Twist of Tides: Doflamingo Part Two
MDNI
Soulmate series inspired by @gav-san's Cosmic Joke collection.
True soulmates hear each other long before they see each other. Touch minds before bodies. Discover the wonders of love in isolation.
Or, you're trapped with a maniac in the back of your mind, and you'd like a refund. Please and thank you.
Content warning: Doflamingo is his own warning, medical care, wound recovery, secondary character death, threats, non-consensual platonic touching, no one has stellar mental health
I do not curate tag lists, but I reply to comments when new chapters go live.
Master List
Rebirth came slowly,
You claimed your new life by inches. Sitting up in bed. Walking with assistance. Then alone.
Learning to care for your new, fragile skin.
For months, the only pleasant, soothing sensation you had to mask your pain and appease your neighbor was the scent of your burn ointment.
Honey and rosemary.
When you were discharged from the hospital, the nurses gave you a recipe for daily use. It wasn’t medicated like the prescription salves they’d applied, but the ingredients were accessible and moderately effective.
And it smelled nice. Not a common perfume, for sure, but you weren’t trying to impress anyone, and it reminded you that, once again, you’d survived – and there was something sweet waiting past the agony.
Your neighbor didn’t take any of it well.
Once again, you’d broken in all the wrong ways. You healed in new, transformative patterns and discovered fresh appreciation for the breaths you had remaining.
It was hard to tell what he wanted, exactly, but your independent recovering aggrieved him. Like an insult. Or heresy.
He was certainly vain enough to see himself as a god, and he found your offerings wanting.
The questions didn’t stop rolling over the fence.
Where are you?
What’s your name?
The keys to discovery. To a reunion of strangers and a more permanent death, you suspected.
Too bad you still appreciated your life, altered as it was.
Where are you? he asked.
Rosemary answered, soothing the prickle of disappointment at the end of his long days.
What’s your name?
Honey replied, a balm to mask a lingering bitterness from old betrayals that preyed on him at night.
The same dance with new steps.
And with an increasing tempo.
You realized, as you found work on a new island with a new, scarred face, that you’d have to make a decision soon. Left alone, the bond would strengthen. Your neighbor wouldn’t let it rest, and you couldn’t help answering when his foul moods rippled through your evenings. He would find more clues to shuffle in his deck, and he’d read the truth in his cards.
He’d find you.
Or, you could stop him.
Stop everything.
The idea didn’t give you the relief you might’ve felt when this little drama began, but you still wanted to survive, and there was no mistaking the malice in your neighbor’s every whisper.
The solution escaped from the flames of your previous life. An old woman slept on the cot opposite your hospital bed, a fellow survivor with fewer burns but older bones. She looked death in the eye and acknowledged the visitor while he approached from a distance.
It gave her time to bequeath her remaining possessions to kind nurses and former townsfolk.
When she sat in the dark, restless with an erratic heartbeat, she heard your mumblings. Watched your expressions. And she understood.
She took your hand before you left the hospital and said, “The tide brings more dead fish than pearls.”
She took the necklace from her own neck and dropped it in your palm.
“Sea prism stone,” she said, indicating the tiny stone dangling from the chain, “offers serenity.”
You hesitated, and she gladly filled the silence.
“I’ve had a good life without all that. And now…” she took a moment, closed her eyes, “it’s finally quiet.” Her dry chuckle filled the room. “It’s a nice accomplishment, isn’t it, to outlive your troubles?”
You kept the gift, even though you didn’t put it on.
It lived in your pocket as you grew new seedlings and scraped fresh opportunities out of your situation. There was always work for strong, able-bodied men willing to accept bad pay in exchange for a reliable income. You did not fit that criteria.
Your new home was a sad, barren rock of an island, though, and your talent to grow things where others couldn’t opened unusual doors. First, a waterfront trader took pity on your appearance and put you in charge of the sad – dead – garden out front. Next, you suggested selling some established seedlings to passing ships for access to fresh herbs during long stretches at sea. The trader humored you, and soon the little table he cleared for your wares emptied itself.
As your handful of plants flourished, you approached the baker whose shop was attached to the trader’s. Besides fresh bread and treats for locals, she provided hardtack and biscuits for sailors. Your reputation preceded you, and she welcomed your recommendations to use dried rosemary in the hardtack, to season her breads and cakes with flowers and produce from your garden.
