched herself over the debris, furious at being ignored. “And you are?”

“A customer,” you said, shoving yourself in front of Eri—not so much for her sake, but because she might actually sink her teeth into the merchant’s throat if you didn’t. Your hands closed around the handle of an umbrella, wooden and brittle. “And I live here too, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t threaten my home."

That made him laugh. “Say please.”

“Leave,” you said. You heard the seamstress whisper, no, no, heard Eri breathe in ragged gasps. The herbalist said nothing at all. You had the feeling he was waiting for something. 

The merchant hummed. “How old are you, ten? Twelve? Still young enough to play at being a hero, I see.”

“Leave,” you repeated.

The merchant laughed and drew his sword. “Then make me.”

His first slash met the wooden umbrella. Nice. Then the umbrella shattered into a million pieces, leaving you scrambling. Not so nice. The merchant chuckled as you rolled out of the way, hands bleeding from a million splinters. 

“Good one! Is that how you’re going to defeat me?”

Everyone was a critic nowadays. 

“Blue!” shouted Eri, and you barely had time to think, Blue? before a flash of steel hurtled towards you. You snatched it out of the air before it impaled your forehead and caught the merchant’s next strike on Button’s hilt. 

“Thanks,” you bit out, meeting the merchant’s shocked expression with a grim smile. 

“You—”

You threw him off, and he skidded to a stop as you tossed Button from hand to hand, re-acclimating yourself with its weight. He picked himself up, a scowl twisting deepening the furrows between his brows. With a growl, he lurched as if to lift his arm and seemed startled when it didn’t respond. “Who are you?” he asked, turning furious brown eyes towards you. You didn't miss how he tilted to the side awkwardly, trying to compensate for the hurt limb.

“I thought you knew,” you said. “Leave, please.”

The merchant snarled, an ugly expression for an ugly man. His fingers flexed along the hilt of his sword, but the movement was oddly stiff, like he was still having trouble feeling his limbs. “Like hell I’m letting some brat interrupt my business!”

He lunged forward, sword flashing. You ducked to the right and deflected the incoming slash along Button’s blade. Immediately, he adjusted his stance to account for the sudden lean, reminding you of an old trick your brother had shown you.

The trick is to watch the feet. Good swordsmanship is all about connecting each stance. Watch. He'd launched into his latest round of katas, and even you stopped to watch as leaves floated between his steps, the air parting to make way for his blade.

You tried to copy that memory of your brother. Step, slash, step, repeat. The merchant would twitch before each attempt he made to gain ground, and you learned to interrupt his momentum by jabbing at his open side or ducking low, forcing him to back up or risk a knife in the gut. His sword had better reach, but he kept overextending and leaving his sides vulnerable. Clearly he’d never been tickled to tears by a sibling hunting for revenge. 

When your brother had a sword in hand, he danced. Compared to him, the merchant hobbled like his feet were on fire.

Step, slash, step, fall back—

There. As the merchant tilted off-balance, started by the hiss of Button’s blade mere inches from his ear, you whirled around and—

Bone like brittle candy. 

— reversed your grip on Button, turning the stab into a punch. He stumbled, eyes crossed and nose purpling. Just in time, because you kicked the sword out of his hand and leveled Button beneath his chin as he fell to a kneel. 

His sword flipped once, twice in the air, then landed neatly in your outstretched palm. You threw it towards Eri, who’d clambered over the debris and now hovered protectively over her mother. She caught it with a determined frown. 

“Leave,” you said once you’d caught your breath. 

The merchant let out a long hiss. His hat had fallen off sometime during the scuffle, leaving behind a mop of dark red hair. “You think this is over?” he said, leaning back to avoid the tip of Button’s blade digging into his Adam’s apple. “I have the contract. They owe me my dues.”

You scoffed. Before you could respond, the herbalist stepped forward, smile lines deepening around his eyes. “I believe it was you who said this was over unless we gave you our daughter,” he said, peering down at the merchant with a wry smile. “In that case, I gladly rid my hands of you.”

“I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last person in the world,” Eri spat, violet-brown eyes flashing as she drove the merchant’s sword into the ground, hard enough to bend the end. “Pervert.”

The merchant’s eyes darted towards you. His voice lowered into a croon. “Go ahead, then. Kill me.”

A flinch rippled through you. Your feet felt like lead weights, sinking into the ground until the dirt filled to your chest. “I—”

Large, rough hands covered yours. The herbalist gently uncurled your fingers from Button’s hilt. “Allow me.” 

Frozen, you let him. Before the merchant could make a run for it, the herbalist clamped his hand around the man’s neck. “Relax your jaw.”

Then he stabbed down, and blood spurted across the ground. The merchant’s mouth gaped in a soundless scream as he tried to curl up, blocked by the herbalist’s relentless grip around his throat, holding him still like a calf to be slaughtered. Dismembered fingers rolled across the floor, stopping near the seamstress’s feet. Without pause, she lifted her heel and ground down.

“Didn’t I tell you to relax?” the herbalist said with a mild frown, eying the blood seeping through the merchant’s teeth. “Now you’ve lost your tongue as well.”

As soon as the merchant fled, one tongue and a few fingers short of a full set, you collapsed to the ground, heart pounding in your throat. Breathe.

The seamstress meandered towards the wreckage. By sheer force of will, she’d managed to straighten her collar and smooth out her kimono, leaving her no worse for wear except the bruise on her cheekbone. “What a damn mess,” she said as she crouched down, fingers fluttering over a pile of crushed glass and herbs. 

The herbalist helped her to her feet and brushed his thumb over the delicate bruise on her cheekbone. “It was my fault. I was greedy.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she leaned into his touch with a sigh. “His,” she corrected. Then she spat at her feet, snarling. "Filthy oath-breaker. I knew we shouldn't have trusted a Grand Liner."

A hand reached out to you. You looked up as Eri smiled at you, tiny and shy. She hauled you to your feet. “You’re beautiful when you fight.”

You remembered Eri’s ferocious grin, how she was so ready to throw herself at the merchant. “You too,” you said. “Thanks for the assist.”

The herbalist cleared his throat. You leaped back like you’d been burned, cheeks aflame with embarrassment. He surveyed you, eyes narrow and flinty, as unreadable as your mother's old textbooks. You ducked your head and blurted, “I’m sorry for provoking him."

“You saved us,” he corrected.

You shrugged. “I just waved around a knife.”

His eyebrow rose. “He was a Grand Line merchant. You did well to subdue him.” A rustle of clothes. You looked up to see him offering you Button’s hilt. The lines around his mouth were soft; not quite apologetic, but close enough to make your heart leap. “Thank you. You're a good kid."

Blood crusted Button's blade. It flaked off as you sheathed it on your hip. "I, um, appreciate it." Even if they were meaningless platitudes.

"What did you need from us today?" the herbalist asked.

"A new kimono, perhaps?" the seamstress added with a faint, tired smile. “Blue suits you. Perhaps with yellow accents. Free of charge, of course.”

Every etiquette lesson you'd ever taught reared its head. You sputtered and waved your hands awkwardly. “No need! I just wanted some mint and licorice. Maybe hornhound, if you have any to spare.”

“Just that?” the herbalist asked.

You nodded. He glanced around the ruined shop with a frown. “Well. It’s a good thing we keep most of our stock in the cellar,” he said, dry.

The seamstress scoffed. “I’ll stop by the woodshop and commission Kanrio for some more shelves,” she said. “Eri, perhaps you can ask your friends at the dojo to stop by and help us clear out this mess.”

“They’ll be happy to,” Eri chirped with the implication that if they weren’t, she’d make them. “And they’ll keep an eye on the harbor too. We don’t tolerate oath-breakers.”

”If he comes back—“ you started, and then fell silent, unsure of what you were trying to say.

The herbalist spared you from humiliation. “We’ll be fine. It’s not the first time we’ve dealt with arrogant merchants who think we can’t read small print.” His eyes curved in dry amusement. “Or write our own.” 

“Oh,” you said, relieved, then embarrassed by your relief. “If it’s not too much trouble, then…”

“Right,” the herbalist said, nodding. “Mint, licorice, and hornhound, was it?” 

“Yeah,” you said, hoping you’d been vague enough to avoid awkward questions.  

No such luck. The herbalist frowned. “Is your mother alright?” 

Your hand curled into a fist. 

Like a fucking story on loop, the herbalist emerged from your parents’ room, closing the door gently behind him. Your throat closed, and you leaped to your feet and hurried to his side. “Is she—?”

“We’re lucky,” he said, catching you by the shoulders. “You caught it early. She’ll be fine after some rest.”

But his brow was furrowed, and his gaze roved around the house. You bit your lip, suppressing a surge of embarrassment. The counters were covered with a thin film of dust, and dishes were stacked ceiling-high in the sink.

“I’ll clean up,” you blurted out, shrugging off his hands. “And I’ll disinfect everything, and get her some warmer blankets. What else?”

The herbalist frowned. “Mind if I look around?”

“Sure.”

He nudged you down the stairs. As you stumbled back to the kitchen table and sat down with a heavy thump, he opened the cabinets. Every shelf he checked returned the same thing: empty and dusty void. Numb, you traced circles on the table and waited for his verdict.

“When did your brother leave again?” he asked, examining a half-empty jar of salt. 

“Two weeks ago,” you said. 

“And how long since your mother became bed-ridden?”

You counted on your fingers. “Eight days.”

He replaced the jar and closed the cabinet carefully. “Have you been living by yourself since then, little blue?”

Little blue. No one had called you that since your dad. Blueberry and little blue, the weird kids who lived on the outskirts of the island with a reclusive mother and a dead dad. 

“Yeah,” you said defensively. “What about it?”

He turned, and you averted your eyes from the pity on his face. You knew you weren’t enough, but your brother was chasing a far-off dream and your dad was dead and your mother slept like a corpse. For all intents and purposes, you were the sole inhabitant of this house. 

Your nail dug into the table and gouged a small divot in the wood. “I’ve been changing her sheets and bathing her every day. And we have some dawndew in the back so I’ve been boiling it and giving it to her twice a day,” you heard yourself ramble. “I-I don’t know if that’s helping, but—”

“Oh, little blue,” the herbalist said, and you hated the gentleness in his voice. “Dawndew isn’t a cure-all. It works against external threats, but your mother’s illness is an internal one. That’s why her joints are swollen and she’s struggling to move.”

“So what the hell do I do?” you snapped. “I’m clearly useless.”

“No, you’re not,” he said firmly. “You’ve protected your mother from other threats that might take advantage of her weakened state. You’ve done well by yourself. From now on, though, we’ll take care of her together.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. After a moment of hesitation, he strode towards the door, and you stood to follow suit. “I’ll write you a new prescription to sooth her aches and ease her sleep. You’re bathing her every night, yes?”

“Yeah.”

