More than 500,000 people have already left Ukraine due to the invasion by the Russian Federation. The European Commissioner for Humanitarian Aid and Crisis Management estimates that roughly 18 million Ukrainians will be affected by the conflict in humanitarian terms, with 7 million internally displaced and 4 million seeking refuge elsewhere. To help those still in Ukraine, as well as Ukrainian refugees, we’ve compiled this list of resources.
HelpUkraineWin.org has a collection of vetted and trusted resources, charities, and organizations to help Ukraine.
Some additional ways to donate:
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Malteser International provides essentials for Ukrainian refugees.
Ukraine Crisis Media Center provides fundraising links and a list of tips for sharing information.
Misinformation spreads fast on social media. It is more important than ever to share accurate, verifiable news and information. Here are some resources to learn how to identify misinformation:
This link from the nonprofit WITNESS shares tips for identifying authentic video sources (available in English, Spanish, Ukranian, Russian, and Arabic).
These visual verification tips, also from WITNESS, provide information on verifying images and videos (available in English and Spanish).
This interview with NPR contains tips for identifying fake TikToks.
Plot: Three months have passed, and distance has done nothing to soften the heartbreak.
Part 3 of I miss you, I’m sorry || Part 2
Three months passed before you saw the Red Force again.
Not that you had been looking.
That was what you told yourself every time you accepted a booking two islands too close to a rumor.
You followed work.
That was what you called it.
By then, the lie had worn thin enough that even you could no longer pretend not to see through it.
The tavern in Bellweather Strand had booked you for tonight. The owner paid half in advance and only watered the drinks enough to keep the worst fights from beginning before sundown.
You were tuning your instrument near the platform when a dockhand said it.
“Red Force came in this morning.”
Your fingers stopped around the tuning peg.
The dockhand sat at the bar with another man, laughing as though he had not just pulled every thought from your head.
Your instrument sat heavily in your lap. For a moment, you did nothing.
Then you stood.
The tavern owner glanced over from the bar. “You’re on in an hour.”
“I know.”
Your voice sounded normal.
That annoyed you.
You carried your instrument upstairs to the small room included with the booking and shut the door.
Your bag sat open near the bed. It was always half-packed now.
You had told yourself that was practical. You moved often. Ships left earlier than expected. Staying ready meant never being trapped somewhere you no longer wanted to be.
You stared at the folded clothes inside.
The Red Force was here.
Shanks was here.
He might already know you were in Bellweather Strand. He might not. He might walk through the tavern door tonight because he had heard there was a singer worth listening to.
He might hear your name and decide not to.
You crossed the room and began packing. Your hands moved quickly. Shirts shoved into the bag without folding. Spare strings. The small jar of salve you used when your fingertips split after too many nights performing.
You buckled the bag closed.
“This is sensible,” you said.
The empty room offered no opinion.
You lifted the strap over your shoulder and reached for your instrument. Then you stopped.
Three months ago, you had woken too late and run to the harbor with your boots unlaced.
Three months ago, you had stood on an empty berth and watched the Red Force disappear into open water.
Since then, you had crossed six islands and taken work in nine taverns.
You had heard his name in four of them.
Every time, you had changed direction.
Not away from him.
Toward him.
Just slowly enough that you could pretend you had not made the choice.
You looked at the door.
There was still time to leave. You could be gone before anyone carried word to the docks that you were here. Before Shanks saw you and remembered what it felt like to ask for you.
You closed your eyes.
If you left now, you would only do it again.
Another island.
Another rumor.
You lowered the bag from your shoulder.
It hit the bed with a dull thump.
You did not know what you planned to do. But you were not going to run before he had even arrived.
You placed the bag beside the bed and carried your instrument downstairs.
The tavern had begun to fill.
You took your place on the platform and checked your tuning again. Your fingers shook enough that you had to repeat the same string twice.
You looked toward the door.
Then immediately hated yourself for it.
You had made your choice.
You would perform.
If Shanks came, he came. If he did not, you would finish the set, go upstairs, and decide what came next without building your life around another rumor.
The first song was bright because the room wanted something bright.
You gave them tempo and a smile and enough warmth to make tired dockhands sit back in their chairs. A group near the wall clapped along badly. Someone at the bar shouted a request before you had finished the final verse.
You ignored him.
The second song came easier.
By the third, your hands had steadied.