More ideas filled your notebook each night. Recipes, customers, and potential business partners. With so many streams of revenue, you could survive if one went under. Soon, you’d have savings again.
And you could buy new windchimes.
Or, maybe –
You should accept the old woman’s gift.
Leaning back in your chair, you peered into the flat dark pressing against the window, mocking you with an unfamiliar reflection.
While you’d learned to live with the voice in your head, you weren’t delusional. He was dangerous. And whatever the bond stirred in him, it wasn’t good for your health. No matter how many careful gifts you met his anger with, he was always angry. He was a bottomless pit, never refusing, even in the beginning, when his hatred was simpler. Whatever you offered, he’d take, and when he found a way to trace you down, he wouldn’t wait for you to offer your life.
Struggling to make sense of your priorities, you pulled out the stone from its velvet pouch and set it on your desk. It shone in the candle’s glow, right beside your notebook with its fat, ruffled pages. Evidence of frequent use and swelling dreams.
Your finger wandered over your lower lip and caught on the chapped skin. You’d just applied your salve, and the scent sat heavy on your hands.
The rosemary and honey summoned your neighbor from his latest act of terror.
His bloodlust momentarily sated, he rose to meet the familiar smell with savage delight, ready to slice out more comforts from your psyche.
But you broke the silence first.
“Are you alright?”
A wash of emotions roiled through the bond before he caught himself. Or before he picked one to stick with.
Cruelty won out. As always.
Fu, fu, fu… On top of the world. His curiosity reached out with intent to pierce, like a needle through the eye. Why? Finally ready to admit you’re not? Tell me where you are and I’ll do something about it.
“I’m fine.” Wax rolled down the taper, measuring a lifetime melting away. You took a deep breath, accepting the trembling sting in the back of your throat. The truth didn’t need to make sense, but ignoring it wouldn’t make time stand still. “I worry about you sometimes.”
Oh? I’m flattered. He laughed. You really are broken in the head.
“You’re one to talk,” you grumbled. Thanks to him, you’d known the smell of burning flesh well enough to recognize the stink of your own. “I worry about myself, too.”
He scoffed.
Obviously. Of course you should. He’d never given his name, but your neighbor was hardly mysterious. A violent man who saw you as an inconvenience. An invader. A flaw he’d cut out when the time came.
Your fingers inched towards the necklace.
Then hesitated.
“Would it be a relief if I disappeared?”
The connection tensed, and displeasure bubbled through confusion as he answered.
I don’t like loose ends. I’d find out where you went. I told you. No one takes what’s mine.
Hardly reassuring. You drew circles around the necklace, wondering how close you had to be for it to take effect. When you received it, the long sleeves you wore to hide your bandages blocked It from your skin.
You should’ve tested this before talking to your neighbor. What if there were side effects?
What if it didn’t work?
What if you couldn’t bear the silence?
“Do you remember when you first noticed me in your head, and I said the connection would fade on its own?”
Your first lie. We passed that deadline ages ago.
Chewing your lip, you stumbled through your own head, trying to determine what you wanted. What was practical. What was the best solution for all parties.
“It’s late, but I think I’ve found a way to fix this mess.”
Blatant disbelief dripped from his reply. Poverty, hunger, and fire didn’t end you, and we both know you can’t help responding to me, even if you’re a quiet little prude.
It was, ultimately, your decision.
His threats had grown more oblique with the years, but his possessive animosity stood at the core of your relationship. There was no room in his rage for vulnerability. Even if he relied on your link in some fashion, he’d never admit it. Not to you. Not in the privacy of his own thoughts. For all that he accused you of lying to yourself, he’d mastered the art. You couldn’t imagine any other way someone could stay so angry all day every day without burning out.
And you were deluding yourself. Really, there was no relationship.
He didn’t need you. You’d lived perfectly well without him.
People said good fences made good neighbors, and there was no stronger barrier than sea prism stone.
Hooking the necklace by the chain, you pulled it closer.
“Goodnight, neighbor.”
You smiled and wondered if he could feel it.
This was for the best.
“Take care of yourself.”
You slipped the pendant over your head before he could answer.
So, he never did.
-----------------------------
You dusted your hands off on your apron, pleased with the troop of loaves rising under their linen shrouds. A good morning’s work. And you still had an hour or two before your midday break.
As the dough did its thing, you searched the room for your next task.
