Archive of Our Own ^beta

Glowing, golden eyes slide open in the darkness. A hand with long, clawed nails scratches at the wood of a coffin, slowly scraping away handfuls of slivers, digging inexorably. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Mihawk loved his name. Dracule Mihawk, the keen-eyed bird of prey. He was a hunter, he was free, he stood alone. Growing up in the orphanage he hadn’t had much, but he’d still known who he truly was. He didn’t steal food from the other boys, he was above that, but no one ever managed to take what was his. Even when he was half the size of some of the older boys he was too vicious to be worth challenging.

He didn’t have friends, but he wasn’t entirely icy to the other orphans. Laying in bed in the winter, dressed in all the clothes they owned, they would swap stories and dreams and hopes. Almost all of them had gotten separated from their parents when the war up north hit, and many didn’t know what had happened to their family. Most of the boys dreamed of finding them, getting rescued by some relative or another and falling into a life with two hot meals a day.

Mihawk didn’t care about family. When asked what he wanted, he always said the same thing. They still always asked him what his dream was, whether out of polite interest or amusement he couldn’t tell.

“I’m going to be a highwayman,” he’d say, laying on his back with his hands under his head, staring at the bunk above his. “I’m going to bleed you all dry, and if you don’t pay up, I’ll kill you.”

No one was surprised, no one was upset. It was clear to everyone that Mihawk would never be a tame dog, and the idea of him robbing people on the byways felt only natural. The boys would roll their eyes, or chuckle, or reach over to his bunk to poke at him teasingly. Mihawk only smirked and swatted their hands away.

A knight who was too old to help in the war visited once a week and taught the boys swordsmanship to keep them out of trouble. Mihawk didn’t put effort into sword fighting like some of the other little idiots. He didn’t need to. Mihawk was a duelist. It wasn’t effort, it was existence. He was only real when his hands were wrapped around the hilt of a practice sword. There was something positively erotic about the first time he took up a metal weapon, his pupils growing so wide his eyes looked black instead of their natural hazel.

It didn’t take long before Mihawk could best anyone who lived within a week’s travel of the orphanage.

At sixteen years of age, the fledgling fluttered his wings and stepped out of the nest – lacing up his boots in the dark night, stealing only one day’s worth of food from the locked larder, and creeping outside without letting the door squeak.

Stealing a horse was irritatingly easy in an open countryside where the only deterrent was if the guard dogs were nearby. Finding tack that wasn’t ugly took a few attempts, but eventually he waylaid someone with a matching black saddle and bridle.

Within a couple months, Mihawk had his life figured out. He knew how to avoid a militia ambush, which travelers were worth attacking and which were too much effort. He could read the contents of a purse by the sight and weight of it, and he knew which seams were easiest to sew gems into. He learned how much to bribe innkeepers (less than you’d assume) and how long to stay in one place (never as long as you think is safe).

He loved every single moment of it. The theatrics, the planning, the intimidation, the fights, the blood that dripped from his sword’s tip… Mihawk had become a highwayman, and he truly felt like he was soaring.

It was a setup so basic it was practically routine, one Mihawk had done dozens of times over his few years of robbery. The carriage was nice, but not overly ornate, and had five guards, one of whom sat beside the driver as the mounted four held a sloppy formation around the carriage. The road was usually busy, but Mihawk knew that there was “coincidentally” a handy fallen log up ahead, so he only had to worry about someone coming up the road from behind his prey. The horses pulling the carriage slowed as they started to tack up a hill, and Mihawk urged his horse from the forest to the side of the road, cantering suddenly out beside the carriage.

The guards started and shouted, pulling in their horses. Mihawk dismounted, grabbing the carriage horses by their reins. A face peeked out from the small window, vibrant red hair falling down around it. The girl – was she still a girl? She looked to be about Mihawk’s age, and he certainly didn’t consider himself merely a boy – didn’t seem afraid. Time to change that.

Mihawk stepped forward confidently, the guards wavering at his calm businesslike demeanor.

“You’re kidnapping this girl,” he bluffed, putting on every ounce of audacity he’d collected over the years – and it was a deep well to draw from.

“No! We’re escorting her,” the lead guard said, awkwardly jumping down from beside the driver. “Who are you?”

Mihawk lifted his chin. He’d had a growth spurt after his first year on the job, which was good – the more he could intimidate others the easier his job was. “I’m a citizen trying to do well by this poor girl. I heard there were kidnappers all over this horrid country.”

“Well, all’s right here,” the guard said frostily, regaining his composure.

“Are you sure?” Mihawk said, glaring suspiciously at him. “I could never live with myself if something happened to a poor innocent girl when I could have prevented it.”

One of the mounted guards looked nervously at the carriage, as if eager for the occupant to come out and defend her business to Mihawk. Unfortunately, the leader knew his role better.

“You have no right to stop and question us. Kindly let us pass on,” he said, voice hard.

Mihawk took another step towards the carriage, moving as if to peer through the curtain at the window. “I really do want to see if she’s alright,” he said, trying not to let his body look too tense and eager.

The carriage door opened. “Hilfred, what’s-”

The moment he saw the pale hand come into view Mihawk moved. He twisted his body out of reach of the guard, hand closing around the wrist tightly and yanking, pulling the girl out of the carriage. As she tumbled towards the ground, only barely catching her balance, Mihawk drew his dagger and pressed it to her throat.

Everyone froze except for the girl. She slowly stood upright, grey eyes trained calmly on Mihawk’s face. It was unnerving how calm she was. Still, as Mihawk pulled her close, shifting his dagger closer to her jugular, she was pliable. If anything it felt like she leaned into his chest, tipping her head back to give him freer access. It felt like a challenge.

The guards were clearly trying to decide if there was any way they could rush him and save their charge. Mihawk tightened his grip on the girl. She tipped her head back and moaned.

Mihawk… was confused. He’d never wanted anyone enough to bother with sex, and it was only a liability in his line of work, anyway. This rich maiden shouldn’t be any more experienced than him, and she was in a life-or-death situation. Why had she made such a filthy sound, and why had it worked on him? It was like his veins were alive. She was warm against him, and his dagger hand trembled slightly.

He realized too late that he’d fallen for her trap. She’d known it would throw him off to act aroused, she’d known how much she could distract him. He’d been outwitted. Mihawk tried to grab for her hair as she dropped to her knees, slipping out of his arms, dagger barely glancing against her cheek enough to draw blood.

An elbow thrown back and up to his crotch had Mihawk dropping on top of the girl, trying to get a hold on her. She knew he didn’t want to kill her – she was his only leverage in the situation – but she assumed she was the only part of his plan. That, of course, wasn’t true. After all, he hadn’t known for certain that he could get close enough to hold the passenger of the carriage hostage. It was time for his backup plan.

Mihawk stood and drew his sword, ramming it through the first guard to make a grab at him. The girl gaped up at him from the ground. Mihawk smirked and let his soul fly.

Four more guards and one carriage driver later, Mihawk found himself picking through boxes of the girl’s belongings. She sat amongst the bloody remains of her men, watching him thoughtfully.

“The seam work on this is atrocious,” Mihawk spat as he held up a corset. “Your seamstress should be executed for that. It’s a waste of fine fabric.”

“My mother made me that for my wedding,” the girl said lightly. “To be fair, I don’t disagree about the execution. She’s a horrible seamstress and a massive bitch.”

Mihawk snorted and started pocketing the nicer jewelry. “You seem a little young to be married.”

“You seem a little young to be a murderer. Not to mention I’m nineteen, and I’m not married yet. Pity there’s no good way to fake my death, an incident like this could have been my chance to get out of the whole thing.”

“What, and walk away from your family fortune?”

“Why not? They don’t let me do anything interesting anyway.”

“Interesting like what?” Mihawk paused going through her undergarments to look for hidden coins and stared at her.

“Kissing pretty boys,” she said with a crooked smile. She looked elegant, long red hair falling in waves around her shoulders, eyes burning and bright.

Mihawk found himself lost for words.

“You’re too cute,” the girl said, chuckling. “What’s your name?”

“Mihawk,” he said, giving his actual name for the first time since he became a highwayman.

“Mihawk. Well, if I tell you something important will you take me with you to the next town you go to?”

He stared into those ashy eyes and swallowed thickly. “Depends on how important, I suppose.”

The girl pointed away down the road. She didn’t have to say anything. Mihawk noticed the approaching wagon and swore. It was second nature to swing her up onto the saddle of his horse before him. She sat sidesaddle, gripping his coat for balance.

When they were well off the road, hidden by deep trees and undergrowth, Mihawk helped her down, standing face-to-face with her. They moved at the same moment, lips meeting in a level of passion Mihawk had never considered.

By the time they were panting in the bracken, Mihawk’s hands had explored her thoroughly, and they were both grinning with primal satisfaction.