This was what you knew how to do.
You could take a room full of strangers and make them listen. You could hide every private thing behind a melody and let them believe you were giving them all of it.
The door opened twice.
You did not look.
The third time, you did.
A pair of sailors entered.
Neither had red hair.
You kept playing.
Halfway through the next song, the room shifted.
Only a subtle change near the back. A few heads turned. Someone moved aside without being asked.
You looked.
Beckman stood just inside the tavern. His cigarette was absent for once. He scanned the room once before his gaze found you.
He did not smile.
He only looked at you for a moment and then glanced behind himself toward the open door.
Your fingers nearly missed the next change. You recovered before anyone else noticed.
Beckman stepped farther into the room and moved toward the wall.
Then Shanks entered.
Your voice caught.
Only for a moment.
Only enough that the note came out rougher than you intended.
He stopped inside the doorway.
He wore a dark cloak over one shoulder, open at the front. His hair had been pushed out of place by the wind.
His eyes found you immediately.
Three months disappeared.
You saw him sitting in your bed with the sheet low around his waist.
You saw him standing at the door.
You heard his voice.
If you’re there, you come aboard.
Your hand tightened around the neck of your instrument.
Shanks did not move toward you.
Beckman stood several feet away from him, attention turned toward the bar.
You looked back at Shanks.
He was still watching you.
You drew in a breath and continued the song. The rest of the set did not become easier. But you did not stop.
Once, someone near Shanks offered him a drink. He declined without looking away from the platform.
Another time, Yasopp entered, noticed the room’s mood, and managed to remain silent for nearly half a song before Beckman said something low enough that you could not hear it.
Yasopp closed his mouth.
You finished with a familiar song because it was the one you had intended to use before you knew the Red Force was in port.
It had become difficult to sing after Shanks left. Not because it belonged to him. It did not. You had performed it long before you met him.
But he had remembered it.
He had known when you used it. He had noticed the nights when a room had gone quiet enough to deserve it. For three months, that knowledge had lived inside the song with you.
Tonight, you sang it anyway.
You let yourself look at him once near the end.
Shanks was no longer hiding the hurt in his face.
It was not dramatic.
His mouth was set. His eyes were quiet. He looked like a man standing close to something he wanted and reminding himself that wanting had not been enough the first time.
Your fingers pressed harder against the strings.
You finished the song.
The room applauded.
You thanked them. Someone called for another.
“That’s all for tonight,” you said.
You stepped down from the platform. Your legs felt unsteady, but they carried you.
You set your instrument carefully in its case. The buckle resisted your fingers twice before you managed to close it.
When you looked up again, Shanks had moved closer to the door.
Waiting.
Beckman was gone.
Yasopp had also disappeared, though less gracefully. You saw the back of his coat vanishing through a side passage after Beckman.
You picked up your instrument case and crossed the room.
People moved aside.
Shanks watched you come to him.
By the time you stopped in front of him, your throat had tightened enough that the first thing you said came out barely above the tavern noise.
“Hello.”
His gaze moved over your face.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The name nearly broke your resolve.
You looked down at the handle of your case.
“I didn’t know whether you’d come in.”
“I nearly didn’t.”
You looked at him.
“Why did you?”
He glanced toward the crowded tavern, then back to you.
“I wanted to see you.”
The honesty hurt.
You nodded once.
“Can we talk?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door and stepped aside. He did not touch you as you passed.
Outside, Bellweather Strand was loud with evening traffic. Sailors crossed between taverns in groups, already too drunk for the hour.
You stopped beside the tavern wall. Shanks stood a few feet away.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You had practiced apologies in three different inns. None of them survived the sight of him.
“What I said that night was cruel.”
Shanks went still.
You took a deep breath.
“I made you sound shallow because I was afraid you’d lose interest in me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
The noise from the tavern pressed through the wall behind you. Someone inside laughed loudly enough to carry into the street.
Shanks looked toward the harbor, though the ships were hidden beyond the buildings.
“You hurt me.”
Your throat closed.
“I know.”
“Not because you refused me.” His eyes returned to yours. “Because you decided I couldn’t mean it.”
You lowered your gaze.
“I know better now.”
“I’ve been angry with you,” he said.
“I know.”
His voice roughened. “I’ve also spent three months wondering whether I should have turned around.”
You looked at him.
“Did you come back for me?”