Over the past year, the shops you supplied had grown – in traffic if not size – and they’d agreed to rent the tiny storehouse behind their businesses as a kitchen and prep space for your various goods. That meant pitching in more often as an assistant baker, but you found you enjoyed the process. It was simple. Satisfying. And there was still plenty of time to work on your own products.
Your new space yielded candied orange slices preserved for long voyages, scented soaps for Marine spouses, and a rainbow of extracts in demand from both customer bases. Incoming ships often ordered flavored hardtack ahead of docking, and there was a waiting list for limited seasonal goods.
You’d never felt so valued in your life.
It was validating. Comforting. A constant assurance that you’d made the right decision. Hopefully your neighbor was doing as well for himself, but you didn’t think of him very often. You were too good at staying busy and proving yourself right.
Only when you rolled in your sleep and foreign thoughts touched your dreams did you wake remembering the distant shadow who once stood at your back.
The daylight always chased him away when you woke, when you settled the flake of stone back on your skin.
You didn’t think of him, but you had hopes you directed his way. Wishes, even. You wished him a good sleep when you were restless. You hoped he found even a minute of true peace when you rose before the sun and set to work.
It felt like lying to say all the things a good soulmate would’ve sent through the bond now that you’d smothered it. In that, your neighbor might’ve been right about you.
Little feet interrupted your introspection, and the door burst open as a high voice called your name.
You stepped around the back shelves, where you’d wandered to take stock, and found Freesia, the market owner’s daughter, waiting on you.
“There’s a customer asking for you,” she announced.
You sighed and reached for your apron strings. “About what?”
Freesia’s eyebrows rose and she leaned forward on the tips of her toes. “The potions.”
“They’re not potions,” you reminded her. For the hundredth time. That week. “They’re tinctures.”
But the girl only saw magical, color changing fluids drawn from flowers and chose the fantasy over any practical explanation. “Potions.”
“Sure.” As you approached the door – apron-free and marginally presentable – you stuffed a candied orange peel in the girl’s sticky fingers. “Go play outside for a while, okay?”
“Sure!”
Armed with sugar and permission to misbehave, she vanished into the sunny side streets. You made your way through the shop’s back door and prepared for a long interrogation. It didn’t take much insight to figure out which potions the customer questioned.
You waved aside the shop’s owner as you approached the counter, taking note of the sweat rolling down his temple. The large woman waiting on the other side was a character, but it was the gaggle of cronies perusing the shop behind her that signaled danger.
The goons wore the Doflamingo family’s crest.
As he scurried away to other business, the owner pointed to you, mumbled your name, and said, “They’re her work. She can explain.”
And then he was good as gone.
You ran your hands over the wooden counter, following the smoothed contours worn by age and attention. Sugar, spices, and wood polish saturated the air in this corner of the shop, and the grounding sensations reinforced your polite smile.
“You have questions?”
Tittering behind her fan, the woman pushed forward a familiar bottle. It was one of your poison detectors.
The idea had come to you when the baker whispered warnings about predators and slavers who spiked strangers’ drinks in the taverns. It was a problem for the local sex worker community in particular, and like any problem, it begged for a solution. With long, empty nights and a penchant for solving other people’s woes, it was only a matter of time before you dabbled in a little botanical chemistry.
Drugs and poisons had tells.
You found their natural weaknesses and blended tinctures to reveal them. Each bottle, clearly labeled by threat and reaction, came with an eye-dropper applicator. Applied to a drink with the target toxin, the tincture changed the drink’s color or caused another a mild reaction. Some thickened. Some bubbled. One even smoked.
The world was full of wonderful things, and most of them were plants.
But lots of customers wanted proof. You’d put on this show before. You expected the woman would ask you to prove the drops’ efficacy in hot liquid, cold liquid, alcohol, etc.
Instead…
“So, it’s you,” she cooed.
You blinked, hackles rising. Just because you were comfortable did not mean you were safe.
Several bounty hunters had come through, hoping to pass off your scarred face as someone else’s, but that seemed below a Warlord’s crew. Such familiarity from a stranger never boded well, though.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” You clung to your manners by your teeth, waiting for the other shoe to drop. After an awkward five seconds passed, you prompted, “I was told you had questions.”
“Well, yes, of course! I’m Giolla, one of the Donquixote family officers.” The fan slid away, revealing an over-sized smile below her glinting glasses. “Some of these little treasures came in handy for another family officer. She can be a little gullible, you see, but the second her drink turned purple, even she understood the situation. Very handy. The Young Master wants a set for all his officers, and I came to collect the order in person.”