“What’s your name?” he murmured against her neck, feeling the way she sucked in a breath of pleasure as he nipped at her throat.

“I have to tell you something first,” she said, and he caught the first flicker of hesitance in her. She wasn’t ashamed or afraid, she was bracing to be defensive. “I’m a man.”

Mihawk tipped his head, rough hand still caressing over soft breast. “…are you sure?”

“Yes,” the redhead snarled like a tiger. “No one ever believes me but it’s true. I know it is.”

“Alright. What’s your name?” Mihawk said, kissing his throat again. The man moaned, gripping Mihawk’s coat tightly.

“Sh-Shamrock,” he said, eagerly grinding up against Mihawk.

Mihawk bit back a groan. “Well Shamrock, don’t you think it’s time you learned to handle a dick like a real man?” They grinned at each other, feral and wild.

“Only if you let me join up with you,” Shamrock said, that playful danger back in his eyes. “Trust me, I’m useful in a pinch.”

Mihawk always figured he’d work alone, but maybe there were some exceptions that could be made.

Mihawk woke up to a tongue stroking along his cock. He didn’t have to open his eyes to reach down and tangle his hands in Shamrock’s tangled hair. “Morning,” he mumbled.

Shamrock sucked lightly at his tip for a moment. “Morning,” he said, and Mihawk could feel him grinning as he took him into his throat. Mihawk scrubbed at his eyes, letting himself moan – Shamrock liked it, even if it felt a bit embarrassing to let his sounds out.

The morning light shone around the edges of the tattered inn curtains. Mihawk had slept far later than usual, but a night spent wine-drunk in Shamrock’s arms was worth it.

“I love you,” he murmured, tugging on Shamrock’s hair until the man whimpered. And fuck, Mihawk did love him. Shamrock was passionate: a passionate lover, passionately angry, filled with emotion and craving and violence. He was beautiful.

Shamrock’s ministrations slowed, hesitating. Mihawk had learned to read him fairly well in the year they’d spent living and thieving together, and he knew Shamrock was thinking about something. The man’s wit was so quick that it took something serious to truly distract him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently, tugging Shamrock up to face him.

Shamrock glared at him. “You already know,” he grumbled a bit petulantly. “You always know.”

Mihawk nodded. He did know. They spent all their time together, after all. And… well, it wasn’t like it took much intelligence to count the days. He’d been waiting for Shamrock to admit it. He didn’t blame the man for being in denial, but a conversation was long overdue.

“What do you want to do about it?” Mihawk wasn’t sure of the details, but he knew there were herbs and… things… if one was… unenthused. Okay, maybe he didn’t really know anything.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re… a life on the run isn’t…” Shamrock was trying to talk himself out of what he clearly wanted.

Mihawk cupped Shamrock’s jaw in his hand. “Shamrock. If you want it, you can keep it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’d never judge you if you didn’t want it, but I’d be honored to help you raise our child.”

Shamrock exhaled, his worry curving into a grin. “Fuck, that was sexy. Are… are you certain?”

Mihawk rolled Shamrock onto his back, settling between his legs. “Yes.”

“Are you going to make me stay behind when you go on jobs?”

Mihawk rolled his eyes. “Since when can I make you do anything? And I want you watching my back as long as you’re capable of it.”

Shamrock rucked up the shirt he was wearing – the only thing he was wearing – so Mihawk had access to that chest he liked so much.

“I’ll have to pretend I’m your wife,” Shamrock said as Mihawk buried two fingers inside him. “It’ll be a better cover, anyway. People really don’t think we’re brothers, for some reason.”

Mihawk rolled his eyes, taking a nipple between his teeth. “Probably cause we don’t look remotely alike,” he mumbled around it.

“Nonsense. You’ve got this – oh, fuck, right there – this dark and dramatic thing going on, but I’m actually the dangerous one. It’s a perfect match.”

“You’re saying I’m not dangerous? I kill people,” Mihawk said, laying back so Shamrock could ride him.

“You only kill them. I play with them,” Shamrock said, eyes shining with beautiful delight.

Mihawk grabbed his hips, but Shamrock didn’t need his help. Shamrock was strong. Shamrock was so gorgeous… They were going to have a child together.

“What are you smiling about?” Shamrock asked, running a tender hand over Mihawk’s face.

“Remember the first time you got drunk?” Mihawk said.

Shamrock tipped his head back and laughed. “Barely. Between the alcohol and the concussion and getting stabbed with a broken bottle it’s all rather a blur.”

“That was when I knew you were a heap of trouble,” Mihawk said, thrusting up into Shamrock to make him gasp. “And it was when I knew you were worth every bit of it.”

“Bastard,” Shamrock purred, voice warm with praise and love. Scarlet hair cascaded down his shoulders and Mihawk tangled his hands in it. Shamrock grabbed his wrist and pulled his palm to his mouth, biting it hard enough that Mihawk felt his entire body tingle.

“How much money do you suppose we’d need to pay our way into the law’s good graces and buy a duchy?” Mihawk asked, partially to distract himself – if he kept focusing on Shamrock’s beautiful face he wasn’t going to last.

“Quite a bit. We have killed several important people along with the rest, so no one wants to forgive our crimes. Still, it won’t be that hard. Not if we stay on the move and pick our targets well.”

“Your optimism is inspiring,” Mihawk said, eyes fluttering closed.

Shamrock laughed as Mihawk came, the redhead looking as glorious and cruel as a golden eagle in a mountain eyrie.

They lay together, their untamable eyes staring into each other.

“I always wanted to find the queen of the iele,” Shamrock said. “I used to hear tales of the things the fey court could do, but I couldn’t be afraid of them. Sure the iele cause trouble some of the time, but it’s said their queen can change a woman’s flesh into a man’s. I thought I wanted that more than anything. But… I don’t mind that I haven’t found her yet. I want to have a child with you, a feral little beast stronger than anyone else. Then I’ll look for her again.”

Mihawk smiled. “I’ll help you look. Enchanting someone into a man’s form can’t be all that hard for the iele. I knew a boy in the orphanage who wanted to be a crocodile when he grew up, that’s a much more unlikely dream.”

Shamrock laughed, eyes smiling. “You never know. I’ve heard the Everwood holds strange things.”

“Sounds like a horrible place. I’d rather stay in Andur, personally.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re one to talk, Sham.”

A rare glimpse of Shamrock’s dimples answered him, and the next thing Mihawk knew his lover was kissing him like both their lives hung in the balance.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Mihawk was pacing like a caged thing, anxious and irritable.

Shamrock rolled his eyes. “I told you, I feel fine. You’ll be gone for what, a day at most? Even if my water breaks, I’m not going to be in immediate danger or anything. Besides, we came to this inn because you heard the innkeeper’s wife was the best midwife in the area. I’ll get her if anything happens.”

“I don’t have to go.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mihawk, we barely have enough money for lodging. You’ve been coddling me too much. If you don’t go soon you won’t be able to set a trap for the coach.”

Mihawk sighed and rested his forehead on Shamrock’s shoulder. “Alright, alright. I’ll go. Stay safe, Sham, alright? I know we’ve been trying to not get caught, but it’s possible rumors have spread. If they know who we are… well, I don’t have to tell you to not hold back.” He gave a wan smile.

Shamrock smirked. “Just because I’m nine months pregnant doesn’t mean I can’t kill.”

“I know. I know. But let me worry, alright?” He grasped Shamrock’s chin and pulled him into a kiss. Shamrock raked his teeth over Mihawk’s lower lip, bruising in that rough way of his.

Shamrock shifted position, trying to find a comfortable way to sit on the mattress as he cleaned his set of knives one by one. The innkeeper had been happy enough to give him and Mihawk the nicest room when he saw Shamrock’s condition, and the only hard part of staying in the simple town was not getting caught doing anything suspicious by the innkeeper’s overly helpful wife.

Shamrock couldn’t stand her. She was nice enough, but she had a very wrong view of who Shamrock was. Yes, fine, he was with child. But he couldn’t be farther from being a mother. It just… made sense. He knew Mihawk wanted a child, and he wasn’t opposed to a little brat with their combined wild freedom. Shamrock was willing to carry it around and birth it and all, but he was never going to be a mother.

Some mothers were kind and gentle and warm. The only warmth he’d held was the burn of Mihawk’s touch, or the coiling lust of battle and blood. He had no use for kindness, and no one had ever called Figarland Shamrock gentle. Even as a child he’d beaten his twin brother bloody for the larger helping of dessert. It had been unseemly in the slight redheaded girl he’d been.

He didn’t like being pregnant. The child, yes, that he could like. But the carrying of it… well, it was survivable, but there was nothing beautiful or magical about knitting some parasitic beast out of his own flesh. If it had been anyone other than Mihawk who had put it there he would have carved himself open and- well, it had been Mihawk. And Mihawk, despite often having the sparkling personality of a bedraggled elderly owl, was the first person to care about Shamrock, something that had equally surprised them both.