“No.”
The answer hurt, even though you had not expected anything else.
Shanks saw it land.
“I didn’t know where you were.”
“I moved.”
“I heard.”
Your brow furrowed.
“You perform in taverns and ask after an emperor’s ship often enough, people notice.”
Heat rose into your face.
“I did not ask that often.”
His brow lifted slightly.
You looked away.
“All right. Maybe often enough.”
For the first time, something almost warm touched his expression. It disappeared quickly.
You lowered the instrument case carefully to the ground because your hand had begun to hurt around the handle.
“I kept telling myself I was following work.”
His gaze stayed on you.
“I wasn’t.”
Shanks said nothing.
You swallowed.
“I looked for you in every tavern. Every harbor. Every time someone laughed like you, I turned around.”
Your voice began to shake.
“I was afraid to go with you, and then I spent three months arranging my entire life around the chance of seeing you again.”
Shanks looked at you as though he did not know what to do with the truth now that you had finally handed it to him.
“I thought staying behind would let me keep being myself,” you said.
Your eyes burned.
“It didn’t.”
The anger remained, but his jaw loosened and his eyes softened.
You looked down at your hands.
“I love you.”
The words left you quietly.
There was no dramatic stillness in the street. No sudden silence from the tavern. Bellweather Strand continued around you as if nothing had changed.
Shanks did not.
He stared at you.
You forced yourself to look back.
“I knew it that night,” you said. “That was why I panicked.”
His throat moved.
“You knew?”
“Yes.” Your voice cracked. “I knew.”
Shanks looked away sharply and dragged his hand over his jaw. He took one slow breath.
When he faced you again, his eyes were bright with something he was trying very hard to control.
“You’ve got a cruel way of telling a man good news.”
A broken laugh escaped you.
“I’m sorry.”
He stepped closer.
You did not move back.
His hand lifted slightly, then stopped between you.
“You mean it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not saying it because I’m here?”
“No.”
His hand lowered.
You wanted him to touch you badly enough that the restraint hurt, but you understood it.
You glanced toward the tavern.
“I packed my bag before the set.”
The hope beginning to show in his face disappeared. His shoulders settled as though he had expected this part all along.
“I see,” he said quietly.
“No, you don’t.”
You looked toward the masts rising beyond the rooftops.
“The offer,” you said. “Does it still stand?”
He stared at you.
You had imagined this moment a hundred different ways.
His grin.
His relief.
His hand reaching for yours.
You had not imagined how frightened he might look.
Not of you.
Of believing you.
His voice came rough when he finally answered. “You can’t ask me that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“I won’t do this again.” The words were quiet. “I won’t ask you aboard and spend another morning wondering whether you’re coming while you’re already halfway to another island.”
Your eyes filled.
“I know.”
“I want you.” His hand curled at his side. “I’ve wanted you every day since I left that room. But if you walk onto my ship tonight, it can’t be because you’re lonely. It can’t be because you’ve missed me and want the hurt to stop.”
You stepped closer.
“It isn’t.”
Shanks watched you.
“I’m still scared you’ll hurt me.”
His expression changed.
You moved closer until there was barely any space between you.
“But staying away from you hurt too.”
Shanks looked down at you.
“I want to come with you,” you said. “Not tomorrow. Not if I wake up brave enough. Tonight.”
Then his hand was on your face. Warm. Firm. Shaking once before it steadied against your cheek.
You leaned into it.
Shanks closed his eyes for half a second.
“Say it again.”
Your throat tightened.
“I love you.”
The breath left him.
Then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was not gentle at first.
His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck. Your fingers grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
Shanks made a rough sound against your mouth.
You kissed him harder.
When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was uneven.
“So,” he said, voice rough. “Your bag.”
A laugh escaped you, wet and unsteady.
“Upstairs.”
His mouth brushed the corner of yours.
“Take your time.”
You opened your eyes.
The tenderness in his face nearly undid you.
“I won’t be long.”
“I know.”
He said it easily, but his eyes stayed on you until you stepped through the door.
Your clothes were still shoved into the bag from earlier. You fastened it, looked around once, and lifted it onto your shoulder.
Then you went downstairs.
Shanks stood just inside the tavern entrance, your instrument case beside him.
Beckman had also returned. His gaze moved to the bag on your shoulder.
He said nothing.