“Oh.” You knew the order she was talking about, though the Warlord hadn’t used his name. Even you would’ve recognized that. “Easy enough. It should be good to go… Not a question, though.”
“Of course not, of course not!” She fanned herself, but her gravity-defying hair didn’t react to the breeze at all, like she was more statue than person. “You know of the Young Master? Donquixote Doflamingo, the King of Dressrosa!”
Her arms spread, her colorful persona suddenly even more animated. With so much fanfare, you almost expected the man to appear in the flesh.
What in the hell…?
You blinked, entirely lost despite standing behind the familiar counter. Pirate crews, you’d long believed, were like tiny, floating cults. Giolla did nothing to disabuse you of that notion with her sales pitch.
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Good,” she said, overly pleased by your recognition of an infamous pirate. “He’s seen your work, and he’s impressed. And now I find you make all sorts of things, clever alchemist that you are.”
“I put rosemary in bread,” you corrected with a wry smile that your scars pulled a little to the side. Your arms folded over your chest. “Alchemist is a bit of a stretch.”
Giolla clucked. “I know art, my dear. Believe me.”
No point arguing with a dangerous woman who clearly had her own opinions. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
No need to continue the conversation beyond the point of necessity, either. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll make sure your order is prepared for the voyage.”
“Of course! Of course!”
She was hardly the first pirate you’d met, but the way her eyes followed you so carefully while her face stayed fixed in that rictus grin made some sixth sense hiss in alarm. A tea kettle shrieking in another room, warning the world it was about to boil over.
But she didn’t move into your space and didn’t utter a peep when you ducked out of sight. You found the set of poison detectors where you’d left them three days ago – wrapped and addressed by order number rather than name in the back room. The package wasn’t alone. A stack of other products from both the shop and the bakery sat piled in crates, and you couldn’t help noticing that most – if not all – featured some of your handiwork. Shortbread seasoned with herbs you’d grown. Tea blends you’d just started experimenting with. Several tins of candied oranges and lemons.
Your skin crawled.
When your boss asked for your help hauling it all to the docks, though, you obliged. Even though you hated how strangers coming and going from the port stared at your scars, it was best to shunt the Warlord’s crew back out to sea as quickly as possible.
The fierce, salty wind tangled in your hair as you shifted carefully packed goods onto the crane platform. It would hoist everything aboard in one go, simplifying life for merchants and crews alike. Most of the load was bulk stock kept in a warehouse nearer the docks – basic ingredients like salt and flour, tools and materials for repairs, feed for livestock. When you reached for the purchases that bore your personal touch, however, a tidal wave of color rolled down the gangplank.
“Oh, no, no, no! Here, I’ll handle these.” Giolla snatched up the parcels, which must’ve weighed well over a hundred pounds altogether, and set them aside. “These require a little more care, I think. Don’t you?”
You offered her the same, bland business smile you had from the beginning. “Whatever you say.”
“I do say! I insist!”
Before you realized what was happening, she swept you up in a hug. Being as tall as she was, your face ended up squashed in her boobs.
She didn’t seem to mind.
You absolutely did.
Physical affection was largely buried with your mother. Pats on the back and shaking hands didn’t rattle you, in the right circumstances, such mild interactions were even pleasant, but people hadn’t often hugged you before the fire, and they sure as hell didn’t squeeze you after your face melted.
When Giolla released you, you tried gripping the dock through your shoes, toes curled and feet arched, so you wouldn’t run back to your hidden workshop like a coward. Even though she was leaving, she had plenty of time to spot and exploit a weakness, you just knew it.
“Sweet little thing,” Giolla said. “Thank you for your assistance. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon. Do take care!”
You nodded, failed to smile, and let the screaming wind drive you back to solid ground.
Neither you nor your friendly employer noticed the camera snail Giolla had pointed your way as you worked.
No one was there to hear when she retired to her cabin and lifted her Den Den Mushi, either.
“I have the pictures, Young Master. I’m sure she’s the one. She’s incredibly spritely despite the burns, even if she is a shy creature.”
The voice at the far end of the line hummed, pleased but unconvinced. “And did you check what I told you to?”
The family executive peered out her stateroom window, easily picking your figure out of the herd. You’d stopped to check the plants growing in front of the shop, already back to work and absorbed in your own little world.
“Of course, Young Master.” Giolla sighed. “She smells like rosemary and honey. Just like you said she would.”