The look on the herbalist’s face might’ve been approval. “Keep it up. Twice a day. Warm water, not hot. Reposition her every two hours, and avoid irritating her joints. She won’t be able to handle solid foods in her condition, so make sure everything is bite-sized or blended. And—” He cut himself off as the two of you stopped before the front door. “I suppose your brother won’t be here to help.”

“Nope,” you said, barely containing your irritation.

“Be careful when ambulating her, then. From here to the stairs is enough. Three times a day, or whenever she’s lucid.” The herbalist opened the door, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Let me know if her condition changes overnight. Once we’ve sorted out the store, I’ll bring the necessary medication. ”

“Okay.”

He leveled you with a look. “Your mother’s diet will need to be adjusted according to the progression of her condition, so I’ll give you a list of foods to avoid. Eri will come by tonight with some simple meals and recipes.”

“Right.”

You didn’t understand why he sighed. “Take care of yourself, little blue,” he said, a strange note in his voice. “Tell us if you need help with anything.”

You nodded and gave him a smile through gritted teeth. “Yup,” you said, and slammed the door shut. 

A collection of unfinished letters. 

(Arashi, 

How’s the ocean? Hope you’re getting super seasick and throwing up everywhere. Maybe if you crawl back on your knees I’ll

Moving a plow’s really annoying when you’re alone. It’s not like

I don’t know if I’m a good cook, but Nelly’s not complaining and neither is Eri so

I’m bored. Mom hasn’t woken up in twelve hours, and

How long can a person sleep before they

Mom’s sick, and I think )

Sometime after the debacle with the herbalist and the merchant, the villagers started asking you for help. 

First with small errands. A farmer needed help killing a fox who kept sneaking into his chicken coop. A father was clearing out his backyard to build a treehouse for his youngest daughter and wanted someone with a good cutting arm. A young girl wanted help chasing off her persistent suitor. (She led you around the village while holding your hand, fed you dango and succulent pieces of meat on skewers, and thanked you politely at the end of the day.)

Then someone pounded against your door, and you stumbled downstairs to find a panting, red-faced boy babbling something about invaders. The moment he said jolly roger, you snatched Button from the counter and sprinted towards the village, wiping its jam-crusted edge on your shirt. 

The village had set up watchmen near the docks after the last attack, and they were salivating for blood after weeks of kicking their feet and watching fish swim beneath the currents. They pounced, and you followed suit. 

You tried to keep injuries to slashed tendons and deep cuts—painful, but not fatal—but it was hard when the pirates were so clumsy. You could hear them breathing from leagues away, even when they were trying to sneak up on you. A quick spin and jab, and the would-be attacker fell into the ocean with a shout. 

“Shit!”

You dropped Button onto the pier and dove after him. Saltwater stung your eyes, but you squinted through the bubbles and spotted the sinking body a few feet away. With a strong kick, you latched your arm around his waist and broke through the surface with a gasp. 

The pirate coughed and spat as you hauled him back onto the pier. Both of his arms were bleeding, but he was still laughing as you snatched Button from the ground and wrung out your shirt, grimacing at the grubby sensation of saltwater on your skin.  

“He was right. You are insane,” he gasped, spread-eagle on the ground. 

“What are you talking about?”

The pirate kept laughing, even after you shoved him into a raft and pushed him away from the harbor. “Pirates are weird,” you muttered, watching as the pirates scrambled for their ships and broke away from the harbor, desperate to flee before the bloodthirsty watchmen could follow them onboard. 

A triumphant roar rippled through the docks as the ships disappeared into the distance. Everyone was some shade of bruised or beaten, but no one had died, and you could spot more than one white grin shining through the blood and dirt. 

“I want to do that again!” someone cheered, lifting his sword triumphantly.

“Wonder if Arashi would be proud of us,” another added.

Your eyebrow twitched. Right. They were weird too.

A hand thumped your back. You looked back to see a tanned and grinning face, a bloody sword resting on his shoulders. One of your brother’s friends, probably. You didn’t remember him stringing you up by your ankle and leaving you to dangle off a tree for half a day, but ten years was enough to turn anyone from a snot-nosed brat into a decently handsome member of society. 

“Hey, you’re pretty good! Why don’t you join the dojo?” 

Even with your hair, he didn’t recognize you. Which made sense—schmoozing with the village has always been your brother’s job while you stayed with your mom. 

You wrinkled your nose. “No thanks. You stink.”

He sputtered. “Seriously?” 

“Why’d you even need me here? You guys dealt with this easily enough,” you said, gesturing to the fleeing ships.

He opened his mouth. Then someone shouted, “Hey, we need a medic over here!” His jaw clicked shut, and he gave you a meaningful look, before whirling around and jogging towards the injured man groaning from the ground. 

Weirdo. You tied up your stiff, salt-crusted hair and started the long trek home, leaving them to tend to their injuries. You needed to give your mother her medication. Hopefully this was the last time you had to fight off a pirate attack. 

It wasn’t.

“Every other year” turned to “every other month” turned to “weekly.” The sirens would blare, civilians would shuffle obediently to the outpost, and whoever was brave enough to pick up one of Tomo’s dad’s swords would charge towards the harbor, where another jolly roger would billow like a catcall. 

Honestly, it was sad how easily you became accustomed to the attacks. You even built a routine: feed your mother breakfast, then her medicine, finish your morning chores, give Nelly her daily scritches, leave water by your mother’s bed before heading to the village, sell your surplus jerky and cheese, fend off the weekly wave of pirates, and go home to finish the rest of your chores. 

Seriously, what did the pirates even want from the island? Your village wasn’t a huge trade center, and it wasn’t a tourist hotspot like the Twilight Isles or Goa Kingdom. Were pirates constantly short on toilet paper? Did they really, really like goat milk?

You started carrying Button on your hip since it was small enough to pass off as a work blade and the village was already accustomed to your brother’s ridiculous overcompensation of a sword. And unlike Yaoke, Button was actually useful outside of a fight. You even used it to cut a little girl’s hair after her bullies dumped sticky sap over her head. 

Again and again, week after week. Pirates came, and you fought them off. Then you went home, fed the animals, and waited as your mother lapsed in and out of endless dreams. 

On your fourteenth birthday, she woke up long enough to try and get out of bed. 

As you chopped up hornhound and mint for her morning dose, a loud thump sounded upstairs. You dropped Button onto the counter and launched yourself up the steps, catching her just as she teetered off the edge of the mattress. 

Her fingers were swollen and trembling as she gripped your arms, peering through the dim light at your face. Your name, when it left her lips, was the first flicker of fire on a deserted island. 

“Mom,” you whispered, voice quavering as you eased her back into bed. “Mom, you’re up!”

Because the herbalist had lied—your mother hadn’t gotten better after some rest. She’d done nothing but sleep for the past year, and it atrophied her in the same way that your dad’s illness had devoured his last few years, stealing her youth and draining the color from her blue-black hair. She winced with every movement, her lashes fluttering like even the effort of keeping her eyes open took energy. The medicine helped, but it was a splash of water on a raging forest fire.

But when she smiled, you forgot all of that. For the first time in months, her eyes were lucid, pale blue like ice. “Hello, sweetheart,” she rasped, and tried to pinch your cheek. Her hand quivered with the effort, and you realized she couldn’t even muster the strength to squeeze your face. “I’m sorry… for worrying you… for so long.”

“Nah,” you said, gripping her hand. “It’s nothing at all.”

“Is your…” She paused to breathe, raspy and short. Her hand rose to brush a piece of hair from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear. “Is your brother still…?”

“Mmhm. But he’ll be back soon,” you lied. 

She hummed, finally giving into the urge to close her eyes. You waited with bated breath. “Sweetheart.”

“Yeah?” 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Mom,” you said. Nothing. You tried again. “Mom, guess what day it is?”

Her chest rose and fell in shallow waves. Releasing a wet hiss through your teeth, you tucked her back in and adjusted the pillow beneath her head, making sure it cushioned her neck. Her skin felt waxy and dry, and you reminded yourself to pick up a new container of ointment from the herbalist.

“It’s my birthday. I’m fourteen.”

Her only response was a quiet, hitched breath. You watched her fall unconscious, committing to memory the way light filtered through her lashes, her chapped lips, her thin collarbones. Her hair had thinned out, but it was still long and sleek, a dark blue-black where it wasn’t gray. It spread out across the pillow, haloing her pale face.

Quietly, you stepped outside and returned to the kitchen to finish grinding herbs for her medicine. 

You buried her next to your dad. 

The herbalist called in a favor and had a headstone made for the two of them, full names and all. “Those two had always been romantics,” he said, gazing down at the gravestone with appropriate somberness. “It makes sense that even in death…” He trailed off. “Did your brother ever respond?”

You shook your head. He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No,” you said, staring at the freshly covered dirt. Your throat hurt, raw and aching. “I never sent him a letter.”

“He doesn't know?”

You were silent. The herbalist sighed. You were glad he didn’t try to put his hand on your shoulder. “Come by the shop tomorrow. We’re sending some shipments to the Grand Line, and I’m sure they can take a message with them.”

You nodded again. You felt him hesitate, then kneel and press his forehead to the fresh dirt. “Rest well, Furiko, Pinzoro,” he murmured, almost choking on the words. You squeezed your eyes shut. 

You stayed at their grave long after the herbalist packed his shovel and left. Then, when crickets started singing and the gnawing hunger in your stomach made itself known, you sank to your knees and stared sightlessly at the carved names on the gravestone. Your mother had been clutching your dad’s old blanket in her withering hands when she left. Even in death, she was still as lovely as the first time she stepped off that boat from a far-off island and spotted your dad gaping at her, his face as red as a tomato. 

That night, you fell asleep on top of your parents’ grave. Memories seeped into your dreams. Your first word. Your first step, her hand curled around yours. That time you’d accidentally shaved off her eyebrow and she’d laughed and asked your dad to shave off the other one so they’d match. You’d never see her again, just like how you’d never feel your dad’s stubble against your cheek as he tried to kiss you before you squirmed out of his hug. 

The next day, Eri intercepted you in front of the store, her face crumpled with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping her nose with a sniff. “I wanted to come, but father told me to stay behind, and I realized you must've wanted some privacy..."

You let her fold her arms over your shoulders. Her concern weighed down on you. “It’s fine,” you said, patting her back awkwardly. 

Her mother emerged from the back with a faint frown. Refurbishments to the store had finished a few months ago, bestowing them with dark oak floors, matching shelves, and flower-patterned lanterns. But no amount of makeup or decoration could hide the deep bags beneath her eyes, stark against her pale skin. “This is yours,” she told you as Eri extricated herself from you, shoving a wrapped package into your arms. “A fresh batch of tea from Wano. We received it a few days ago.”

Your eyes widened as you glanced down at the bold calligraphy declaring a Wano export. “I can’t take this.”

The seamstress’s mouth firmed. “It was meant for Furiko,” she said, so flat she could’ve only been holding back tears. 