Shanks turned. His eyes dropped to the bag, and for a moment, he only looked at it.
You could see him trying to accept that you had actually returned for him.
You crossed the room.
“I’m ready.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“For the ship?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the relief in his face was so open that your chest hurt.
Shanks reached for your bag.
Beckman stepped forward and picked up your instrument case. He took a drag from his cigarette and nodded toward the door.
Shanks adjusted the bag over his shoulder. Then he held out his hand.
You placed your hand in his.
Shanks’s fingers closed around yours.
The walk toward the harbor was quiet. You passed the food stall you had smelled earlier. A group of sailors moved out of Shanks’s path without needing to be told. Several people recognized him. One called his name.
Shanks nodded in greeting but did not stop.
He kept hold of you.
The harbor opened ahead. The Red Force rested at dock. Voices carried over the side. Crew moved between the ship and the last few crates waiting on the dock.
Your steps slowed.
Shanks felt it and stopped beside you.
The gangplank remained lowered. Your hand tightened around his.
Shanks looked at you. “We can stand here as long as you need.”
You shook your head.
“No.”
His expression grew careful.
You looked at the deck. At the crew beginning to notice you. At Beckman already halfway up the gangplank with your instrument case.
Then you looked back at Shanks.
“I’m ready.”
Something in his face softened. He lifted your joined hands and pressed his mouth against your knuckles.
The gesture was quiet enough that the crew had not yet begun shouting.
Yasopp ruined that.
“Is she coming aboard or are you two planning to stare at each other until morning?”
Several voices told him to shut up at once.
Shanks closed his eyes.
“This is why we don’t let him welcome anyone.”
You laughed.
The sound drew his eyes back to you. His smile came slowly. Not the bright grin he gave whole rooms.
Something smaller.
You stepped closer and touched his face.
“I’m not leaving.”
His smile faltered.
You understood then that he might need to hear it more than once.
“I’m here,” you said.
Shanks turned his face into your palm and kissed it. Then he lowered your hand, keeping his fingers threaded through yours.
Together, you walked toward the gangplank.
The crew erupted before you reached the deck.
Yasopp cheered.
Lucky clapped loudly enough to frighten someone unloading a crate.
Someone farther back shouted that they had won a bet.
Beckman’s voice cut through the noise.
“Anyone who mentions the betting pool sleeps on the dock.”
The deck fell suspiciously quiet. You looked at Shanks.
“Betting pool?”
“No idea what he means.”
“Shanks.”
“Crew morale exercise.”
You stared at him.
His grin appeared at last.
Bright. Unfair.
You laughed and pushed at his chest with your free hand. He caught it, brought you closer, and kissed your forehead.
Shanks lowered his mouth near your ear.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.”
You looked at the unfamiliar deck, at your instrument in Beckman’s hand and your bag over Shanks’s shoulder.
“The Sorrows of Satan” (1926) film still | dir. by D. W. Griffith | A cinematic image immortalized through Bauhaus’ “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” (1979) cover artwork.
I'm just gonna slide this on in here for anyone that is interested in preserving old games. They take it very seriously too, they want an archive of every single game. Like, they have lists of every game ever released for a system, and once that system gets old enough, they add it to their archive and start collecting. Their latest addition was the Xbox 360, they opened that vault up in September 2022, and proudly announced they'd finished their collection of games for it back in April.
Also, while their game archives are almost entirely complete, they've got another project of archiving the manuals that came with those games, and that is... considerably less well filled out. Their collection of Xbox 360 manuals is especially rough, they've only gotten manuals for three games. So if you've got some Xbox 360 games kicking around, and the manual's still with them, please consider scanning them and submitting them to the site!
Game preservation is important, but people rarely consider preserving the manuals as well; I really respect Vimm's Lair for being so thorough in their archival work.
I've been using Vimm's Lair for years, I have yet to see a single bad link or virus on the entire site. It's arguably the safest and most comprehensive archive of video games in existence. Preserved history
Plot: Shanks leaves you on Elbaf. You were supposed to be safe there.
Inspired by this post
The first thing you saw was red hair.
You were pulled out of sleep by the feeling of someone near you.
Gaban’s house creaked quietly around you. For one soft, foolish second, you forgot Shanks was supposed to be gone.
Then you saw him kneeling beside the bed.
Your heart opened before your mind caught up.
“Hi, baby,” you murmured.