Shamrock stretched, setting the last knife aside. 

Looking about the room, Shamrock tried to figure out what to do. He’d thought fondly about his lover and cleaned his weapons, but he was out of interesting chores and could feel boredom descending. He hated being bored. It was one of many reasons he hadn’t been a very successful eligible young lady. After joining up with Mihawk he’d had plenty to focus on and do, but now that he was too pregnant to go thieving he was distressingly unoccupied.

Well, he always could see about stealing from the inn… Mihawk would complain if he found out, he hated when Shamrock took from “honest workers” and now of all times they needed to keep a low profile, but it wasn’t Shamrock’s fault he was all alone and without any diversions.

His foot got stuck halfway in his boot but he managed to get it sorted despite how inconveniently shaped he was from carrying Mihawk’s child. Bastard. One of the nicest parts of pregnancy was getting to blame all the unpleasant parts on Mihawk. If he’d had Shamrock’s good sense to be born with a cunt it wouldn’t have ever been an issue. They might not have ended up with a kid that way, but Shamrock was pretty sure he could have stolen one if they’d been really desperate.

Dressed well enough to head into the main room of the inn, Shamrock stuffed a sheathed knife between his tits and eased the door open. Mihawk, obsessive as always, had oiled the hinges on their first night in case they needed to flee without alerting anyone. Shamrock hadn’t pointed out that it would make it easier for assailants to sneak in as well. No point in giving Mihawk more to worry about.

No one was in the hallway, and Shamrock took careful steps towards the common room. He’d always been good at moving silently thanks to his overbearing mother who was always eager to punish him for the crime of being noticeable.

As it was still early in the day, the common room was empty, fire unattended, but the door to the kitchen was open. It wasn’t likely they had anything valuable, but Shamrock was so sick of the innkeeper’s wife thinking he was some sort of fragile young lady that he wanted to steal something that would inconvenience the whole household, even if it wasn’t worth much to him.

He was hoping to find some sort of tool only used occasionally but still important enough to be missed when he peered around into the kitchen. The hired girl was peeling potatoes, staring out of the window absentmindedly. Shamrock moved quietly, but not so intentionally sneaky to invalidate his ready excuse of looking for someone to help him with a bit of darning. He wasn’t even sure what darning was, to tell the truth. Mihawk did all the clothing repairs the two needed.

There was a knock on the window frame, a glimpse of a hand rapping it sharply. Shamrock had a bad, bad feeling. As the girl slid the window open, he quickly ducked into the open pantry nook.

“What news?” the girl asked.

“He took his horse this morning,” a voice replied. It sounded like Tim, the inn’s ostler. “He won’t be back for hours. I’ve sent Will Scarlet with a message to the Sheriff that we’ll have the highwayman in our clutches by night.”

Shamrock’s blood boiled. He drew his knife from between his breasts. He could kill the girl easily enough, but would he be able to get to Tim? He couldn’t afford to cause a commotion. They were going to set a trap for Mihawk. It wouldn’t work, of course.

“What about his girl?” the maid said. “Do you reckon she’s an accomplice?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she stays put.”

Shamrock snarled at the leering tone in Tim’s voice.

“Well, don’t be too hard on her,” the girl said hesitantly. “She’s our only way to control him. They say his soul is as black as his boots, but I saw how he looked at her. He’ll surrender to protect her, but if you rough her up too much he might not keep his head.”

Shamrock couldn’t hear the rest of their exchange the blood was pounding so loudly in his ears. The bastards thought they could use him as bait? He wasn’t about to stand for it. Tim moved off, and the girl went back to peeling her potatoes.

She didn’t realize what was happening fast enough to scream before Shamrock’s knife was buried in her neck, blood coating the kitchen around them.

Her muscles were still spasming as Shamrock strode back to his room. He needed to get his sword. Then he could get out, get his horse, and find Mihawk. As long as he was out of the village they wouldn’t have the upper hand. As long as there wasn’t a knife to Shamrock’s throat Mihawk wasn’t in any danger from the ridiculous peasants.

Shamrock strode into his room, unsurprised to see Tim the ostler pawing through his and Mihawk’s belongings.

Tim gaped for a moment at his gory figure, then dove for Shamrock’s sword.

No stable hand should have been a risk to Shamrock, who had spent almost two years by Mihawk’s side studying the blade – but Tim’s weapon was far longer than Shamrock’s own, and he ran out of breath so easily at his stage of pregnancy.

Shamrock moved slowly, cautiously. Tim scrambled to get between Shamrock and the door, keeping him blocked in. That was fine, Shamrock didn’t intend to flee without killing him anyway.

“Hey now, pretty,” Tim said, grinning a bit despite the waver in his eyes.

Shamrock lifted his knife, still soaked with the girl’s blood, and licked a stripe along the blade. “You know, it’s been too long since I’ve gotten in on the action. Mihawk doesn’t share kills these days. I’ve been dying to get this kid out so I can go back to doing what I really love, if nothing else.”

Tim paled, sword shaking in his hand.

“You know what my favorite thing to do is?” Shamrock’s eyes lit with glee. He took a deep breath, then moved forward with a practiced smoothness that answered his own question.

Tim tried to stab with the rapier, but Shamrock pushed it aside with his knife easily. He grabbed Tim’s collar and pulled him forward as he jammed the knife upwards into his gut, tearing through his intestines and piercing up past his diaphragm. Blood dripped from Tim’s lips as he coughed and shuddered, dropping Shamrock’s rapier.

It turned out that reaching down and picking up his rapier proved harder than mortally wounding Tim, but a minute later Shamrock was catching his breath, a weapon in each hand. Tim was sitting propped up against the wall, slowly suffocating and bleeding out.

Shamrock’s breathing gradually slowed. The most important thing was to get out of the village. After that he needed to find Mihawk. He couldn’t ride his horse faster than at a walk, how was he supposed to get away while covered in blood?

There was a scream from the direction of the kitchen. He was out of time to make a plan.

Tim gurgled as if trying to say something as Shamrock strode over to the window. They were on the first floor, it was hardly a drop to the ground if he could get out of the window. He punched the shutters, gritting his teeth as he broke the nails, knuckles aching. The window looked into the inn-yard, if the murder scene in the kitchen drew everyone’s attention… but the stables were on the other side of the inn, much closer to the kitchen. He couldn’t afford to get his horse.  

Shamrock clambered out of the window. His body was weak and nauseous, in no condition for what he was putting it through, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to live, and he had to protect Mihawk. Their child would be strong enough to survive, wouldn’t it? Perhaps if it didn’t survive it wouldn’t have been able to handle their criminal life anyway.

Pushing his thoughts away, Shamrock started walking as fast as he could without getting a stitch in his side. Someone saw him and cried out. Someone shouted, asking if he needed help. The handful of others that saw him simply crossed themselves, interpreting his bloody form as some spirit or specter.

He dragged his sword behind him. He’d dropped his knife on the road at some point so he could cradle his stomach, one single moment of kindness towards the child he knew might not live through the pain in his limbs.

A tinker gaped at him from his wagon. How long had Shamrock been walking? Was the village out of sight yet? He didn’t dare look. The only thing he focused on was that he was taking the road Mihawk had, headed towards his lover.

He walked, trying to breathe evenly. On and on he trudged.

Hoofbeats thundered from behind him, and Shamrock stopped, panting. He collected himself as much as he could before he turned, watching the figures approach. It was two young men cantering towards him on foam-flecked horses, one of which Shamrock instantly recognized. That was his horse. They’d taken his horse to run him down. They were going to kill him.

Exhausted, Shamrock lifted the tip of his sword. The men cantered close, then reined in the horses.

Shamrock was so dizzy he couldn’t hear what they asked, but the moment one of them nudged his horse close enough his sword flashed and the inside of the man’s thigh gushed blood. He fell off the horse, screaming as his life poured out of a gash. Shamrock’s rapier glinted with sunlight and blood.

The other one was faster. Shamrock was an excellent fighter, but he was barely able to stay upright, head pounding and ears ringing, lungs frantically trying to get enough air to let him fight.

His rapier stayed true as he stabbed it forward at the man’s chin. The rider swung a stave with full force, slamming it into Shamrock’s temple. At the same moment, Shamrock’s sword pierced through the underside of his jaw all the way into his brain.

The horse spooked and ran as they both crumpled to the ground.

When Will Scarlet went to fetch the Sheriff and tell him that the notorious highwayman that had been terrorizing the area was in his village, he had not expected to run across said highwayman himself.

After questioning him thoroughly at swordpoint, Mihawk left the youth tied to a sapling on the side of the road and immediately turned around. He’d been planning a job, but if there was a trap being laid back in the village… well, he knew exactly who was the most at risk of being harmed.