Oh. You swallowed and bowed. “I appreciate it.”

The herbalist met you at the docks and introduced you to his friend, a friendly and plump man whose eyes immediately softened when they landed on you. Suppressing your irritation—it felt like everyone was barging into your life—you handed off the letter as well as a picture of your brother. 

“He’s heading to the Grand Line,” you added. “I'm not sure where exactly he is right now, but if you could at least get it to Loguetown…”

“That, I can do,” the merchant said, nodding firmly as he folded the letter into his sleeve. He spent a little longer with the picture. “Ah, I see the resemblance. And his name, my dear?”

Oh, right. Not everyone had lived in the same tiny village for seventeen-odd years. 

“Roronoa Arashi,” you said, managing a smile. “Thanks again. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“My dear,” he said, returning your smile, “for Shimotsuki Furiko’s children? It would be my honor.”

An entire village worth of eyes followed you as you walked back home. The old granny who molded hard candies into cute shapes shoved a whole bag of them into your arms and hobbled away when you tried to pay her back. The fruit seller shook her head and rambled about soil acidity and ways to deal with bedrock. Later, you found a plump durian at the bottom of your bag with a note impaled on its spiky surface, rendering the words illegible. A new shipment of kimonos arrived on your doorstep in the seamstress’s signature colors—pale blue with gold accents. 

“Poor child,” the villagers would mutter. “Taking care of Furiko for so long—what a saint!”

Sometimes they’d cluck and say, “That Arashi! He should be a more filial son. We’ll give him a good scolding when he comes back.”

But they never said, “Shimotsuki Furiko lived a good life, and she’d be proud of her children.”

Even the swordsmith sent his condolences. 

“Furiko was a good child,” he said, letting out a billow of smoke from his mouth. Always smoking the same long pipe, always dressed in the same green yukata. It used to confuse you. Now it comforted you. “We’ll miss her.”

White-hot fire flickered in the furnace. You sat before it, letting heat lick your face until sweat dripped down your chin. Nelly curled up at your side and nudged her snout into your lap. You scratched her chin, ignoring the white that swarmed into your vision. 

“You came here with her from Wano,” you said quietly. “Can you tell me about her?”

He exhaled. 

“Of course, little lord.” 

A year and a half passed.

No word from your brother, though at this point, you’d stopped expecting anything from him. Maybe the merchant couldn’t find him. Maybe your brother had gotten lost. Maybe he was dead. 

You sold most of your dad’s land so you could focus on raising the animals. Nelly became a permanent fixture at your side. You started sleeping in the stable, where the sounds of bleats and snorts lulled you to unconsciousness. The ghosts of your parents’ laughter haunted the empty house.

At least the frequency of the pirate attacks were slowing down, making the men from the dojo complain about their fun being taken away. Your brother’s friend, the one you met at the harbor, dropped by every so often to give you updates, though you didn’t know why he bothered. 

The attacks had changed, he told you, chewing on a piece of jerky from your last failed batch. They came alone now, all swaggering swordsmen with something to prove, and each one of them wanted to challenge the dojo’s strongest fighter. (Me, he claimed with a grin. Well, after your brother. )

“Why?” you asked.

He shrugged, licking salt from his fingers. “Maybe I’m just that cool. Who knows? Hey, do you have any more of that jerky?” 

You gave him a bag, and he set off with a clap on your shoulder and a promise to return next week. You told him not to bother, but you didn’t think he took it to heart. His laugh was bright and hearty as he sauntered back home.

That was how you met Vista.

“Good morning.”

You glanced up. The sun seared your eyes, making you squint up at the intruder. “Hi?” 

The young man standing over you bowed his head, tipping his hat with a polite smile. “Pardon my interruption. I appear to be a bit lost, and, well, I saw you from afar. Would you happen to know the location of Shimotsuki Village?”

You straightened, pulling back from milking Button Two. The nanny kicked her feet and eyed the new arrival with a skittish snort. He was tall and handsome, with dark curly hair jammed beneath a black top hat and collar popped open to reveal a broad, tanned chest. A brown bundle was slung over one shoulder, while twin swords rested on either side of his hips, long and slender. 

“Sure,” you said slowly, rubbing Button Two’s ears to prevent her from bolting. “What for?”

The man inclined his head, all polite and genial. Despite his mannerisms, he didn’t look much older than your brother, nineteen or twenty at most. “I’ve heard that Shimotsuki Village is home to an incredible swordsman who wields a shortsword, and I was hoping to challenge them to a friendly spar.”

Just a spar? The man looked and stood like a proper swordsman, completely at ease with his towering height and the knowledge that he was strongest creature within a hundred miles. The dark purple flower pinned to his lapel was a species you’d never seen before. You’d eat your left foot if he wasn’t a Grand Liner.

“You came all this way for a fight?” you asked, bemused.

The man laughed, amused and a little self-deprecating. The sound released the tension in your shoulders. Not a morganeer, then. Just someone like your brother. “I’m afraid so. I’m a bit of an adrenaline-seeker.”

Well. That was the dojo’s problem, not yours.

You wiped your hands on your thighs and pointed down the road. “Follow the path. The strongest swordsman in the village left a few years ago, but I’m sure the dojo’ll put up a good fight.”

To your surprise, the man bowed ninety degrees, even dipping his hat over his eyes like you’d seen some of the more foreign merchants do when they visited. “Much obliged. Have a good day.”

“You too.” You eyed the width of the man’s biceps and added, “Don’t hurt them too badly, yeah?”

His laughter was loud and punchy. After he left, you finished milking Button Two and sent her back home. As you stepped into the stable, Nelly charged out her pen and butted her head against your thigh, glaring at Button Two until the younger goat cowered. With a huff, you scratched her chin and let her trot after you. 

As the sun started its descent, you finished heaving buckets of milk to the firepit and sat down, beginning the long process of kneading curd into edible cheese. A pair of footsteps came up the path as you were elbow deep into the bucket of whey. 

“Good evening,” a familiar voice called. 

“You again,” you said, glancing up. At your feet, Nelly raised her head and snorted, irritated by the interruption to her nap. “Welcome back. How was the dojo?”

The man shrugged. There was a streak of blood on the tips of his boots. You hoped the herbalist had restocked his supplies in time. “It was fun, though sparring doesn’t quite warm the blood as much as a real fight.” He smiled wryly. “Unfortunately, the swordsman I was looking for wasn’t there.”

“I see.” You wondered if he beat your brother’s friend. “Did you get a chance to look around?”

He hummed. “The dojo invited me to return.”

You snorted. “I bet. They’re all battle-hungry idiots.”

A calm silence drifted between the two of you. You pulled the forming lump of cheese apart, checking it for lumps and hardness. Nice. You might be able to take it to the market next week.  Nelly chuffed and laid her chin on your foot, returning to her nap. 

You reached over to grab Button from your feet, half-hidden by the grass and the darkness of the descending night. For some reason, that made the man perk up. “Is that your sword?”

You glanced over, noticing how his eyes zeroed in on Button like a hawk in the fields. He really was just like your brother. 

Somehow, that made your heart hurt.

“Nope,” you said, and sliced the cheese into tiny cubes, roughly the size of pebbles. “Just a cheese knife.”

The man’s posture shifted. He unfurled to his full height, broad shoulders blocking out the sunset. “You wield a shortsword,” he said, as if realizing something. 

“Sure?” Button was pretty short, so technically he was right. You tossed a piece into your mouth, savoring the taste. Not bad. You'd save a batch for the candy granny.

The glint of metal caught your eyes. You glanced back at the man as he drew his twin swords, long and thin like needles. 

“I apologize,” he said, calm as anything. “I underestimated you due to your age. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Any goodwill you might’ve held towards him vanished. You rose to your feet, nudging Nelly towards the stable. She snorted and pawed the ground, but refused to move. With a hiss, you stepped in front of her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you said, gripping Button tighter. 

“I never thought my next opponent would be a child,” he continued, shaking his head. “But if you are indeed the strongest swordsman on this island, it is my right— no, my duty to challenge you for the throne.” 

He lifted one of his swords and jutted it at your face. 

“Come!” 

You ran a finger along the edge of Button’s blade. Blunt, but still usable. “If you say so.”

You’d never fought a person who used two swords before. It blind-sided you at the worst times, like when you were ducking beneath the man’s right sword and suddenly had to roll away from the blade in his left hand. He also didn’t telegraph every move five seconds before it landed and rarely paused between attacks, which placed him solidly above every other pirate you'd fought.

But there were pauses, and the man didn’t dance like your brother. So when he reared back and brought both swords down in his strongest strike, rather than blocking it outright, you tilted Button and let it slide down its hilt. When the momentum carried him forward, you leaped, twisted a leg around his broad neck, and yanked. 

The duel, if you could even call it that, ended with him face-down on the ground, your legs wrapped his neck, Button’s dull tip pressed to his carotid artery. 

“Yield,” you said.

His massive hand wrapped around your ankle. You barely had time to think, Oh, shit, before the world spun around you and you were soaring through the air. You caught a glimpse of Nelly’s figure in the distance and centered yourself, landing with a heavy thump on all fours. 

Dammit. That was going to bruise. 

The man was panting as he rolled to his feet, but his grin was wide and guileless, like you hadn’t been seconds from slicing his throat open. “Never,” he said, curly hair wild around his face. The dark-purple flower had fallen off his lapel, leaving only a thin pink stem. “You’re amazing. Again!”

“Stop,” you said, crawling to your feet with a wince. Your wrist hurt like a bitch, and one of your ankles was smarting. “I don’t want this.”

His swords dipped in disappointment. “Why not?”

“Because it’s annoying?”

“Don’t be a coward,” he chided. “Come, let us fight until one of us is dead!”

Before you could protest, he lunged, twin swords swinging. Instinctively, you slashed down and only realized your mistake when scarlet burst through the air. The man’s eyes widened, and his charge came to a stumbling halt as he crumpled to his knees.

You dropped Button like it was a hot iron. Horror drenched any anger you held towards the man as you sprinted towards him, fumbling to stem the gushing blood from his chest. 

“No, no, no! I didn’t mean to— Shit, shit, hold on! Don’t die!”

“Is it good?” you asked.

The man, wrapped in so many layers of bandages he was practically drowning, managed to let out a pleased hum through a mouthful of fresh cheese. “It’s delicious,” he said, muffled. “Did you make this?”

You nodded. “Three months of work.”

He hummed again. You looked away as he polished the plate, a little embarrassed about your honesty. 

After nearly bisecting him during the duel (?), you’d managed to haul his bleeding and half-unconscious body into the stable, panicking so badly you’d nearly tripped into the food trough. Nelly had tried to kick his face in, but you managed to shoo her away long enough to wrap him up in enough bandages to construct a small house. By the end, the stable looked like the end of a horror play.

But the man was alive, so you counted that as a win. 