The words came out warm and sleepy, already smiling. You reached for him without thinking, fingers lifting toward his face.
He did not move away.
That should have warned you.
Shanks would have caught your hand. Kissed your palm. Smiled into your skin and made some low, teasing comment about how easily you forgave him for leaving you behind.
Your fingertips brushed his cheek.
Cold skin. Stillness. No lean into your touch.
Your smile faltered.
You saw the hair first. Longer than Shanks’s. Falling differently around his face.
Then the features. Close enough to hurt. Wrong enough to terrify.
Your hand froze against his cheek.
His eyes were not Shanks’s eyes.
They were colder. Sharper. Empty of the familiar warmth that usually found you even in a crowded room.
You snatched your hand back.
The man caught your wrist before you could retreat fully.
You went still.
He looked down at your captured hand, then back at your face.
“Do I look like Shanks?”
His voice was close too. Lower, cleaner, stripped of Shanks’s rough warmth.
You swallowed. “Let go of me.”
He studied you for one long second.
Then he released you.
You pushed yourself up and snatched the blanket to your chest. Your pulse jumped in your throat.
“Who are you?”
The man rose from beside the bed. Slowly. No rush. No wasted movement.
“Shamrock Figarland.”
Figarland.
Your mouth went dry.
“You’re with the Holy Knights.”
“I command them.”
You glanced toward the small knife on the table beside the bed.
“You would not reach it before I reached you.” He said it without arrogance. That made it worse.
You moved anyway, one foot finding the floor. “What are you doing in this house?”
His eyes moved over the room, to the chair with Shanks’s coat thrown over it because you had refused to let him take it. Then to the shirt you wore.
Shanks’s shirt.
When Shamrock noticed that, something in his face changed.
Not surprise.
Interest.
You reached for the knife.
Shamrock moved.
One second he was near the hearth. The next he was close enough that your fingers stopped an inch from the handle.
He did not touch you this time.
He did not have to.
“You’re poorly guarded.”
Your fingers curled.
“I don’t need guards. He left me somewhere safe.”
Shamrock looked around the room again. “Clearly.”
You slapped him.
It was not smart.
You knew that before your palm even finished making contact. The sound cracked through the room. His face turned slightly with the force of it.
Then everything went still.
Slowly, Shamrock looked back at you.
Your hand stung.
He stared at you with Shanks’s face and none of Shanks’s mercy.
For a moment, you thought he might kill you.
Instead, his mouth curved.
“People are executed for that.”
Your blood went cold.
He stepped closer.
“You know that, don’t you?”
You forced yourself not to move back.
Shamrock’s eyes lowered briefly to your throat, then your hands, then the knife still just out of reach.
“You matter to him.”
You said nothing.
That was answer enough.
His smile sharpened by a fraction.
“How careless.”
Your stomach turned.
Outside, somewhere beyond the house, wind pushed against the shutters. Elbaf felt suddenly too large, too empty. Gaban was gone. Shanks was gone. The crew was gone.
And Shamrock knew it.
He lifted a hand.
You stiffened.
His fingers stopped just short of your cheek.
“You came toward me so easily,” he said. “No weapon. No suspicion.”
You stayed silent.
“You were happy.”
The word sounded strange in his mouth.
His gaze moved over your face, then lower, to the loose collar of Shanks’s shirt where it had slipped down your shoulder.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
It did not sound like praise.
It sounded like another thing he had decided.
Your skin went hot with fear, then anger.
“You break into many bedrooms, or am I special?”
His eyes returned to yours.
For the first time, his smile looked almost real.
Then his gaze moved past you, toward the door.
Only for a second.
Long enough.
Your fingers tightened in the blanket.
“If you touch me,” you said, voice unsteady but clear, “he’ll come for you.”
That amused him.
“I would expect nothing less.”
A woman’s voice called from outside the house.
“Commander.”
Shamrock’s eyes did not leave yours.
The voice came again, sharper this time. “It is time. We need to summon Sommers.”
Sommers.
You did not know the name, but Shamrock did.
He looked toward the window.
Then back at you.
He stepped away from you, and only then did you realize how shallowly you had been breathing.
At the door, he paused.
The light caught the red of his hair, and for one awful second, he looked like Shanks again.
Then he looked over his shoulder.
This time, he smiled.
Not like Shanks.