The bodies in the road were so still Mihawk didn’t recognize them as people at first. It wasn’t until he saw a curl of red hair, darkened with blood, that he hauled on the reins, his horse slipping as it tried to stop on a dime. Throwing himself from the saddle, Mihawk ran to Shamrock.

“Love, wake up,” he said, frantically smoothing hair away from that pale face.

Shamrock’s eyelids fluttered open, but he couldn’t speak. Mihawk traced the blood to a wound on the side of his head, and he froze when he felt the damage.

“Sham,” he whispered, shaking with fear. “Sham, who hurt you?”

The answer was obvious in the two dead bodies lying beside him in the road, but it was bigger than that. Shamrock had promised to stay safe.

Shamrock fell unconscious again.

Mihawk couldn’t read the passage of time as he tried to save him with the few scraps of medical knowledge he had – but how does one splint a broken skull? What tincture can heal a crushed brain?

Eventually he knew all he could do was hold Shamrock in his arms and sob, cradling him close, as he waited for his lover to die. He checked for Shamrock’s soft, uneven breathing every few minutes, and eventually he had to admit that Shamrock was too still, that there was no life in the glimpse of his eyes peering emptily through barely slitted eyelids.

He was gone. Mihawk pressed kisses to every part of Shamrock’s bloody, gory face.

Mihawk was too cold to cry any more. His eyes were burning but dry, his heart stumbling along between painful lurches. Shamrock was dead, his blood pooling beneath them both.

They’d taken Mihawk’s first and only family from him.

He laid his lover out on the packed earth road, the dust turning muddy.

“I’ll be back soon, Sham,” he said softly, brushing red hair away from those empty, staring eyes.

Swinging himself into the saddle, Mihawk slammed his heels into his horse’s sides, urging him into a gallop. Let them try to trap him. Let them try to kill him. A bell clanged in warning as he approached like a madman.

A crossbow fired from a window above took out his horse as he thundered into the village. As the beast pitched forward Mihawk threw himself out of the saddle and drew his rapier. Bows would be the biggest risk, but he doubted they had more than one crossbow, and it would take time to reload. So long as no one had the chance to put a longbow shaft through his chest he’d be fine.

Five men stumbled forward to challenge him in a pathetic display of might. They were wearing thick leather armor and holding the best weapons the villagers had – simple longswords and a couple shields. One man had a curved greatsword with a wide crossguard. Hmm. That would be much more effective for wholesale slaughter than Mihawk’s rapier.

Despite the difference in strength and weight of their weapons Mihawk turned the blade aside easily as he stepped in close, piercing his rapier up through the armpit joint of the man’s armor.

The man dropped his sword with a thud, blood spurting out from under his arm. Mihawk’s rapier flashed, forcing the others back long enough to sheathe his rapier and pick up the greatsword. They realized their mistake far too late.

Mihawk moved like water, moved like a ribbon of light. His new sword cleaved through limbs and necks and shattered ribcages. It dug bloody trenches in anyone who got within range. A wave of villagers with pitchforks and shovels tried to push in close and pin him in, but by the time their makeshift weapons reached him their arms were undefended and within reach. Mihawk stayed in the thick of the villagers so no one could use a bow without risking friendly fire.

Then the useless attempt at a trap fell apart. How could it not when faced with his grief and rage? Mihawk didn’t care if he died, he just needed to kill them all first.

As the villagers scattered, Mihawk charged into the building that he guessed the crossbow bolt had come from.

The crossbow had been reloaded, but it was too heavy to turn and aim at him fast enough when he crashed through the door and slaughtered the one manning it. Another crash of his sword wrecked the device. There were two young women hiding in the room beside it.

Mihawk didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse as he slew them in one blow.

They had taken Shamrock from him. They had done the unforgivable. Let them feel his wrath, let them know his grief.

The villagers started fleeing, realizing that he was an unstoppable force of fury who was perfectly willing to kill any woman or child in his path. The husbands and fathers and sons tried to defend their families, but what could they do against the huge sword in Mihawk’s hands? Why should he pity them when they destroyed everything he had?

No one got away, except perhaps one or two villagers who managed to find somewhere to hide. He purged the town of life, slaughtering them like death with his scythe at the reaping.

The room he’d been in only hours before with his lover held a fresh corpse that hadn’t been left by Mihawk’s wrath. Mihawk nudged the body with his toe, pleased to see that Shamrock had left the man to die in slow suffering.

He was coated in bloody mud when he went stumbling back up the road to Shamrock’s body. He’d done it. They were all dead, or as close to all of them as he could easily find. Except there were figures kneeling beside Shamrock.

They were mutilating Sham’s body.

He wouldn’t kill them quickly. They didn’t deserve that. He was going to make them die in pain and torment, just like that stablehand had died by Shamrock’s hand. Eyes blazing with fury, he stalked forward. It seemed to be an old man and an old woman, and some sort of furry pet of a creature.

The old man saw his approach and stood, opening his mouth to say something.

Mihawk lifted his sword. “You have no right to touch him,” he growled.

“Are you-”

Before the man could finish his words Mihawk brought the sword down, ripping through the flesh of his chest, a deep wound but not an immediately fatal one. The damage was too extreme to be healed but designed to be painful first and deadly second.

The pet-creature-thing gave a surprisingly human scream of horror as the old man swayed and crumpled to the ground. Good. Let them know fear.

“What have you done?” the old woman snapped, then sighed heavily. She was holding something, but Mihawk’s attention was caught by the gash across Shamrock’s abdomen that hadn’t been there.

It took him far too long to realize what the strangers had done.

The woman stood, arms cradling a tiny infant, its face screwed up against the sun.

Mihawk’s world froze. The squirming creature held in the light was so small and fragile and beautiful. The old woman carefully held the infant out towards him. “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

Mihawk stepped forward as if in a dream, shaking hands reaching towards the baby. His baby. His and Sham’s… his hands were scarlet with violence, but so was she, Shamrock’s blood coating her whimpering form.

Shamrock hadn’t liked gentleness. Mihawk couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched someone carefully, but something in him knew how to cradle his daughter to his chest, keeping her as safe and stable as possible. The blood on her face was smudging and blurring, and Mihawk realized that tears were falling from his cheeks onto her beautiful features.

“I’m sorry,” he said, using a less gruesome corner of his sleeve to wipe at the mess. He didn’t want his first words to his daughter to be an apology. “I mean, hello. You’re beautiful. It’s- it’s wonderful to meet you.” She hiccupped softly in his arms and his heart broke. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here.”

Mihawk hugged her as gently as he could, wishing he could wrap his body around her and become a living shield from the horrors of life. He sank to the ground beside Shamrock’s body, his attention on nothing but his child.

“Kuina,” he said, pressing a kiss to her soft head. “Your name is Kuina. Your dad did well making you.” He looked at Shamrock again, wishing they could share in the moment. How could joy and sorrow coexist so much?

Kuina made a soft sound, stretching in his arms. Tears started running down Mihawk’s face again. She was perfect.

“You’re going to need a goat,” the old woman said grimly. She was wiping blood off her hands – not just Shamrock’s, but also blood from the old man, who she must have examined. Mihawk guiltily looked at where the man was wheezing for breath, clearly dying. The strange furry creature was clinging to him with little hooves, sniffling quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Mihawk said.

The old woman pressed her lips together. “He was dying anyway. This way he doesn’t have to explain it to Chopper. But I hope you learned a lesson about killing first and asking questions later.”

Guilt made Mihawk flush. “Yes ma’am.”

“Like I said, though, you need a goat. That child needs good warm milk, and you don’t seem to be in a position to hire a steady wet nurse.”

Right. Milk. Mihawk opened his mouth to ask if his blood would be a good substitute for the time being but then thought better of it. Even if it did work, he didn’t want his child’s first days to taste more of rust and grief than they already did.

“Frankly, you don’t seem in the position to raise a child at all,” the woman continued. “I’ve seen your face on wanted posters all over the county. If you ask me, you should leave her on the first doorstep you find and pretend you never had a child. If someone learns she’s yours… you’d be lucky if they only use her as bait to catch you. There’s an abbey up the way, the monks study combat. Hiriluk was staying there with Chopper until he knew he was running out of time and needed to take him to someone who could watch over him. They’d be able to keep your girl safe.”

Safe. Mihawk wanted her to be safe, but more than that he wanted her with him. He hadn’t wanted a family until he had one, but now… he couldn’t live alone. He couldn’t lose Shamrock and Kuina.

The woman seemed to read his face. “Just don’t be a fool, alright? You have to protect her, whatever it takes. If you need to give her up to do that, then give her up.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, swallowing thickly.

“Whose blood is that on you?” she asked, looking him up and down.