The man had been surprisingly pleasant when he woke up in bed the next morning. Your mother’s bed, actually, since he didn’t fit anywhere else. Not like anyone was using it anyways, even if he looked ridiculous sitting there with his feet hanging off the edge, his weight nearly crushing the poor mattress. When you ascended the stairs with a fresh roll of bandages and a tray of breakfast, he greeted you with a smile and an apology. 

“I hadn’t meant to startle or pressure you,” he’d said, bowing as far as he could with his injury. “I’m sorry for challenging an unwilling fighter.”

You’d been so surprised that you’d accepted the apology without another word. You almost killed him, but he was apologizing to you? People from the Grand Line were weird. 

Which led to your current situation: the man in your mother’s bed, enjoying a simple breakfast of bread, cheese, and fruit while you sat on a stool with your own share of tea and bread. 

“Won’t your parents find it strange to find an unfamiliar man in their bed?” the man asked, struggling to lift a strawberry to his lips. The ruined scraps of his shirt had been too dirty to salvage, so he was wearing one of your brother’s old yukatas like a cape. Even so, it barely fit over his broad shoulders. 

You shrugged, tearing apart your bread with more force than strictly necessary. “Nope.”

“I see.” His gaze flickered towards the window, where the gravestone in the backyard was visible. That, combined with the empty room across the hallway and the general lack of amenities in the house (missing mugs, dishes, toothbrushes), seemed to lead him to his own conclusion. He dipped his head respectfully. “My condolences.”

For some reason, it didn’t feel quite as fake coming from him. “Thanks,” you said, nudging the bowl of strawberries closer to him. He smiled at you. 

“Forgive me for being forward,” he said after finishing the strawberries, “but you are a swordsman, correct?”

“I use a knife,” you corrected, brushing crumbs from your lap. “But I never had the stomach to be a proper swordsman.”

You flinched when he lurched forward and gripped your shoulders, forcing you to meet his intense brown gaze. Your eyes darted everywhere but his bare chest. “You mean you’ve never trained or practiced?”

“No,” you said, confused. “Am I that bad? I know what the general katas are supposed to look like.” 

His stare sharpened until you started shifting in the stool, skin crawling. Your fingers curled on your thighs as you started to brainstorm escape routes. He might’ve been too injured to get out of bed, but desperate people had done worse things with their teeth. 

“Do you know who I am?”

“Should I?”

“My name is Vista of the Flower Swords,” he said, and there was a heavy weight to his words, like you were meant to hear a crowd’s roar and sounds of clashing swords with it. 

The flower on his lapel. “Because you like flowers?”

He blinked and released you. You let out a breath, rubbing your numb shoulders discreetly. “No. You can’t see them when I—? No, that doesn’t matter.” He scrubbed his face and sighed. “Even if you don’t know who I am, you’re still the strongest swordsman I've ever met.”

Discomfort stirred in your stomach. Or maybe you were just hungry. “You must not be very good, then.”

A strange, complicated emotion twisted Vista’s face. He started to laugh, and you relaxed unintentionally at the sound. Swordsmen with something to prove generally bristled at every provocation. The fact that Vista didn’t probably bode well. Probably. “I’m one of the best on my crew,” he said once the fit passed. “And we’re a big family.”

“Oh,” you said, for lack of a better response. 

You thought about it. You didn’t have a metric for swordsmanship, since random East Blue pirates didn’t put up much of a fight and you’d never properly fought your brother or his dojo friends. 

Were you strong? You doubted it. Strong people didn’t struggle to get out of bed most days. Strong people didn’t rely on goats to be their only friends. Hell, the strongest person you ever knew was your mother, and she could barely lift a jug of milk on a good day. 

Huh, okay. You knew what was going on, and it was gonna suck but you had to tell him. The truth mattered, after all.

“Your friends were probably trying to make you feel better,” you said, patting his shoulder sympathetically. “Hey, don’t worry about it. What matters more is improving your skills for the future. I’m sure you can beat me next time.”

Vista’s expression flickered through resignation, disbelief, bewilderment, before finally settling on ridiculous, exhausted acceptance. Weird, but he was a weird guy in general. He sat back, brow furrowing. 

“I see,” he said slowly. “I apologize, I’m afraid I don't know your name.”

“Cuz I never gave it,” you said, popping another piece of cheese into your mouth. “It’s Musashi.”

“Musashi,” he said. 

You surprised yourself by giggling at the clumsy way your name rolled off his tongue. Vista’s lips quirked at the sound, and he straightened, looking more invigorated. “Musashi,” he repeated, pronouncing it like “muh-sah-shee.” “How would you like to join my crew?”

Chapter Text

You woke up with vomit in your mouth.

“Shit,” you muttered, wiping spittle from your lips as you pushed yourself onto one elbow. Nelly, who’d been tucked at your side, lifted her head and bayed. “Yeah, sorry.”

You stumbled out of the stable into the biting chill of early dawn and followed the glint of metal to the water pump. As phantom fingers closed around your throat, you rinsed your mouth and spat in the grass. Gross. 

Your head spun. With a heavy thump, you fell onto the grass and scrubbed your face with a muttered curse. There were indents on your cheeks in the pattern of hay, and your skin was oily and slick with sweat. Even grosser. The thought that you should ask your mom for home remedies darted through your mind. Then you felt stupid.

Ass-crack of dawn, and you were throwing a fit over a dream—or a nightmare, however much the distinction mattered. Already, the nonsensical images were fading away, bizarre slashes of scarlet and gray and blue like ink. But there had been a mealy crack ringing out as brightly as a New Year’s bell, and a splash of clarity, almost satisfaction, like the first time your dad took you to the stable and showed you how to butcher a lamb. 

Easy does it, he’d said, smoothing over the lamb’s ears, and it had laid there so pretty and still as he slit its throat and bled it from top to bottom. Stupidly, you’d asked if it had hurt. Not if you do it right.

Bone like brittle candy, you thought, and spat again, harder. 

Trotting footsteps. Something butted against your side, and you lifted your head to see Nelly staring at you forlornly. She bayed and nudged your arm. With a helpless laugh, you lifted it and let her nuzzle into your lap. She was soft and warm, just small enough to fit beneath your arm, and she flicked her tail against your thigh as you scratched her head right between her milk-white ears and her dappled nose.

Nelly, you remembered, had been the runt of the litter, too weak to be bred and too small to be slaughtered. The first lamb you’d ever help birth, and you’d marveled at how quickly she’d wobbled onto four hooves, still slick in a film of fluids. Your dad didn’t believe she’d last the night and your brother called her ugly, but your mother helped you clean her off and feed her milk while her mom heaved for breath, blood pooling beneath her belly. 

You swallowed and buried your face in Nelly’s soft neck. Her chest rose and fell in quick, fluttering breaths. “Thanks,” you said into her coat. 

She bleated softly. 

You didn’t know how long you sat there, Nelly curled in your lap and your butt growing colder and wetter by the morning dew, but it was long enough that the darkness broke into a burnt orange, casting long shadows across the slumbering island. Nelly laid her chin on your thigh, smothering as much as you beneath her soft coat as she could. 

You took a deep breath in and let the cold air hiss out through your teeth. Then you climbed to your feet and brushed grass and dirt from your pants. Your legs tingled with numbness.

“It’s gonna get better,” you told the dawn, tugging Nelly’s ear gently so she’d follow you back to the stable. 

The dawn didn’t respond. 

Winter on the island had softened somewhat in the wake of the Navy’s latest barrage of naval regulations, which allowed for easier passage of neutral parties—sailors, independent businesses, and the occasional party cruise—between islands without a million forms and treatises (or so the herbalist’s Grand Line contacts claimed). But your village was small enough that commercial ships only stopped bimonthly with essentials, and your modest savings as a livestock farmer didn’t exactly scream “disposable income.”

So you spent the summer months prepping. By the end of autumn, you’d stockpiled the cellar with enough dried meats to feed a village. Wano spices were already a rare commodity, but you hoarded them now, drying racks and racks of peppercorns, chili peppers, seeds to be jarred and stored until you needed them. You traded a goat for four hens, which you kept in a henhouse that the carpenter had built in exchange for your help clearing the woods behind his shop. Fleece from the sheep went to the only weaver in the village with a mechanical loom, who paid you back in soft woolen shirts and pants. 

You finished tying the bundle of sausage to the cellar ceiling and clambered down the ladder, eying your work carefully. Not too shabby for your first time using bull intestines instead of pig. Made your hands all slippery and oily, ugh, but cattle was sturdier than pork, and they stuffed more meat by volume. 

“Excuse me, Musashi. May I ask if you own a mill file?”

You did not scream. You did, however, kick the ladder over in a spasm of movement that pulled a muscle in your back. 

“What are you doing here?” you said once you finished muttering a list of curses that would make your brother blush with pride.

Vista blinked at you, looming at the entrance to the cellar. He was broader than the door was wide, but he managed to squeeze himself down the steps by virtue of sheer grit and determination. Now he stood next to a shelf of pickled radishes, practically folded in half to avoid scraping the ceiling with his massive plume of curls.

“I was searching for you,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “You weren’t in your bedroom.”

“…I sleep in the stable,” you said, massaging your back with a wince. “More importantly, you should be resting.”

Vista dipped his head and just barely managed to not knock over a jar of fermented chili paste with his shoulder. “I will,” he promised. “I only wished to inquire about your sharpening tools.”

“For your swords?”

“My rapiers, yes.”

You stared at him. He stared back, doing a remarkable impression of a waiting dog despite scraping the ceiling with his shoulders. 

“Go inside,” you said finally. “I’ll grab them for you.” 

As he demurred and inched back up the stairs, you pressed a hand to your chest and forced your racing heart to slow. Stupid. Vista didn’t sound anything like your brother—or your dad, for that matter. You’d just been alone for so long that you’d forgotten what having another voice on the farm was like.

Four weeks, and Vista still managed to surprise you by popping up everywhere he wasn’t supposed to. You’d seen the bones of his ribcages that night; had nearly held his seas-damned heart in your hands. He shouldn’t even be conscious, let alone mobile and ambulating on his own this early into his recovery.

But apparently pirates didn’t care about petty things like inpatient care and rehabilitation. So yesterday you’d nearly given yourself a third-degree burn when Vista had reached over your head to help you grab a bowl in the high cabinets you’d been pawing at. The day before that, you’d dropped a pail of milk on Button Two (and it wasn’t even her milk) because he’d somehow terrified the goats and sheep into a swarm that crashed into the stable in a stampede of panicked bleats and thudding hooves. Vista was a kind, insistently polite intrusion, and you wanted to hit your head against a wall every time he ducked into a room and said your name in that disarmingly courteous voice. 

At least he learned to say “pardon” and “excuse me.” You didn’t know how many more pulled muscles you could spare.