“I will see you again.”
The door closed behind him.
You sat frozen, Shanks’s shirt twisted in your fists, your palm still burning from the slap.
Made a quick moodboard with Pinterest's collage tool (that I just found out existed, lol) based on the piece i'm currently writing, a female reader x Mihawk one shot/short story/who really knows in a gothic style. I'm trying really hard and it's gonna take a long time, ngl.
Reader is a naturalist that hops from ship to ship to pursue knowledge on every island. She carries out species identifications and descriptions, and is VERY passionate about it!!
I leave here two versions of the moodboard bc I kinda like both of them hehe
NEW LIMITED TIME SALE! My hand-signed “Warden” & “Guardian” Small Art Prints are now discounted while supplies last! You can check ‘em out in my web shop (in my bio)! ❤️
warnings: female reader; near death experience; PTSD; slow burn; use of Y/N; forced proximity; gothic atmosphere; english is NOT my first language; no nsfw (at least for the time being)
CHAPTER THREE
A couple days went on in what seemed a mutually agreed quietness.
Your body was still very weak, but you were quickly regaining your mental agility. Picking yourself up. Trying to piece together all those messed up snippets you barely remembered. Tasting on your tongue the names of the sailors that had disappeared with the Terroir. Making a mental inventory of all you had lost; your research, your personal belongings. Your health. Your independence.
Of course, it was all a tragedy. There was no other way to call it. You had dug deep inside you, you had tried to walk away and stare at it with another perspective, but there wasn’t another way to frame it. Calling it a joke or some fit of destiny was even more underwhelming. You couldn’t do it, not while those gruesome nightmares kept plaguing your mind whenever exhaustion took you. You’d always wake up startled, feeling the aftermath of the sea all over your body like a latent curse. Drenched in sweat, shaking. Miserable.
But after hours of rumination, of analysis, of painful identifications and categorization, you packed your personal tragedy and placed it on the big shelf of your mind. Labeled. Trapped it like an old friend’s memory that lingers for a long time. One you’d visit and kneel before, one you would light candles for and stare at blankly, your feelings on it mostly inaccessible.
That was it. You’d do what had always saved you before.
To turn to the environment. You’d focus on all you could see, or touch, and ponder about.
You would walk around the room, examining every detail, from the tapestries to the wooden floor itself. Scratching, tracing patterns.
You would sit on the windowsill and stare at that impressive lake. Would it freeze in winter? Did this island have harsh winters or was it just the storms all year long?
Then you’d stretch, you’d massage your legs, your arms. You wanted to regain your strength again and maybe walk through that cedarwood forest. Yes, and see the lake up close, and check those white flowers you could only peek at from the windows. Those seemed like lillies, but you couldn't tell for sure from that distance.
Of course, you also wanted to see the rest of the castle as well. You had speculated a lot from the objects you could see around the room, the candelabrum, the drappings, the gowns you were wearing. The castle was old but not too old, it must have been abandoned about twenty years ago, not more. It was ancient, but not centuries-old. You were pretty sure of that.
Then there was the matter of that man. Dracule Mihawk, the dweller of the castle. The only one, or so it seemed.
As soon as he saw you were conscious and strong enough to take care of yourself, he started retreating. So now you were alone most of the time. The warlord would only enter your room to bring you food or new bandages, and to apply a fresh herbal ointment to that wound in your forehead.
Mihawk didn't praise you for your little advances. He’d only pay attention to them and gradually, indirectly pushed you to do more by yourself, and do it better. He avoided getting closer than necessary and, if he truly had to touch you or handle you in any way, as soon as the need was over, he’d withdraw and grant himself with solitude once more.
The longer he was away, the more confidence he displayed. His tone would go completely monotone. His gestures firm. Curated. His dignity thicker. He was erecting again that sophisticated wall that kept him away from the world.
He was getting over the first destabilization provided by your intrusion, and coming back stronger. Your own silence and the extended solitude had given him time to regroup. To reconsider and poke at his tender spots until he didn't feel a thing.
Yes, it may have been mostly quiet, but there was no true peace between you. You were still strangers. Cold war settled during those incursions in the no man’s land of that unwilling proximity.
Each nonchalant look was an inquiry. Every gesture, calculated. Words were rare and extremely efficient.
No more openings.
This wasn’t time for a fray. You were still licking your wounds, he was adjusting his armor.