“Everyone’s.”

“Any survivors?” Her lips were pressed into an even tighter line.

“I don’t think so.”

She sighed. “Alright. I’ll have to check anyway, it’s my duty as a doctor, but if you take your daughter and leave immediately I’ll pretend we never crossed paths. You’re going to be in a heap of trouble when this gets out. I hope you can handle it.” She reached out and softly touched his head. “Protect her, highwayman. If nothing else, keep her safe.”

Mihawk cradled Kuina to him and nodded. He knelt beside Shamrock and pressed one last kiss to his forehead before fully closing Shamrock’s eyes. Then he stood and headed off the road, cutting through a field to hide his trail. A goat. He needed to steal a milking goat.

The crack of sticks smacking together echoed through the forest clearing as sunlight streamed down through the gaps in the trees. Bright laughter followed each flurry of blows.

“I’m winning!” a high voice called, clearly the source of the laughter.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Mihawk lunged forward and swept his daughter up into his arms, their sticks falling to the soft earth as he threw her into the air and caught her.

Kuina laughed and laughed, gripping his coat. “You’re cheating, dad!”

Mihawk tickled her until she squirmed out of his grip and he had to set her down. She was fast at dodging out of reach, but she tripped on a branch and tumbled over. Mihawk’s heart ached with love as he helped her up and dusted the pine needles off of her. He could hardly believe it had already been four years hiding away with her, stealing the bare essentials for them to scrape together a life in the forest. She made it worth it.

“How many guys can you fight, dad?” Kuina asked.

Mihawk rolled his eyes. “What have I told you?”

“That it depends on who it is,” Kuina immediately answered. “But I wanna know so I can know when I’m better than you. I’m gonna be the best sword fighter in the entire world.”

For a moment Mihawk could see a ghost of Shamrock’s confidence and fire reflected in their daughter. “I know you will. You’re going to be incredible,” he said.

“Like my father?”

“Just like your father. He was amazing.” Mihawk was careful with what stories he told about Shamrock. He wanted Kuina to be able to love her dead parent without reckoning with the violence and blood that had followed on Shamrock’s heels. After all, Mihawk had been a criminal as well. Perhaps he hadn’t been as vengeful or bloodthirsty, but he had plenty of ghosts of his own. He just hoped Kuina’s life was full of happiness and peace instead of a tangled mess like his.

Mihawk heard a distant branch break.

“Come here,” he said softly, scooping Kuina up into his arms. She stayed quiet, knowing it was important. It could have been any number of forest animals, but if it was a person they’d need to hide.

He carried her to a patch of brush that offered cover and crawled inside through the path he’d hollowed out. Hidden in the branches and leaves they held still, waiting. Kuina snuggled against him in his arms, her eyes closing softly. Mihawk watched, not moving a muscle as he saw a pair of soldiers approach.

The king of Andur had personally offered a reward for anyone with information on Mihawk’s whereabouts after Will Scarlet, the only survivor of the village, had revealed who had killed his entire community. Everyone wanted to capture the highwayman who had performed that slaughter, the one known as the Flame of the West.

Mihawk tried to stay hidden, and he’d never let anyone learn that Kuina was his child, although he’d done his best to teach her about others and let her interact with kids her age when he could manage it, but inevitably someone would recognize the set of his face and would turn in the information to a troop of soldiers.

If only Mihawk had killed as indiscriminately as Shamrock, maybe then no one would have been able to describe his features in account after account that left him with shockingly accurate bounty posters.

Kuina had opened her eyes and was watching him watch the soldiers. Mihawk gave her a small smile, but she didn’t return the gesture. She knew they were living in hiding. It wasn’t fair to her, but at least she was still with him. At least he wasn’t alone.

“Looks like someone’s been around here,” one of the soldiers said, kicking at the ashes of the fire Mihawk had lit the night before.

“Can’t be him, though,” the other replied. “You’ve heard he’s got a kid, right? There’s no way he’s living out here in the woods with a little one.”

Kuina shifted and Mihawk realized he was clutching her too tightly. He mouthed an apology and gentled his shaking hands.

They knew. They knew about Kuina. They were going to take her, and they were going to use her like they used Shamrock, and his beautiful, lovely girl was going to be just as brave as her father and end up just as dead.

Mihawk didn’t leave the thicket until night had fallen and Kuina was shivering and hungry in his arms.

He didn’t speak as he roasted a rabbit over a covert fire, Kuina on his lap talking about swords.

When he climbed into his bedroll, Kuina still in his arms, and he told her goodnight, his voice was thick and hoarse. He knew what he had to do, but he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to do it.

She slept peacefully, not knowing that anything had changed. Mihawk’s hazel eyes stayed fixed on the dark sky, trying to memorize the sound of his daughter’s breathing.

They were a few weeks’ careful travel from the abbey the old woman had told him about the day he lost Shamrock. What had she called it? An abbey of fighting monks? He had a month left with Kuina at the most. She’d be able to study sword fighting there. Mihawk would go far away, far enough that no one would link him to the child left on the doorstep, and he would let them catch him. Then they’d have no need to find his daughter. She’d be safe.

Kuina was excited when Mihawk told her about sword fighting school. She wanted to go, but he couldn’t make her understand that he wouldn’t be there with her. She couldn’t imagine a world where Mihawk wasn’t beside her, and she didn’t understand how Mihawk could let something like that happen.

The journey to the abbey grew from tragic to unbearable as Kuina coped with the unimaginable situation by telling Mihawk he would be with her.

“I’m going to win a duel at sword fighting school,” she’d say, gripping his hand. “And you’ll be there. And then I’ll get even better than you and I’ll beat you, and you’ll tell me I did a good job.”

Mihawk spent his nights sobbing quietly, crying more than he ever had since the months after Shamrock’s death.

He didn’t have a choice, though. He had a family to protect.

Koushirou was walking through the gardens, meditating, when the bell of the front gate rung. He crossed to the bolted oak gate and slid open a window in the planks to see who was calling on the abbey before dawn. It took him a moment to realize that it was a child, so short he could barely see her through the small opening.

He quickly unlocked the gate and opened it.

“Welcome. What brings you here?”

The girl gave a brave smile, but her eyes were watery. “I’m here for sword fighting school.”

It took most of the day to sort out what had happened. For some reason the girl’s father had abandoned her with a promise of sword lessons on the abbey’s doorstep. Her story just didn’t make sense. She didn’t know what an abbey was, didn’t even know the basics of Celestialism, and from everything she said her father was a good and supportive parent.

They tried to find him, but there was no sign of anyone in the surrounding countryside.

The girl, whose name was Kuina, kept a smile plastered on her face, but Koushirou wasn’t surprised when he heard her sobbing in the small room they had found for her.

It wasn’t entirely unusual for parents to abandon their children at monasteries, but usually as babies, or with some clear reason. It didn’t make sense, but Koushirou saw something admirable in Kuina’s bravery, and her insistence on joining the monks in their training rituals.

If she wanted to learn the sword, he would do all he could to train her.

Mihawk waited in the tavern, not hiding his face. Soldiers would come for him. They would attack him. He would fight, and they would bring him down in that glorious battle that Shamrock had given his life in.

There was a boy around Kuina’s age in the monastery. They played together, did chores together, and practiced the sword together. She never told him about her dad. It was too raw, too recent, too important.

The soldiers attacked with swords drawn. They weren’t trying to take him out with bows, which was their mistake. Mihawk had named his sword Yoru, a reference to an old blade known as the Grief-Maker. It bathed in blood as he fought, unafraid and impossibly outnumbered. He had thrown their ranks into chaos before he realized they weren’t trying to kill him. It felt like a bad dream as he kept slaughtering soldier after soldier, taking superficial wounds but not dying.

Pairs of soldiers started attacking with nets stretched between them. It was impractical, and he was able to avoid them for a time, but soon his feet got tangled in a net draped over fallen soldiers, and in a matter of moments he was wrapped in several nets, unable to fight off the soldiers that pinned him down.

Mihawk was hauled to the capitol city of Andur for a public execution. He’d grown up hearing stories of the king’s hanging tree, a tree as big as some houses, used to kill the worst criminals.

He was sick from his wounds by the time they got to the city. The soldiers hadn’t given him any food or water, and he was feverish as they paraded him through a crowd cheering on his doom.

The thought of Kuina was the only thing holding him together. He’d be hung soon, and his beautiful girl would be safe.

A military official gave a speech about justice and the law. Mihawk stared into the crowd, wondering if any of them were his childhood friends from the orphanage, the boys who had known this would be his fate for years. It had always been destined to end like this.

They weren’t going to hang him. At least, not by his neck.

Mihawk felt fear when he saw the iron cage, tall and curved and designed to perfectly cradle a human’s body.

A gibbet.