After massaging the soreness out of your lower back, you kicked the ladder to one side and meandered to the back of the cellar where you’d shoved most of your brother’s stuff after he left. Your eyebrow twitched as you stared at the mess piled against the wall: an old fishing pole, a collection of ice-chipping tools, a basket of wool collecting moths, even the over-sized loom your brother had used for all of three weeks before finding the sword. 

You should probably toss them. You needed to toss them. You were definitely, one hundred percent going to toss them—

You didn’t toss them. 

Instead, you kicked them aside and grabbed the long bundle propped against the wall. You’d deal with the mess later; clean it up all nice so that you could gloat to your brother when he came back. 

As you reached the bottom of the steps, a loud thud echoed through the air. You paused.

“Vista?” you called, squinting at the cellar door. No response. 

You dropped the whetstone and sprinted up the stairs. 

“I apologize,” Vista said for the fiftieth time in a row. If a man twice your size with the broadness to match could look like a kicked puppy, Vista sure was succeeding, sitting with his back to the headboard in your mother’s bed. “I seem to have over-exerted myself.”

You grunted, wringing out another boiled washcloth and dabbing at the new stitches bisecting his torso. Up, down, flip to a clean section. Up, down, repeat. A nearly hypnotic pattern, if only for how many times you’d had to do it for your mother. 

Vista’s body was a knot of muscle and scar tissue, some old, some pink and raw, but the most obvious one was the angry red chasm of pulsing muscle and flaking skin bisecting his torso. The wound had been healing, but his attempt at swordplay this morning had torn open half his stitches and caused it to gape open, blood drooling down his stomach. He wouldn’t be able to bend over for a few weeks—or maybe he would, considering how fast he’d healed the first time. 

Again: pirates were weird.

“I told you to rest. You didn’t listen to me,” you said sullenly. And apologies didn’t make beris fall out of the sky, especially when someone was stupid enough to raise his swords after you explicitly told him not to. 

Vista coughed. “If it makes you feel any better, I also don’t listen to my ship’s medic.”

You wanted to wring his neck, but that’d aggravate his wounds and force you to redo his stitches for a third time. So you dropped the stained washcloth into the basin with the other dirty towels and reached for the jar of dawndew pulp on the nightstand. 

“Breathe in,” you said, and laughed when he choked, hand flying to his nose. “That’s what you get!” 

“That’s foul,” he coughed, pinching his nose. “You’re foul.”

“You deserve it,” you said. “Lift your arm.”

He did, keeping a careful hand over his face. Drama queen. It wasn’t that bad. 

You smeared the pungent poultice around the wound, then grabbed the roll of bandages and gestured. Obediently, he pinned one end beneath his arm, and you wound the other end around and around his torso until the foul scent disappeared beneath fresh cloth. 

“There. That should hold for the day,” you said once you’d packed the dawndew away. “I’ll check tomorrow morning to see if it’s leaking pus.” Which was beyond your skillset, but hopefully you would never cross that particular bridge. 

“Thank you, Musashi,” Vista said, finally removing his hand from his nose. “Really.” 

Your cheeks began to burn, and you busied yourself with shoving the wound care supplies back into the first-aid kit so he wouldn’t catch your embarrassment. “You’re my guest. It’s the least I could do.” 

“Still.” Vista gingerly swung his feet over the edge of the bed and lifted a hand as if to prod his chest. A hint of amusement slipped into his voice. “How long before I’m allowed to exercise again, Doctor Musashi?” 

You slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch!”

Vista blinked. Then, inexplicably, he began to smile. “My apologies. I was simply admiring your handiwork.”

You snorted, tucking the bandages on top of the ointment. “That’s not what you’d say if you were a seamstress.”

“Not the stitches,” he murmured. 

Your fingers twitched on the pair of medical scissors. The wound had been deep but clean. Clinical, even. Take a picture and it could probably go into a medical textbook, the same way you’d butcher a pig for its parts. But Vista wasn’t livestock, and you were far from the best butcher on the island. 

As Vista gingerly pulled his shirt over his bandages, you slid the scissors back into place and closed the first-aid kit. “I have a gift for you,” you said. 

“Oh?”

You lugged the basin of dirty washcloths into the bathroom and tucked the first-aid kit back into the cabinet. Then you carried the green bundle into the bedroom and dumped it onto the bed. “You wanted to sharpen your swords, right?” you asked, peeling away the ratty fabric. “This was my brother’s old whetstone. You can use it.”

Delight flooded Vista’s expression, followed by a strange sort of sadness as he touched the whetstone. His eyes were soft as he said, “Was?”

“He’s not dead,” you said, miffed by the assumption. You sat at the foot of the bed and noted how the mattress creaked beneath your weight. “He just went to the Grand Line and left a bunch of crap behind.”

Vista’s eyes got sadder. You switched tactics. “He’s fine. He’s a better swordsman than I’ll ever be.” 

“I can't imagine that.”

“That a village bumpkin like him got into the Grand Line?”

“That he’s stronger than you,” he murmured. 

You shrugged, picking at your nails. You remembered being seven and listening to your brother declare his newest obsession with swords, thinking that he’d forget about Tomo and the dojo in a month. Imagine your shock when he turned sixteen and set off for some grandstanding ambition to become the best murderer on the Four Seas. “He’s my older brother. He’s always been stronger.”

A soft sigh escaped Vista’s lips. “That is, I suppose,” he said, “the nature of siblings.” 

Pick, pick. Dead skin fell onto the mattress. You’d scrubbed your nails raw before treating Vista’s wound, but there was something fascinating about the pink flesh, dry and flaking. 

“Musashi,” Vista said. You looked up. “You should join my crew.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked. All those weeks ago, your response had been to laugh and laugh until you fell off your stool. You didn’t laugh this time.

You, a pirate? Sure, a couple of idiots before your brother had been lured away by the Navy with promises of discipline and glory, still others by the sailor’s guild. But pirates were a different beast. Even peace-mains like Vista had a bizarre fever in their voices whenever they spoke about that unending horizon, not greed or desire or impatience but wanderlust, both rarer and more terrifying than them all.

You didn’t get it. You doubted you ever would. 

“I’m bad with boats,” you said. 

“The Moby Dick is a ship,” Vista corrected.

“If you say so.”

He shifted. The creaking grew louder. You stared at the bedframe, wondering if it was finally surrendering to his weight. Wouldn’t be the first time you broke something of your mother’s. “You seem reticent.”

“Do I,” you muttered, curling your fingers into a ball. 

But Vista was no longer listening. “This island doesn’t need to be your beginning and end, Musashi. You could be stronger. Better.” 

“Sounds lonely.”

Vista laughed, incredulous. All the pirates you’d ever known were mean-faced and sneering, and Vista shared their damning greed in the wolfish slash of his grin. “Not with a crew. Not with a family,” he said in the breath, as if they couldn’t bear to be spoken separately. 

“No,” you said, too quickly. Your jaw clenched, and you looked back down, scrubbing your sweaty hands against your thighs. Half-moon divots covered the flesh of your palms. “No, sorry. I don’t want to join your crew.”

Vista’s face flickered into a frown. Then he caught himself. “I… can’t say I understand. Do you really harbor no ambitions? Nothing at all?” His gaze settled on the side of your head, an oddly gentle feeling. “Musashi, what exactly are you afraid of?”

“I’m happy here,” you said. “I don’t know what else you want from me.”

With a quiet, nearly inaudible sigh, Vista dipped his head. He fluttered his fingers across the whetstone before folding the blanket over it, a painstakingly tender gesture that made your chest tighten. “I see,” he said, though he definitely did not. “Thank you, Musashi, but I’m afraid this whetstone won’t work.”

You cleared your throat awkwardly, mouth gritty. “You asked for sharpening tools.”

“There are different tools for different blades. A whetstone is fit for a single-edged blade. Not rapiers, which only require sharpening from around the halfway point. They’re also prone to burrs, so one must take care not to nick the blade on accident.” Vista must’ve recognized the dumbfounded look on your face because he laughed, brighter than the last. “Am I boring you?”

“No, I just,” you said, and then quietly, “I didn’t know.”

Vista smiled. “That’s alright,” he assured you. “You can still learn.”

The next morning, you snapped a branch off the tree in the backyard and fashioned a walking stick for Vista. The poor thing was barely taller than his hip, but it worked well enough for a five-minute project you’d completed between cleaning the stable and refilling the water troughs. 

After releasing the sheep and goats to graze in the field, you returned to the house and went upstairs to change Vista’s bandages. You couldn’t even muster any surprise when you peeled away the old bandages, revealing a wound that was puckered and half-closed like it was a few months old instead of weeks. Vista wrinkled his nose but otherwise sat demurely as you reapplied the dawndew poultice and rewrapped his chest. 

He rejected the walking stick, though. Said it’d interfere with his footwork, whatever that meant. 

Once he’d dressed himself, you gestured. He obliged, a little confused. Only half paying attention, you wrangled his hair into a ponytail and tied it off with one of your mom’s old ribbons: yellow, to match the pair of jewels embedded in his ears. 

“There,” you said. “Looks nice.” 

He smiled. “Thank you.”

You were halfway down the stairs when your mistake hit you. By then, it was too late to take it back. So you swallowed your mortification and settled Vista down at the kitchen table, then started rummaging through the ice box for the eggs you’d traded for a block of goat’s cheese last week. 

Vista lasted two minutes before you heard shuffling and footsteps. “Do you need help?” 

“I need you to sit down,” you said, eying the top cabinet with a scowl. Usually you’d just climb on the counter, pride be damned, but Vista was watching and you couldn’t sacrifice your dignity as a host like that. 

You barely had time to blink before Vista reached over and grabbed the jar of nori flakes from the top shelf with a freakishly long arm. “This one?” 

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” 

“Your wish is my command,” Vista said. He sounded amused, damn him. “Anything else, captain?”

“Shut up.” You paused. “Can you grab the miso?”

Breakfast was usually oats and whatever you didn’t manage to sell at the last weekend market. Since Vista’s arrival, though, you’d been pulling out all the stops, mostly due to his insistence on helping in the kitchen. His chopping skills were even more formidable than his swordplay, and he made a mean poached egg. 

“My friend is a cook, so I have experience participating in his food experiments,” Vista said, flipping a tamagoyaki perfectly in the air. Oil sizzled and popped. “Consider me your sous chef.”

You tasted the miso soup and frowned. “Can my sous chef please hand me the green onions?”

He did. You sprinkled them into the pot and tasted it again. Not quite the same as the way your mother used to make it, but manageable. You ladled out two bowls and brought it to the kitchen table to join the spread of pickled radish, rice, and delicately fried fish.

“I’m going into the village today to drop off deliveries and grab groceries. You should come with me,” you said once you’d stuffed yourself full. “We’ll stop by the swordsmith and get what you need.” 

Vista dabbed his mouth delicately with a napkin. He’d practically licked his plates clean, which was both an ego boost and a terrifying reminder of your dwindling food storage. You doubted he was even full. He’d stopped eating as soon as you set down your chopsticks with a speed that implied polite etiquette rather than satiety. “That sounds wonderful. I’m excited to see your village again.” 