Tightly.
A truce had been settled, but you kept silently circling each other. Never baring fangs but casually flaring claws. A truce had been settled.
Mihawk was glad you were being mostly easy. Keeping your distance, barely talking. You didn’t ask, didn’t beg. And you didn’t pry.
Maybe it was due to respect for him. Or gratitude. Maybe you needed the silence too. He didn't bother discovering what was the case. He usually just took the silence, gladly, and retreated to himself.
But in his lone hours it creeped up his back, settled between his shoulderblades. Then the wine would taste funny. He’d twirl it once, then again. Garnet reflecting against his sharp features. No answers.
He couldn’t ignore the way you looked at him. He could see the spark in your eyes, the rumination, the silent attention you’d put in every movement of his, the same expression one carries while watching over boiling water.
It could be that you feared it would foam and pour all over.
But no, it wasn’t fear. It was clear you were no longer terrified of him. It had just been that first time, after your fever had finally broken. Your eyes hadn’t done that again. For some reason, he couldn't forget how you had looked at him at that moment. He would never admit how his stomach had turned at the sight of such a distress because of his presence.
So, no longer afraid. And you were no coward. You respected him but never tiptoed around him. You didn’t let go of your dignity even in your weakness.
You were gathering yourself fast, and poking at him as you grew more confident. The very thought of it made Mihawk wary. It was time to step back and focus on consolidating his own strength, his detachment.
Yet wariness was a rare, layered feeling for a man like him. It was surely alarming. It was also alarming the fact that it kindled a spark of interest he hadn’t felt in years. Not in battle or any aspect of his life.
So he had tried to antagonize you. Pose your mind as a weapon you’d dare wield against him. Try to take it to a familiar arena.
But then he’d see you wince, or groan while you were stepping around your room, and he’d back off. You’d look at him and mutter a single word of gratitude and all his schemes would tremble. He hated how he didn't even have it in himself to scold you, to tell you to stop. He was disarmed enough to just take it, a blow he considered he could afford in the long run.
On the third morning Mihawk appeared with a newspaper.
You laid on the bed, half awake. His eyes had studied you whole by the time you managed to focus on his face. The room was gloomy. Somewhat damp. The rain went on…
It had been a rough night. Your hair now a bit messy, darkish circles under your eyes. A hint of swelling he chose not to read further into.
He walked to your bedside, produced a matchbox and lit the chamberstick. Meanwhile, you sat with your back to the bedframe, waiting for his next move. Observing like you always did. Mihawk then actually sat beside your bed, and placed the newspaper on your lap. He hadn’t been this close since your fever.
“Thought you would like to see this.”
You could obviously half figure what you were about to read as you took the chamberstick in your hands. He looked away when your eyes began to squint to make up the headlines. You were a little short-sighted. He had noticed, of course.
The main headline detailed the most recent movements of Big Mom’s crew in the North Blue. You skimmed it quickly, not entirely disinterested. It was followed by some big shifts in the stock market. Then, finally, what you had been dreading.
"Cargo Vessel 'Terroir' Vanishes Without Trace in the Florian Triangle”
You swallowed. So there it was...
No crew left. No passengers. No cargo either, of course. The Florian Triangle had engulfed it all, as if it had never existed.
Your mind drifted to all those faces you had seen just days ago. The moody captain. That funny, flirty helmsman. The quartermaster. And that deckhand, the one that had tried to swim to you during the shipwreck, without success. All gone…?
You sighed, closing the paper. Silence took over the room. His face was unreadable, his gaze lingering on the window, where raindrops traced chaotic paths down the glass.
“So, no survivors…” You whispered, your voice surprisingly steady.
Mihawk shook his head, a rather sharp movement. “Negligence.” He said, his tone lacking any softness.
“The navigator, most likely.” The twinge of irritation of his words betrayed him slightly. He abhorred incompetence. “The entire chain of command should have monitored the trajectory. They should have recognized the danger before the ship was compromised.”
“Mm. Indeed.” You said, thoughtful. Dissecting his logic. “Pitiful…”
He watched you, his gaze heavy and unhurried as you pored over the article. He hadn't brought the paper to be cruel. He had brought it because it was a truth you were owed. Yet, as he remained there, his eyes traced the set of your jaw and the way your fingers tightened against the page, searching for something. Perhaps to see if the weight of reality would finally break the composure you had so stubbornly maintained. But you remained still, and in that stillness, he found his own disquiet growing.