They had to drag him up to it. He couldn’t work his legs right. The cage gaped like an open mouth and he flinched back. He was going to die of thirst and illness, suspended in a gibbet from the hanging tree.

He wrenched around to look behind him, desperate for any better end. He wanted to die bravely, but there was no way his slow end in the gibbet would allow him the noble acceptance he wanted.

Mihawk knew Kuina wasn’t there in the crowd, but some part of him was certain she was there, watching her dad’s execution. He couldn’t let her see it.

“Run,” he sobbed, voice cracking hoarsely. “Run! Be free, be safe, just go!”

He continued to rave as they locked him in the cage and hoisted it up with a creaking rope.

Dracule Mihawk spent his long, dreadful last days whispering prayer after prayer for his daughter.

“Hurry it up, I don’t want to be late to the festival.”

“Why are we having to bury him today, anyway? Don’t they usually leave ‘em up there until they’re naught but bones?”

“Aye, but the parade’s coming right past the tree. Can’t have anything ruining the fun.”

“He does smell, I’ll give you that. Right rotten sort of bugger.”

“No maggots, though. Even the flies know this one came straight from hell and wasn’t to be messed with.”

“Don’t talk like that, I hate worms and stuff.”

“Why did you become a gravedigger, then?”

“By the dragons, I ask myself that every day.”

Glowing, golden eyes slid open in the darkness.

A soft hiss sounded as a bony hand explored the confines of the coffin it found itself in.

Long, clawed nails scraped at the lid, methodically and dispassionately picking at sliver after sliver of it.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

It didn’t need to breathe, but it craved something, something it could only find if it went up. The ground froze, then thawed, then grew wet with rain.

It didn’t need to sleep. It took a long time to dig its way out, but it had all the time in the world. All there was in the world was darkness, a coffin, and a craving.

Its joints didn’t remember how to bend properly when it finally climbed into blinding moonlight. It crawled along the ground, limbs jutting out at odd angles.

Its long teeth were dry and cracking, aching for moisture.

The raccoon wasn’t fast enough to escape the clawed hands, the sharp fangs. The animal lay shriveled and drained when it moved on.

It lived off of farm animals for a time, but soon the people started to hunt it. One of them tried to stab it with a sword. It drank him and grew strong and quick on his warm blood.

One night a farmer saw its glowing gold eyes in the darkness of his barn as it crept forward, hungering for that life that it could never again possess. The farmer bent down and grabbed something from the corner of the barn, brandishing it. It was a huge curved greatsword.

It tipped its head, staring with those glowing eyes. The farmer backed away, then fled into his house, dropping the sword as he ran.

It didn’t carry possessions, but it couldn’t bring itself to leave the sword behind. It had to walk on two limbs instead of its crawling gait it had been using, but it felt good to hold the sword in its hands.

He started fighting those who tried to attack him instead of scurrying away. No one was able to outmatch him. He spent hours staring at his sword, feeling like there was something he was supposed to remember.

He drank less human blood. For the first time it felt like there was a difference between human and animal. Killing them hurt. He hadn’t known he could feel pain. He always worried that somehow he was going to kill the wrong one. It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t close to a human, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was someone he would regret killing.

He stayed hidden during the day. His pale, waxy skin and long fingernails made him an object of terror in the light, but at night no one noticed. He even learned to speak soft words in a rasping voice, and slowly he learned how to pose as one of those fragile human figures.

He spent the days roosting in treetops, golden eyes slitted against the sunlight. He didn’t need to sleep, but there was something peaceful about quietly watching the world go by.

When he wasn’t hunting at night he was dancing with his sword. It wasn’t training, and it wasn’t ineffectual swinging. It was art, it was life, it was beauty. He felt a kinship with the piece of killing metal.

It was like he had seen it before. How had the farmer ended up with it? Surely it had been destined to find its way to Mihawk.

…his name was Mihawk. The knowledge dawned so gradually he hardly noticed when he started thinking of himself by it. Dracule Mihawk and his huge sword Yoru.

Mihawk could remember fleeting images of a life he’d once had. He’d known the steady weight of Yoru before. He’d known the warmth of sunlight on his skin. He’d known the sound of laughter. He’d known the soft touch of a hand against his.

He’d had a child. The realization was fuzzy, but Mihawk grew more certain by the day that he’d had a child. A girl, he could faintly remember. Kuina.

Mihawk spent his days roaming through deep, dark woods, and spent his nights hunting for prey and information. Where had his daughter gone? Was she dead? He had to find her.

As the months bled past he could remember more and more of his former life. He could not cry, but he spent hours with his gaze trained on the stars, trying to remember where he had left his life’s treasure.

Kuina threw herself onto the long bench in the great hall. Father Koushirou gave her a stern look, but she obediently ducked her head and mouthed her prayers before grabbing a bowl filled with oatmeal, so he didn’t scold her. Brother Ambrose had added brown sugar and a handful of chopped nuts to her breakfast, and Kuina eagerly scarfed it down.

Before she was done rushing through the meal Zoro came barreling into the great hall, diving on the food even faster than Kuina had. He mouthed the prayer between bites of oatmeal seasoned with herbs and bacon.

Done with her portion, Kuina tried to steal spoonfuls of Zoro’s disgusting breakfast, but he parried her hand away as he ate.

Father Koushirou sighed. “Brother Ambrose, do you have any milk and honey rolls for the young ones?”

The monk in charge of the kitchen laughed from his place at the table. “Of course. They’ll eat us out of the abbey, they will. Come here, Kuina, leave Zoro to his breakfast and help me carry some food out of the larder.”

“I’m sorry we eat so much,” Kuina said, a bit apologetically as Brother Ambrose handed her a jug of milk.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re only ten, after all. You’re supposed to eat plenty, especially with all that training you two do. Father Koushirou just has to complain – it’s his duty as abbot to make sure we don’t spoil you too much.” As he spoke, Brother Ambrose added candied nuts and a handful of jerky to the basket of bread he was collecting. “Of course, you two aren’t old enough to be proper novitiates, so I think it’s silly to expect you to live as stark of lives as the rest of us.”

Kuina headbutted his arm. “Thanks, Brother Ambrose.”

By the time they got back to the Great Hall Zoro was done licking any remaining bits of oatmeal out of his bowl and Kuina’s.

Kuina kicked his shin as she sat back down, drinking the milk straight from the jug. “Don’t act so hungry,” she mumbled under her breath as she handed it to Zoro, who did the same. “They aren’t supposed to know we’ve been doing extra training.”

Zoro shrugged and tipped the milk jug back, drinking until he had to gasp for air. Kuina laughed at the line of cream along his upper lip.

“They probably already know,” he said.

“Yeah, well, we aren’t supposed to training with steel swords yet and I don’t want them to catch us,” Kuina answered, stuffing a honey roll into her mouth. Waking up well before dawn to train with Zoro had her body thrumming with energy and life.

“I’m gonna beat you tomorrow, you know,” Zoro said, gnawing on a piece of jerky. “Just wait.”

She grinned. “You always say that.”

“I’m gonna finish my chores first today, too.”

“You wish!”

In a moment they were both devouring the rest of their breakfast, racing like they always did.

Mihawk watched from the treetops. The abbey was a kindly place of green plants and good souls, and the monks danced with swords just like he did. It looked like a nice place to live, a good place for children. There were several kids living there, but two stood out above the others. They fit the place in a way the others didn’t, and they were like matching halves of a pair. Mihawk almost wondered if he had fathered twins and just hadn’t remembered the boy yet.

There was no doubt the girl was his Kuina. She was strong and tall for her age, brave and earnest and clever with a blade. Every day before dawn she would go out past the orchard with her friend and they would spend the early morning fighting, dull swords meeting in clash after clash. She always won. Mihawk was warm with pride when he watched her head back in the sunrise glow, training sword slung over her shoulder, her friend at her side insisting that he would win the next day.

One night, after draining a deer of its blood, Mihawk decided to visit her. He was fairly certain which window led to her room. He was barely more than a shadow as he scaled the abbey wall and crept inside. Kuina lived in a tower that mirrored the belltower on the other side of the main building.

His nails dug into the gaps between the rough stone as he climbed towards the window. The shutters were open, and Mihawk slipped inside without a sound, ignoring the stinging pain of standing on holy ground.

Kuina was sleeping, face gentle and young. Mihawk stood sentinel in the corner of her room, watching over her. He hadn’t known peace since he’d clawed his way out of his coffin, but he felt whole.

He left before she woke at dawn.

Kuina’s eyes fluttered open, and she smiled when she saw the two glowing yellow eyes locked on hers. “Oh, hello. I thought you were a dream.”

The eyes shifted like the creature behind them was tipping its head.

Kuina sat up, yawning. “Must not be time to get up yet, huh? You always leave before then.”