You grimaced. “It’s just a lot of grass and trees.” And ocean, you supposed, but Vista was a pirate, so that’d be like showing water to a fish. 

“There’s wonder everywhere for those willing to witness,” Vista said. 

Again: weirdo. But you supposed that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Nelly didn’t like to be left behind, but she still folded her ears back and hissed whenever she saw Vista, and you didn’t want to give him a dislocated knee on top of his pre-existing injuries. So you scratched her beneath the chin and promised to bring her carrots. 

She, in turn, butted your thigh harder than usual, probably trying to ram you out of the way so she could get Vista. You sighed and led her back to the field, shutting the fence behind her with a stern warning not to harass the other nannies. She tossed her head and flicked her tail, as if to say, Of course! You snickered and went to the cellar to grab your wagon. 

The two of you started down the path towards the village just as the sun climbed to its peak, warming Vista’s complexion. He kept glancing towards the ocean, dark curls glowing gold in the light. His twin rapiers were hilted on either side of his hips, and you couldn’t help but think that he looked right with them there, that there had been an unsettling emptiness when he’d gone barehanded. “You have a beautiful view of the sunrise,” he remarked. 

You followed his gaze to the edge of the water where foamy waves met long stretches of sand. You played there all the time as a kid, but now the only thing you could remember was the awful grit of saltwater in your mouth. “We do.” 

“I can see why you don’t wish to leave it behind.”

Your retort caught in your throat. The island was a floating rock in the middle of an unforgiving ocean that contained all your worldly possessions. There was nothing special about that. But you couldn't imagine leaving to join some pirate’s crew on the sea—not without your parents’ gravestone, not knowing that Arashi might return at any point and see an empty house, devoid of animals and your mom and you. 

“Sorry,” you muttered. The wagon went thump, thump, thump against the stone path as you dragged it along. “I still have things to do.” 

He squeezed your shoulder. “It’s alright. The offer is still in the air if you ever change your mind. Pops and my brothers would love to meet you.”

“I appreciate that,” you said, and was surprised to find it was the truth. 

The market was already in full swing by the time the two of you reached the village proper. Before you reached the main road, you yanked Vista’s shirt. “Don’t talk,” you advised. 

Vista cocked his head. “May I ask why?”

“You’re an outsider, and you look like you know how to fight. That usually means mercenary or pirate, and neither of them are particularly popular around these parts.” You also didn’t know how much of the village he’d managed to see on that first day, but you couldn’t imagine it being a great first impression. For all of the ill-fitting clothes you’d scavenged from your dad’s closet and the disarmingly yellow ribbon in his hair, he was still unmistakeably foreign.

Vista touched the hilts of his rapiers thoughtfully. Eventually, he nodded. “Understood. I’ll leave the talking to you.”

You released his shirt and tugged your wagon forward. As usual, there was a brief lull in conversation as people registered your presence before the noise swelled to full volume, an attempt at normalcy that never worked—though the ruckus seemed louder today, gossip mill running twice-fold to compensate for the additional presence of Vista behind you. You kept your gaze fixed in front of you, ignoring the wisps of your name you caught floating past. One step at a time. 

“Excuse me,” you said, stopping before the stand of baked goods. People milled around you, dropping off berris in the vendor’s basket and ducking away with their food before you could make eye contact. “You ordered cured pork?”

The vendor rushed to her feet. Her eyes flicked briefly to Vista, then back to you, holding your gaze with a steadfast confidence she didn’t feel. There were gray streaks in the hair tucked beneath her hairnet. “Musashi! Yes, I did. Two bundles of cured pork.” 

You rummaged through your wagon. “Here you go,” you said, handing her the brown package wrapped with twine. “Batch from last month. Hope you like it.”

“Thank you. Please, take your pick,” she said, accepting it with a feeble smile. She kept glancing at Vista, a vague consternation tightening her aged features. “How are the animals? Pneumonia’s been going around.” 

“Better now. Eri’s dad helped,” you said, picking out a glazed bun that kind of resembled Nelly. After a moment, you grabbed another one with cat ears. “Can we get a napkin?”

She stuffed everything in a paper bag and handed it to you with a wink. “Enjoy,” she called as you led Vista away to a side-street where you could eat without being stared at. Only when you opened the bag did you realize she’d squeezed in an extra sweet bun. 

“That was kind of her,” Vista commented, leaning against the wall. 

“Yup,” you said, giving him the cat. You remembered her baking little buns with leftover dough and sneaking it to you and your brother when she still had a full head of blond hair. Even now, she asked for your help with small errands, things that could be paid back with an extra loaf or two. “Now stop talking.”

He hummed as he took a bite. Sugar smeared his mouth, which he licked away with a shit-eating grin. “Mm,” he said, nodding over-exaggeratedly. “Mm-mm, mm, mm-mm-mm.”

You kicked his shin. 

You finished the next couple of orders along the same street. A few stopped you and asked for help clearing out a field, or hauling bushels of rice, or hunting a pesky vermin harassing their warehouses. You agreed to most of them, only bartering for a new set of woolen blankets from the weaver. It was going to get colder, and you hated sleeping with cold feet. 

The last stop was the fruit seller (one of many) who’d married a villager and settled next to Eri’s shop a few years ago. Immediately, he frowned when he spotted you approaching. Oh, boy. 

The wagon bumped against the back of your calves as you stopped before his stand. You steeled yourself and plastered on a smile that felt as fake as it probably looked. “Excuse me. You ordered three links of sweet pork sausage, four links of spicy pork sausage, and a pound of beef jerky, right?”

“Yes,” he said tersely. 

“Okay. Give me a second.” You sifted through your wagon. One, two, three… Where the hell did you put the last link of sausage? 

“Who’s that?” the fruit seller said suddenly. “Some sort of intimidation tactic?”

You heard Vista shift, though he remained thankfully silent. “He’s my guest,” you said, shoving aside blocks of cheese and twine-wrapped packages of cured meat. Crap, did you miscount this morning? You were usually good about inventory. One, two…

“Could’ve fooled me.” A brief, blissful silence. “You’re wasting my time. Do you have the rest of my order or not?”

Three, and… A-ha! Four and counting. You held up your prize triumphantly and piled everything onto the counter. “Here you go. That should be everything.”

“Wait,” the fruit seller said, and scrambled behind the crates and crates of plump fruit to grab something from the floor. He straightened and placed a balance on the counter. Jerky went on one side, while a brick of sandstone went on the other. The balance wobbled and tilted every so slightly. His lip twisted. “This is several stones below weight,” he said pointedly. “Even for you, Musashi, this is under-handed.”

“What do you mean,” Vista said suddenly, voice rumbling in a way you’d never heard before, “even for you?” 

“Vista, relax,” you said. To the fruit seller: “Sorry. Just give me half of what we bargained for. Consider it compensation for my error.” 

The fruit seller wasn’t looking at you, though. “Errors are accidental,” he told Vista. “Musashi is a very intentional person.”

“Yup,” you said, pulling out your wallet. “Can I pick some duckberries?”

“You should be careful,” the man said. “You never know what a murderer’s thinking.”

Vista took a step forward, and it was only a step, but the fruit seller flinched back like Vista had drawn his sword. You barged in front of him and slammed a fistful of beris down with your best smile. “I’ll take a bundle of carrots too,” you said, and added, “Please,” when his face remained pale. 

The fruit seller took the beris so fast the edge of the paper sliced your finger open. “Like really does call to like,” he said, indignant and self-assured. “I don’t know why we put up with you. Furiko was the only good thing about your family.”

You stuffed the duckberries and carrots into your canvas bag and tossed it into your wagon. You didn’t know what kind of face Vista was making to scare the fruit seller into backing away so far, but you didn’t care to check. “Thanks for your patronage,” you said, remembering just in time to bow shallowly. 

“That was,” Vista said. 

“Mean?” you said, sitting on a boulder on the side of the road and sucking your thumb forlornly. You never understood why paper cuts hurt more than knife wounds. 

“Cruel,” Vista said, brow furrowing. His fists were balled at his side, and he looked like he wanted to whirl around and throw himself at the fruit seller, reputation be damned. Scary image, but you knew Vista would never draw his swords against a civilian. 

You checked your thumb. Still bleeding, but whatever. “It’s fine,” you said, shaking out your hand. “I’m used to it.” 

“Used to it? Musashi, you’re a child. No one should treat you like that, regardless of your past mistakes.” 

You shrugged. “It used to be worse.” 

“What? How?”

“No one would buy from me at all.” And your mother had cried and cried, apologizing for her weakness, apologizing for your brother’s absence, and you could only hold her and vow to yourself that you’d never be the cause of her tears again. Now, at least, some of the villagers could look you in the eye. So it wasn’t all that bad. “They’ve always held a grudge. I think they were jealous of my dad.” 

Vista’s frown deepened. “You should be furious.” 

“What’s the point in that?” you asked.

“Catharsis? Justice?”

You snorted. As if a pirate knew anything about Justice. Lashing out had never done you any good—not since that time you’d destroyed the fisherman’s stand in a fit of frustration and looked up to see fear, not anger or indulgence or exasperation at a child’s tantrum. 

“Musashi,” Vista said, and you startled when he kneeled before you, imploring you with dark eyes. His hand hovered over yours, not quite touching. “Help me understand. Why do they call you a murderer?” 

“Because I am,” you said. “I killed five people a few years ago.” You stopped, then amended, “Five pirates. I don’t think they’ve ever forgiven me for it.”

Melancholy softened his scowl. He nodded slowly. “I see. That is very brave of you.”

“It wasn’t,” you said. When you closed your eyes, you could see their faces imprinted on your eyelids, slack and drooping as they fell to the earth for the last time. 

“I assume you were defending your island,” Vista said. “Would that not be courage personified?”

You looked away. The street you’d fled to was empty, but you could still hear the market in the distance, the murmur of conversation and the tut-tut of wheels on stone. “But they didn’t have to die. I could’ve— I don’t know, knocked them out, and my brother would’ve chased them off. But I wasn’t good enough.” 

“Those pirates wouldn’t have been merciful to your family.”

“‘Course not,” you said. “But they didn’t deserve to die.” 

His hands enveloped yours and squeezed. “No one chooses to die, but such is the path they pursued. If the outcome of their choice was death, so be it.”

Spoken like a true swordsman.

You stared at the back of his hands, calloused and scarred and covered in a thin layer of dark coarse hair. “When you’re bad with a knife, you can’t butcher an animal. They’ll struggle and bite, so the knife won’t go all the way through. But if you’re good, they won’t even know they’re dead. It’s painless. It’s mercy.” Static crackled in your ears. “What I did to the pirates wasn’t mercy.”