Its voice was rasping and deep. “You aren’t afraid?”

“You’ve been watching me sleep for weeks, haven’t you? If you were going to hurt me you already would have.”

The eyes blinked, thoughtful. “I would never hurt you.”

“I know. Can I light a candle? I want to see you.”

The eyes nodded.

Kuina lit a candle and held it up, trying to see the rest of the creature in the corner. It looked like a man. There was something inhuman about it, even beyond the glowing eyes, but all the same it did look like someone she could have known. There was something familiar about its precise facial hair and sharp chin.

The candle trembled in Kuina’s hand and he moved forward, gently taking it from her.

“Careful,” he said in a tone as kind as summer. “You might drip wax on your hand.”

Kuina gave a soft cry. “Dad!”

The figure quickly held the candle away from them both as she flung herself into his arms.

Kuina smiled all through her duel with Zoro that morning, although she didn’t explain why.

Koushirou was worried about Kuina. Her morning fights with Zoro were one thing, but there was something else off about her. She was happy, but she clearly wasn’t getting enough sleep. When he’d asked her, she’d said she spent part of the night talking to her father.

The formal story was that Kuina had been abandoned by some stranger on the abbey’s doorstep, but Koushirou had done research of his own. Shortly after Kuina had been left for them he had heard of a highwayman who had been captured and executed – the Flame of the West himself.

It hadn’t taken much talking with Kuina for Koushirou to be certain that she had been the rumored child of the highwayman.

Kuina’s father was dead, and she lived in the top of a tower. There was no way someone could get inside undetected, and it couldn’t be her father. Was she going mad?

Koushirou went out to the record building at sunset, pretending he needed to look over old ledgers. In reality, though, he was watching Kuina’s tower. When the shape arrived, he thought he was dreaming. It was like a three-dimensional shadow climbing up the wall, moving so fluidly and quickly it seemed merely a flicker in his vision. The shape of a man was suspended in the starlight for a moment on the edge of Kuina’s windowsill and then vanished inside.

He spent the rest of the night carrying the records into his office, emptying the small building. Kuina’s birthday was only a few days away. He had to purge this unholy creature from her life. An hour before dawn the shadow left her room, and Koushirou filled the record building with tinder.

Zoro was going to do a good job. Father Koushirou had given him stern instructions, and he would not be the reason Kuina’s birthday surprise failed. They’d do their usual duel, and then he’d distract her for a bit. He wasn’t sure how, but he could make something up. They’d ridden one of the abbey horses, Gallant, out to the field to fight, so she’d probably let him talk her into fighting for longer than usual.

He did his best to beat her. He always did. He almost landed a few hits, too, but Kuina disarmed him with a flourish and he huffed in irritation.

“Just wait until I get better at two sword style, then you won’t be able to beat me,” he grumbled.

Kuina laughed. “If you say so.” She looked towards the abbey, distracted.

“What is it?”

She hesitated. “You know how I’ve been seeing my father?”

Zoro nodded. He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by it, but he figured if anyone could see ghosts and stuff it would be her.

“Well, Koushirou wants to meet him. He said I should have my father come meet us in the record building this morning at dawn so I can introduce them.” She grinned, eyes shining. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Yeah! Can I meet him, too?”

“Of course. He’s going to stay for the whole day, he promised.”

Zoro hesitated. How was he supposed to delay her like he’d said he would? “Is it okay if you’re a little bit late? I think I really will beat you this time.”

As they fought he did his best to keep up, to draw out the duel as long as possible. He almost landed a few hits, too, although she won in the end. The sun was peeking up over the horizon as they rode double back to the abbey, hearts thundering in sync.

Zoro guided Gallant towards the record building. Kuina was bracing to leap off the horse while he was moving when the record building burst into flames.

Gallant shied, rearing suddenly enough that Zoro and Kuina both tumbled off of his back onto the ground. Kuina leapt to her feet, but before Zoro could follow, Gallant kicked out towards him and wheeled about, cantering away.

Pain froze every inch of Zoro’s body. He couldn’t breathe, it hurt so badly. The hoof had crunched into his ribs, and his body was curled up on the ground, wheezing.

Kuina ran for the record building. It was a mess of smoke and flame, but she was screaming something, ripping the door open, pushing forward into the wave of heat and fire beyond.

Zoro tried to call out, but he had no breath. He tried to crawl forward, but the pain popped like a bubble in his head and he collapsed, blacking out.

Mihawk didn’t want to meet anyone, but his daughter wanted to introduce him to the family she’d found in the abbey, and he could never tell her no. He’d gone to the building she said just before dawn. He waited for her, apprehensive. Holy ground burned, but he was used to that, and some things were worth it. Their nightly talks had made him feel more human than he had since his death. He could even remember Shamrock now, that wild redheaded lion of a man.

Every night he talked with his daughter until she fell asleep, and he watched over her until morning. Would her new guardians want him around? He didn’t want to give her up. He couldn’t. But if she was happy here he couldn’t take her away. Mihawk had to befriend the men of the abbey.

The window on the side of the building shattered as a stone hit it, showing the rising sun clearly in the sparkling pieces of glass. There was a face looking in, the man Mihawk had seen take his daughter in years and years before.

The man, staring at him blankly, dropped a lit torch through the window onto one of the stacks of firewood.

Mihawk had assumed it was a storage shed for the split logs, but that didn’t make sense. It was far too small, and the wood had been soaked with something that he realized was very, very flammable.

The monster that he had become only feared one thing, the one hunger that could consume even his dusty flesh. As the building burst into an inferno, the primal fear that swept over Mihawk was so strong that he did the impossible. He threw himself towards the window, body transforming, growing smaller, spreading wings.

The dark falcon that launched itself through the window had no room in its mind for bonds or humanity. It was instinct and flight and terror.

Koushirou quickly walked across the garden away from the fire. He was purging the world of a monster, but he didn’t want to explain his role to the other monks. Gallant, bare-backed, came thundering past, and Koushirou turned. Hadn’t the kids taken him? Surely they weren’t back-

Zoro was on the ground, motionless. Koushirou ran to him, finding the boy unconscious, breathing labored.

“Zoro, wake up,” he ordered sternly, panic making his hands shake as he touched the boy’s face.

Zoro blinked his eyes, then gasped, trying to look towards the fire. “Kuina! KUINA!” He cried out, gripping his side.

Koushirou knew. He stood up calmly and turned towards the record building. It was the worst day of his life, the worst thing he’d ever done. He’d seen the man in the building. It had been the Flame of the West, the highwayman who had killed an entire village. If he was back from the dead, there was only one answer – he was an undead strigoi seeking the lifeblood of the living. It had been the right thing to do.

It was a shame to lose Kuina. Koushirou had loved her. She felt like his own child in a way the others never had. There was poetry in this, though. Dying with her first father by the hand of her second.

He stepped up to the building. The flames were subsiding, still hot and belching out smoke, but out of oil and quickly burning through the wood that was there. Taking a breath, he braced for the heat and entered.

She was only halfway inside the single room. Koushirou beat out the flames licking at her clothing and lifted her over his shoulder. There wasn’t any sign of her father. Maybe he had dissolved into ash when the flames touched him.

Koushirou carried Kuina outside, but her breaths were stuttering and infrequent. He absentmindedly patted out a corner of his robe that had caught fire, and knelt by the once again unconscious Zoro, Kuina in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, rocking her as she slowly died in his arms. “I had to do it. He was corrupting you.”

Zoro woke up in the worst pain he’d even been in. His entire body hurt more than the time Kuina had accidentally thrown him down the stairs when they were racing to the great hall.

When he opened his eyes and saw her body he felt worse. Koushirou was holding her, eyes dead with grief, and she wasn’t moving. She was so pale. Monks called for water, a sea of running feet and raised voices around him.

She was going to be the world’s greatest swordsman. She’d said so. Every day she’d boasted about how she was going to be even better than her father. Zoro’s entire life was supposed to be chasing her shadow and trying to surpass her. How could he exist without her? How could he want to? He cried out, pain made manifest, but the agony in his ribs flared in response and he blacked out again.

Kuina was dead, but Koushirou couldn’t stand up. A pair of monks gently picked Zoro up and carried him to the infirmary.

“A strigoi attacked her,” Koushirou lied as the roof of the record building caved in behind him in a splash of sparks. But was it a lie? Her villain father had returned from the dead to shadow her hopeful future, and her villain adopted father had laid her on an altar to burn him alive. “That unholy demon took our Kuina from us.”

Someone tried to peel Kuina out of his arms, but he clung to her. He had to remember he’d done the right thing. He had to hold onto her and remember that he’d purged the world of something sick and twisted, and that it was worth it even if it was an awful price to pay.

There was a scrape of metal on stone. Everyone quieted, the makeshift bucket brigade freezing as everyone looked up. Koushirou paled as he turned to see who was nearing.