It had been a slaughter. Eri didn’t get it, but her parents did. Feral animals were meant to be fenced off. Sure, you could reach over and feed it bits of dinner so it would learn to stop biting your fingers, but you would never invite it into your home or call it your friend, even if they killed other pests terrorizing the far, not unless you wanted to be mauled in your sleep. That’s why the villagers still traded with you even though most of them wanted you gone—one evil for another.

Even if his hands were just as bloody as yours, your brother had been tamed and muzzled by the dojo. You had no such affiliations, no one to vouch for your domestication. 

So you get why the villagers were afraid of you. You were too, sometimes. 

The grooves deepened between Vista’s sharp eyes. He released your hands and sat back on his haunches and very carefully did not touch his swords. “Perhaps not mercy. Regardless, you should be honored that you’ve defended your village against further harm.” 

“Yeah, sure,” you said. “A real fucking honor.” 

And you would never, ever forgive yourself for it. 

Your brother’s friend was sitting on the front steps of the forge, carving wood with a tiny knife. When he spotted the two of you approaching, he rose to his feet with an excited wave. “Hey! Long time no see.” 

“Shiro,” Vista said, dipping his head. Social propriety chased away his most obvious displeasure, though the faint furrow between his brows remained. He also kept giving you strange, forlorn glances when he thought you weren’t looking, and it was making your skin itch. “A pleasure.” 

You leaned over. Obligingly, Vista bent down enough to let you whisper into his ear, “You know him?”

He made a noncommittal noise. He was still upset, if not at the fruit seller, then you. “We’re acquainted.”

Oh, right. Before your fight, you’d directed Vista towards the dojo. Shiro had likely been one of his victims. 

“I’m sorry,” you said seriously. Startled, Vista laughed. 

As you got closer, Shiro spread his arms as if waiting for a hug. His yukata was a cheerful yellow, though the hems were stained with dirt and who knows what else. With his oil-slick black hair tied in a low ponytail, he looked just like Tomo. “I knew that wasn’t the last I’d see of you! Musashi’s a softie at heart,” he crooned, slapping Vista’s elbow. He had to crane his neck real far to meet Vista’s gaze. “How was it?”

For the first time since your exchange with the fruit seller, Vista’s lips eased into a smile. He inclined his head and made an aborted motion as if to tip a non-existent hat. “As educational as you’d claimed.” 

“Didn’t you beat him up?” you asked Vista, who coughed into his hand. 

“Gently,” he murmured, suddenly abashed. 

“Never knew Grand Liners could hit so hard,” Shiro said, grinning. He patted your shoulder roughly, then pressed his half-finished carving into your hand. “Arashi’s got his work cut out for him, huh?” 

You brushed off your shoulder and put the tiny carved goat into your pocket, suppressing an instinctive swell of irritation. “Whatever. Shouldn’t you be at the dojo?” 

“Nah. It’s the dojo’s day off, so I’m helping out the old man with a project.” Shiro whirled upon Vista with aneurysm-inducing cheerfulness. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. Shimotsuki Koshiro, Musashi’s babysitter.” 

“Excuse me,” you said. “Babysitter?”

“Or brother-in-law.” 

“Brother-in-law?” you said, even more incredulous. “In what world?”

Eyes curving, he reached over to scrub your hair. You ducked out of the way just in time. He looked peeved, then mischievous. “In the world where our brothers are on a world-trotting journey to discover themselves, of course!”  

Oh, seas. You did not want that image of Tomo and your brother in your head. “I’m good, thanks.” 

Shiro only laughed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he told Vista, holding out his hand. 

Vista shook it, too amused for your liking. “Vista of the Flower Swords. Musashi never mentioned you were related.”

“We’re not,” you said.

“Musashi tends to leave out the important bits,” Shiro said at the same time.

Vista blinked. “My apologies. You seemed close.”

“He’s a friend of my brother,” you said, which was a nice way of saying he used to trip me through doorways and make fun of my eyes before he grew enough of a spine to stop kissing my brother’s ass all the time. “Shiro, where’s your dad?” 

“Inside.” 

“I need a favor.” 

“Oh? That’s rare.” Shiro’s black eyes gleamed. “What kind of favor?”

You jutted a finger at Vista. “He needs his swords sharpened.” 

“Rapiers,” Vista corrected, laying his hands on their hilts.

“Yeah, that.”  

Shiro smiled, sharper than the last. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said, sweeping a hand towards the forge. “Come on in! I’ll show you the way.” 

“So,” the swordsmith said. “You’re the newest challenger.”

Vista inclined his head respectfully. “I was, sir.”

The swordsmith grunted. He was small on a good day, but he looked even shorter sitting in his old rocking chair, pipe in hand and drowning in a dark gray yukata. You eyed his long, knobbly fingers, wondering if his red joints were blisters or arthritis. “And?” 

“I lost,” Vista admitted. Wonder glittered in his eyes as he peered at the wall of swords. The swordsmith had added more to the collection since you last saw it, some with intricate pommels, some with dancing waves. You didn’t know enough about swords to appreciate their beauty, but Vista was damn near salivating. 

At least his bad mood had dissipated. You smiled at his back.

The swordsmith nodded, rocking back and forth in an oddly hypnotic pattern. “I’d expected as much.” 

“Sir,” you said, dipping your head awkwardly when the swordsmith turned those unerringly dark eyes upon you. “We need your help. Vista wants to do maintenance on his rapiers, but—”

“—Aoiyuhi no Yoake was an ōdachi,” the swordsmith finished. He took a long inhale of his pipe, letting smoke stream from his mouth and nostrils. “Arashi wouldn’t have had the right tools.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “And I’ve never had that issue with Button, so...” 

Behind you, leaning against the wall, Shiro snickered. “Typical Musashi.”

You were not going to punch him in front of the swordsmith. You were not. 

Vista touched your shoulder. “May I?”

You removed Button from your hip and gave it to him. He unsheathed it, examining its edge. “Button is a… tantō, correct? Of Wano-make,” he said, directing the question towards the swordsmith. 

The swordsmith grunted. “That’s right.” 

“He’s single-edged,” Vista said, running his finger along the flat end of the blade. His eyebrows climbed. “And terribly dull. How long has he been like this?”

“Er,” you said. “Forever? I don’t know.” It still cut fine, so you’d never went further than cleans between uses and a simple polish when it got dirty. 

A grimace flickered across Vista’s mouth before he coughed. “Is that so,” he said. His fingers twitched around Button’s hilt as you took it back, and you were pretty sure if he were two shades less polite he’d be running away with Button in hand, propriety and pride be damned. A little embarrassed, you tucked Button back into its sheathe.

Shiro rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. “Musashi doesn’t do swords,” he said, latching an arm over your shoulders. You resisted the urge to jam your elbow into his side. 

“The little lord doesn’t, but you should,” the swordsmith said. He pinched his pipe between his teeth and hobbled to his feet. “Give me your blades. I'll handle it.”

Vista hesitated, hands settling on the hilts of his rapiers. “I’d prefer to limit external influence on them,” he said apologetically. 

“Ouch,” Shiro muttered into your ear.

“Get off of me,” you replied. He snickered but didn’t move. 

The swordsmith’s expression went flat and unimpressed. He tapped ash from his pipe and set it on a nearby table. “Wait here,” he said. 

He disappeared into the back of the forge. Moments later, he reappeared with a pure-white sword. Shiro’s arm suddenly disappeared from your shoulders, and you caught shock drifting across his face. “You can’t be serious. You’re showing him? ”

The swordsmith’s glance was brief but sharp. Shiro sputtered, jaw clicking shut. 

There was nothing small about the swordsmith as he unsheathed the sword. “This,” he said as the blade tore through the air, “is Wado Ichimonji.”

Vista’s breath hitched audibly. You touched your ears with a wince. Was that what a good blade was supposed to sound like? Like— like shear glass, gliding through the air like water? 

“She’s beautiful,” Vista said breathlessly. He stumbled forward, only to halt a few steps away from the swordsmith, hesitation tightening his shoulders. For the first time, he looked like a cowed student before their master, head bowed and hands held carefully at his sides. “Sir, may I…?”

The swordsmith smiled and resheathed the sword. “Go ahead. She bites, though.”

With trembling hands, Vista reached forward and grasped the hilt of the white blade. You waited, but he did nothing but stand there, painfully still. 

Beside you, Shiro tensed. 

Finally, Vista released a tight sigh, longing and regret in one. “Marvelous. Simply marvelous,” he said, turning the sword on its side and offering it back to the swordsmith with a respectful bow. “My compliments. I would be honored if you could hone my blades.”

The swordsmith eyed him, black eyes narrowing. He didn’t move to take it. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Ah,” Vista said, raising his head slightly, “I’m one of Whitebeard’s, sir.” 

You jolted. Shiro let out an incredulous whistle. Even you knew who Whitebeard was. But Vista hadn’t told you that. Did that you mean you invited a Whitebeard pirate into your dad’s house? No, wait, did you nearly kill and then spend a month trying to treat a Whitebeard pirate?? 

The swordsmith nodded curtly. “Hm. You’re not half-bad yourself.” 

“Is it that impressive?” you blurted out, still reeling from the revelation that Vista was a Whitebeard pirate (holy shit) and that at one point, he’d wanted you to join them (holy shit!). “It’s just a sword, isn’t it?” 

Shiro scoffed. “Musashi, please.”

“What,” you said, flushing. You were trying to learn. 

Vista smiled at you. It was a gentle expression, almost indulgent in its honesty. Nothing like the rumors of the monsters from the New World, world-cleavers and mountain-shapers. 

“No, it’s alright. I’m glad you’re curious.” He glanced at the swordsmith, a silent question. The swordsmith inclined his head, and Vista turned back to you. “All blades—rapiers, tantōs, polearms—are evaluated into certain grades based on their craftsmanship and sharpness. The difference between grades even one tier apart is the chasm between a hobbyist who dabbles in watercolor and a mythical painter who illustrates the stars.” He drew the white sword again, a sharp whistle that rang in your ears. “Wado Ichimonji is what we call a ‘great-grade’ blade, among the strongest and most prized weapons across the Four Seas. I doubt there is a single blade within a thousand leagues that may match her talents. A skilled wielder of a graded blade is said to be able to split the sky in half.”

Vista caught the incredulousness on your face. He laughed, a little breathless. “Sir, may I—”

“We have practice dummies in the back,” the swordsmith said.

“Much obliged.” 

So the three of you were herded to the empty clearing behind the forge with a bunch of the dojo’s wooden practice dummies, though they were all in some sort of disrepair. You spotted a pile of ones sliced in half and frowned. Stupid Arashi. 

“Admittedly, I am not an expert on the art of katanas,” Vista demurred, taking position before a row of four dummies. “But I will do my best, and Shimotsuki-dono is welcome to critique as he sees fit.”

The swordsmith shrugged. There was a faint smile on his lips behind that omnipresent pipe. “Do your worst.”