The Flame of the West, the highwayman with more blood on his hands than any other, took one heavy step at a time, a huge sword dragging on the ground behind him. His eyes were a blazing yellow, and his nails were inhumanly long and pointed. His teeth were sharp as he bared them at Koushirou, and the rage that wafted off of him was palpable.

“You.”

Koushirou stumbled to his feet like a newborn fawn, still clutching Kuina to his chest. “No. You died in there. You were burnt away like the demon you are.”

The strigoi growled like a dog, still advancing in a steady, creeping walk.

A monk drew the fighting dagger they all carried and sprang towards the creature with a sharp, upwards thrust. The undead man grabbed his wrist with his free hand and slammed the hilt of his sword into the monk’s chin so hard it made a crunching, wet sound, jawbone shattering and tongue dripping with blood.

The monk screamed as he dropped, but the strigoi simply let go of his wrist and kept walking.

Koushirou was backing up. He stumbled over a stray stone, and dropped Kuina to keep his balance. Her body hit the ground with a thud.

The approaching horror stopped with a cry that sounded like pain, like an animal caught in a trap. He stared at Kuina’s body with something that looked like terror.

“I’m sorry,” Koushirou whispered as he drew his own dagger. “But you won’t feel this, and he will.”

He sank five inches of steel into the girl’s dead chest.

The strigoi screamed, fury and agony and loss echoing through the abbey gardens.

“If you come closer I’ll skin her,” Koushirou said in a voice that carried. “I’ll make you watch as I peel her open.”

The Flame of the West wasn’t crying, strigoi probably couldn’t, but his face was haunted grief. He wavered.

“Go!” Koushirou roared.

The strigoi straightened his posture, chin lifting. He lifted his sword into a tense guard position. “No,” he rasped in a heavy voice.

Koushirou withdrew his dagger, her blood cherry-red on the blade. Should he mar Kuina’s face? Would that be enough to send the creature scurrying away? Brother Caspian was organizing the strongest of the gathered monks into a defensive pattern, and Brother Marcus was handing out swords and ordering the others to back off to a safe distance. Koushirou accepted a shortsword. They could fight. If his attempt to kill the strigoi had failed, they could at least punish him badly enough for his hubris – coming onto holy ground to sway a child of the abbey – that he would never again return.

For a moment they all stood, swords at the ready.

To become an abbot of the Celestial order one has to defeat not only every monk in the abbey three times over, one also has to defeat two current abbots. The title abbot was only revoked by death, but the goal was to train progressively stronger and stronger monks in preparation for the day when they would need to ride to battle.

It had been a long time since an abbot hopeful had fought for the title in Koushirou’s abbey. Not only were his monks some of the fiercest in the order, not one person had defeated Koushirou since his ascension to the role.

The Flame of the West swung his absurdly long sword. Screams echoed against stone walls and cold halls as the gathered monks started dying. No one could stop the sword’s momentum, and it was moving too fluidly for anyone to dart in close and riposte.

As the slaughter continued, Koushirou was certain the other monks were fleeing out of the back gates of the abbey. The strigoi worked closer and closer, mowing down the men between them.

Running was the likeliest way to survive. But Koushirou hadn’t clawed his way up through the ranks for nothing. He moved in as the last monks between them fell. Stopping the blade was a pointless waste of energy. His sword swam elegantly as he redirected each heavy blow, accepting minor damage while evading anything fatal.

Choosing his moment, Koushirou thrust his sword into the strigoi’s heart.

The creature smiled, showing his rows of pointed teeth. “Don’t be ridiculous, abbot. You know I don’t have a heart. After all, you’re the one who just killed her.”

Brother Ambrose was the last to leave the abbey. He met up with the nervous group in the forest beyond, shaking his head hard enough to flick some of the tears out of his eyes.

“He’s still there. We have to go. He’s just hold- he’s just holding Kuina. I don’t know how long he’ll stay there, but I don’t think we’re lucky enough for him to let us go. He’s definitely the Flame of the West from all those old bounty posters. He killed every man, woman, and child in that village back when he was active. He’s going to come after us. We have to run.”

He picked up one end of the stretcher that held Zoro, and the group of survivors started heading deeper into the forest.

Zoro never saw him. That was the worst part. As his broken ribs slowly healed he asked again and again what had happened. The monks told him the same thing every time. Kuina and Koushirou had been killed by an undead strigoi.

They’d made it a week’s journey away from the abbey when they started to relax. It was stressful being in the wild without preparation, but they were managing to scrape together enough to live off of, and there was no sign of the monster.

Then one of the novitiates disappeared. They spent a few hours looking for the teen, but he’d just vanished. No one was sure if he’d fallen into some sort of crevice and died or if he’d found a traveler and headed off with them.

Four days later it was an old monk who had been struggling with the cold nights and the steady pace. His wheezing had quieted one night, and when the dawn came everyone realized he’d gone missing entirely.

They found him strung up in a tree, eyes blankly staring, corpse drained of blood.

They all knew who was doing it, but Zoro never saw him.

One by one, monks went missing. One by one, their numbers dwindled. They stayed in groups and pairs, but eventually someone would slip up and step away from the others and they wouldn’t be seen again. They stopped looking for the bodies. When someone vanished, they only sped up their pace. Zoro’s ribs were still tender, but he didn’t complain.

He was the youngest of those that still lived. The others watched him very, very carefully.

He was desperate to get away from them, to bait the killer and punish him for what he did to Kuina.

Zoro did succeed, but not in the way he meant. They were staying together all of the time now, so there weren’t many openings for anyone to be taken.

Brother Ambrose was on watch when the strigoi came up quietly from behind and drained him of blood before he could wake anyone.

Zoro woke in the night to see the corpse of the kind monk and a dark shape moving into the woods. He snatched up a sword and charged into the underbrush. He saw the shape ahead of him, the figure that didn’t move like a human but was composed like one. By the time he lost track of it, he had no idea where he was. Eventually he curled up on a patch of moss and slept fitfully until dawn.

Mihawk left his cloak draped over the boy. He had been one of the monks, but he had been Kuina’s friend. He could live.

He killed the rest of them in open slaughter now that the boy was not there.

Then he walked through the land, feeling so hopelessly empty.

It began to rain as night fell and he trailed aimlessly through a valley.

“Der Mond ist aufgegangen, die goldnen Sternlein prangen,” a voice softly sang from inside a thicket, “am Himmel hell und klar…”

Mihawk didn’t want to stop. It was a young girl’s voice. She wasn’t his Kuina. She sounded like she was crying. It was dark.

“Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget, und aus den Wiesen steiget, der weiße Nebel wunderbar.”

Something human flickered in Mihawk’s chest, and he knelt in the mud to peer into the thicket.

A pale face with large dark eyes peered back out at him. “Sind Sie ein Wolf, Herr?” There was blood smeared across her face and arms.

Mihawk was sick of blood.

She crawled to the edge of the thicket.

He held out his arms to the strange child, silent.

“Bitte tut mir nicht weh,” she said as she reached out to him, trembling.

Mihawk pulled her into his arms and held her like he’d held Kuina’s corpse. “You’re safe,” he murmured, trying to shelter her from the rain. She didn’t seem injured but even with his glowing eyes he couldn’t see much of her underneath the mud and blood.

She gripped his shirt with tight fists, and he started walking again, this time looking for shelter.

There was an old castle on the cusp of the valley. It seemed abandoned, an empty, evil place, but perhaps there he could keep this shattered creature warm. A wolf howled and she screamed, burying her face against him. She didn’t stop crying until he unstrapped his sword from the belt he’d used to tie it to his back and brandished it before them.

By the time he reached the castle she was asleep. The door had rotted off of its hinges, and there was no sign of any life beyond small animals living in the halls.

Finding what seemed to have been the kitchen, Mihawk laid the girl on a pile of branches he’d torn from their trees. Her eyelids fluttered, but she curled into the pine mattress and didn’t wake. It was hard to light a fire when every bit of him knew a stray spark could kill him, but he managed with several empty, dusty bird nests he found in the corners of the castle’s walls. Adding what dry wood he could find, he built a roaring fire in the remnants of an oven and captured a brace of hares with his bare hands to cook. In the light of the flames he could see that the girl was thin and fragile, but unhurt aside from the dried blood coating her skin.

He wouldn’t ask. Even once they learned enough of each other’s languages to communicate he’d never ask what had happened to her. He’d simply keep her safe for as long as she wanted to stay in his life.

And so he did, up in the castle of Kuraigana, the girl called Perona at his side, growing brighter and wilder by the day.

People called him the Defiler. They said he was a scourge upon the land. A boy with green hair and grief filling his heart swore to kill him.

But Mihawk continued on as he had for years – doing whatever it took to protect whatever family he possessed.