Vista seemed to brace himself. He swung, and the blade sang as it sliced through the air. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, as if realizing they’d been cut, the top half of the dummies slid off and landed on the ground with a thump. 

Shiro whistled lowly.

“Sharp,” you remarked. 

“Sharp,” Vista agreed, holding the sword up reverently. 

A hand tugged on your hair. Shiro was grinning at you, doing an awful job of hiding the irritation and jealousy in his pointed smile. “See,” he said in an exaggerated whisper, “that’s what happens when you actually take care of your blade.”

That was it.

You shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back, surprise widening his eyes. “Shut up,” you said, stepping forward and unsheathing Button. The swordsmith chuckled beneath his breath. You ignored him. 

“Musashi?” Vista said as you hopped next to him. Apprehension colored his voice, and he took a half-step back.

“Move,” you said, waving Button impatiently at him. 

He did. You eyed the four dummies and took a deep breath. Imagined your brother, ten, drowning in your dad’s yukata, wreathed by a halo of cut grass. Then you slashed down. 

The dummies didn’t move. Behind them, a line of trees rustled as they toppled over, sliced cleanly in half. Vista’s smile was filled with wonder. “Musashi,” he said, trailing off. 

Shiro was frowning. Good. 

“Hobbyist,” you echoed, sheathing Button with a flick of your wrist. 

Which was of course when Eri burst into the forge, red-faced and panting. 

“Is Musashi here?” she said breathlessly, searching the clearing. 

“Eri?” you said, and she whirled upon you, lunging past Shiro and Vista like a woman possessed. You grabbed her elbows before she could collapse onto her knees. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Realization struck you like a splash of ice-water. “Is it pirates?” 

Her head bowed, and she heaved for breath. You shot a glance at Shiro over her shoulder, who rolled his eyes and disappeared into the forge. 

“Vista,” you said, and was surprised by the evenness of your own voice, “did you—”

“No pirates,” Eri said. You tore yourself away from the startled hurt on Vista’s expression and focused on the feverish brightness of Eri’s eyes, more violet than brown today. “Just… Just let me catch my…”

A knot unwound in your chest, and you nodded, coaxing her into the chair Shiro proffered. Her face was flushed as she sank down, either from embarrassment or concern. “Sorry for scaring you,” she muttered, wiping a line of sweat from her forehead. 

“It’s fine.” 

You were rather glad for it, in fact. Two pairs of eyes burned the back of your neck, and you’d rather pretend to be busy by talking to Eri than acknowledge your mistake. Humiliation was the least of it. You’d been too eager, too smug about knocking Shiro down a peg, and to be fair it has been a powder keg exploding after a long, long, day. But your dad had had plenty of long days. Your mom had suffered more long days in her life than you’d eaten grains of rice.

You shouldn’t have lost your temper, and your face grew hot as you pressed two fingers against her throat, checking her fluttering pulse. Fast, but you could chalk that up to exertion. She was sweating buckets, but (with all kindness) Eri never went outside, so this was pretty normal for her. 

“Do you need water? Something to nibble on?” you asked, pulling back. 

“A paper bag to breathe into?” said Shiro, and you couldn’t help but shoot him a glare. 

“Shut up, Shiro,” Eri snapped, drawing herself up. Shiro shrugged. “Good afternoon, Shimotsuki-sama. And—” She faltered. A strange hardness creeped into her voice as she focused on Vista. “A guest, I presume?”

“He’s mine,” you said quietly, which was— weird to admit, but he was your guest and you’d treat him as such until he left. “Vista, this Kotetsu Eri. She’s an apprentice herbalist. Eri, Vista. He’s a pirate.” 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Eri,” Vista said politely. 

Eri’s lips thinned. One of her hands reached up and gripped the straps of your overalls. “So you’re the reason why Musashi’s been buying ointment and dawndew from us,” she said flatly. “Was the fight worth it?”

Vista smiled. “Oh, yes. Very much so.”

You frowned at him. He raised his hands in surrender. 

Eri yanked you towards her. “Musashi,” she said into your ear, pulling an envelope from her kimono and pressing it into your hand, and there was something maddeningly hopeful in her voice, “my dad’s friend just returned from Loguetown. I think—” 

Before you could stop yourself, you snatched the envelope from her hand. Your name was written in blocky, straight-laced text, the same handwriting that covered half of the things piled in the back of the cellar. 

In the background, you heard Eri murmur to Shiro, clearly not wanting Vista to overhear. Not that it mattered. You once dropped a plate in the kitchen and Vista appeared at the door a few seconds later with straw in his hair.

Footsteps, and suddenly Shiro was right there, tearing the envelope apart with a cluck of his tongue. “Wonder what Kojiro wants now,” he mused. “More money? Food? Another graded sword to use and discard as he wishes?”

Your heart thudded in your throat. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but stare at your brother’s handwriting and wait for your vision to clear. 

Paper rustled. Like a canary in a mineshaft, Shiro fell silent.

Then he said, “Bastard.” 

Fear stayed your hand. Dread moved it.

NOT YET.

“He pisses me off,” Shiro said. 

“Mm,” you said, sweeping the broom across the ground. Scattered straw joined the pile in the center of the clearing. 

“What a bastard. Who does he think I am, his babysitter?”

“Mm.”

“Musashi,” Shiro snapped. “Say something.”

You lifted your head, vision blurry. Eri had cried and apologized profusely before she left, even though it wasn’t her fault your brother was an idiot. The swordsmith and Vista had ducked into the forge to complete maintenance on his rapiers and Button, so the two of you stayed behind to clean up the splintered remains of the dummies.

“What is there to say?” you said, flat as flint. “Arashi doesn’t care. Neither does Kojiro. They won’t come back until—”

“—until they’re the strongest,” Shiro finished. He threw the tattered remains of his letter to the ground, where the wind tossed it away. 

A cold droplet splashed against your nose. Slowly, steadily, rain fell from the gloomy sky, and you lowered your head and blinked water from your lashes. Sweeping was going to be a pain when everything was wet. 

Shiro scoffed and folded his arms over the end of his broom, pressing his forehead against them. “You know what the worst part is?” he spat. “I can’t go after him. He left the title of head of the dojo to me, and I can’t even fight him to prove that I deserve the role— Dammit. Dammit!” He glared at nothing. “What now, Musashi? Are you going after your brother and dragging him back while I'm stuck here where everyone knows I’m just a replacement?”

The last word, he whispered hoarsely. The broom was too tall to hold comfortably. You adjusted your grip on the knotted wood and kept going. “I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I have to protect the village,” you said.

Wood clattered to the ground. You looked up. Shiro’s expression was somewhere between a grin and a snarl, his broom hurled to his feet in a splash of muddy rainwater.

Strange. You liked him better like this, all jagged edges and writhing jealousy.

“Who do you think we are, huh? We may not be as strong as you, but the dojo—”

“That’s not it,” you said, and spat out your suspicions for the first time since Vista arrived. “I think someone put a bounty on me.”

Shiro’s mouth clicked shut. He didn’t ask when because he wasn’t stupid, and correlation wasn’t causation but it sure as hell looked like it when the frequency of pirate attacks on your village ramped up right after you chased off a rich grand line merchant with a penchant for orange. Why else would they target a tiny backwater village in the middle of the Twilight Isles, home to the Hero of the Navy? That bastard had placed a bounty on you, and it must’ve been enough beris that pirates and bounty hunters alike chased you down for it. 

You dragged the bristles of the broom across the ground, leaving scrapes of dark mud. Regret didn’t feed stomachs and it sure as hell couldn’t turn back time, but penance had its own rewards. It had to.

“They’ll keep coming even if I leave, but if I stay here, I can protect all of you,” you said. “It’s my bounty, so it’s my responsibility to defend the village.”

Shiro cuffed you over the head hard enough to make you jolt forward. The broom slipped out of your hands and clattered to the ground.

“Hey!” you said, too shocked to be angry. 

But Shiro didn’t hit you again. Instead he dragged a hand over his face with a low, strained chuckle. The rain battered his shoulders, plastering his oil-slick hair to his neck. “You’re dumber than Arashi. How did I miss that?” He laughed into his palm, harsher. “You and your ego. You piss me off. Not everything revolves around your big head.”

You bristled. “It does in this case! The whole situation’s my fault. It was me who angered that merchant, me who should have—“

“—let that asshole keep harassing Mister Kotetsu and Eri?” You sputtered. Shiro shook his head. “So this whole time I’ve been losing to a brat who can’t even figure out that one plus one is two.”

Rain bled into your mouth. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“You know who else exists besides you and that damn goat of yours?” He raised his fingers one by one. “Me. My dad. The dojo. And if you don’t trust them, we’ve got a hundred angry villagers who are dying to pick up a pitchfork and kick ass. So don’t be stupid. It’s not like you’re the only fighter on this island.”

Shiro gripped your shoulders and stared you straight in the eye. “Musashi,” he said, ”go after Arashi.”

“—sashi? Musashi!”

You blinked.

“I think you’ve bullied the garlic enough,” Vista said, amused.

You looked down at the cutting board and winced at the pile of mashed garlic beneath your knife. “Sorry. Spaced out,” you said, sliding a finger along Button’s newly sharpened edge to dislodge bits of destroyed garlic. Puree worked too, you guess. 

Vista slid a bowl of paper-thin slices of beef towards you. “Are you alright? You’ve been distant.”

You poured the garlic mush onto the beef slices and dumped in the rest of the mixed spices, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Just a little on edge.”

His gaze seared the back of your neck. “You’re upset.” 

“I’m not,” you said sharply, and slammed Button down hard enough to crack the cutting board in half. You stared at it, a frustrated scream pressing against your teeth. 

Calloused hands reached over and removed the remaining pieces of the cutting board. As you stood there, hands clenched and teeth gritted, Vista cleaned the counter and nudged you towards the kitchen table. Once the stew was bubbling away cheerfully, Vista took a seat in front of you. His voice was soft with understanding. “You don’t need to explain, but I’d like to know what I can do for you.”

You inhaled. Exhaled, forcing yourself to relax every muscle in your body.

“Vista,” you said, “you’ve been to the Grand Line, right?”

He tilted his head, clearly taken off guard by the abrupt switch in topic. “Of course. I’ve spent most of my life there.”

“Then—” You tripped over your words, but you forged on, afraid that if you’d stopped now you’d never spit them out. “You can take me with you, right?”

The corners of Vista’s mouth began to tilt into a smile. He cleared his throat and straightened, trying not to seem too overeager. “I don’t see why not,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Does this… Does that mean that you’ve changed your mind? You’ll join my crew?”

Before you could stop yourself, you nodded. You still didn’t like boats, and you had no idea why the most fearsome pirates on the Four Seas would want someone like you on their ship, but—

Your brother never paid respect to the new gravestone in the backyard. 

“I’m going to find my brother,” you said grimly, “and I’m dragging him back here with me, greatest swordsman or not.”

He owed you as much.