The news felt heavy in your chest. It was a dull pressure that begged for an outlet, but the tears just wouldn't come. You still had a weird disposition towards your own tragedy, you looked at it from a safe distance.
But the article had brought the memory of your father to your mind. He must be mourning a ghost, back at home.
Still, you were in no shape to leave and go back to him. Right then, you could hardly walk around the room, leaving only to use the bathroom, which was like, four steps from your chamber. Little else could you do before feeling completely exhausted.
Twin Snakes island, your home, was East to the Red Line. South to the Calm Belt. And you had no vessel. No money, either. The storms were relentless… And you wouldn't ask Mihawk to take you anywhere. You felt enough like a liability to now request such madness.
You gathered your thoughts, forcing that silence to break. “Well… thank you for showing me.”
He answered with a single nod and stood. You held the newspaper out, your fingers a little shaky as you offered it back to him. His gaze dropped to your hand and lingered on the tremor for a second before climbing back to meet your eyes, a predatory search for a crack in your composure. He found your eyes staring back at him with no trace of intimidation.
“Keep it.” His voice was a low, velvet anchor in the room. For a fleeting moment, he lingered there, as if hoping to get something else out of you. Maybe a sob. Or a plea. When, again, you simply folded the paper back onto your lap, he pivoted and walked out with that lethal grace of his, leaving the door to latch shut with a hollow, final sound.
That was Mihawk for the day. He retreated into the vast silence of the castle, leaving you to your own devices. You would only see him again when he brought you food. The meals, if simple, were surprisingly exquisite, each portion deliberate to nurse you back to health.
Then, at a certain hour each afternoon, you had discovered that in the closest bathroom a fresh set of clothes would be waiting for you, and the bath would be filled with steaming hot water. He never announced it, and he certainly didn't wait for any acknowledgment. He simply ensured the necessities were met, and then he would retreat again, leaving you to manage the rest of your recovery in the quiet of your room.
And so you’d venture out of those chambers. You wore a pair of shoes you assumed he had found somewhere in the castle, their soles quiet against the stone.
You always paused at the entrance of the hallway. To your left, a large, weathered stained-glass window framed the vast, half-moon. To the right, a gloomy corridor you had yet to explore. Darkened portraits peered back at you through faded varnish, and the ornamented drapings looked neglected, swaying in the cold draft.
In some strange way, you always half-hoped to find Mihawk there. You had come to rely on the strange, grounding comfort of his presence. As your hand traced the cold stone of the walls, you couldn't help but wonder where he was…
Mihawk always remained stubbornly out of reach. You found yourself wondering about the shape of his life in these halls… what he did with his time, how he moved through the shadows, and what thoughts occupied the mind of a man who chose such profound solitude. He was a mystery you couldn't help but circle, a man who drew your attention in a way that felt both inevitable and entirely unwise.
Conversation was a resource Mihawk rationed, one you were learning to manage with surgical precision.
You were now sitting on the edge of the bed. The World Economic Journal was still neatly folded over the bedside table.
That day, the rain had stopped. Some faint light made its way across the room as you carded through your bedhead with your fingers, trying to brush it back.
It was Mihawk’s usual visit to treat the wound on your forehead. Your gaze drifted, to his hands, to the curve of his pale forearms as he rolled up his sleeves.
You took care of all your wounds, except for that one. He had insisted on treating it himself, since it had been infected when you arrived, and he also didn't want it to seal improperly. It was true you couldn't stare at it with a hand mirror and take care of it simultaneously, so you had surrendered to his logic.
You couldn't help wondering if his apparent aversion to weakness implied also a disdain of scars. He didn't have any on his body, or so it seemed.
You adjusted the covers over your shoulders, it was a very cold morning.
Mihawk fetched all he needed, then he stepped closer. With one hand he supported your chin, only using his fingertips. Sometimes his thumb pressed harder, to tilt your face. With the other, he applied the ointment. It had proved useful in aiding to keep infection at bay, so he had kept using it. He was gentle and methodical, silent.
You never looked at him when he was tending to you, preferring to either close your eyes, or look away.
At that hour, he smelled of coffee. Standing that close, you could also register the deeper layers of his own scent. Woods, maybe sandalwood. Cedar; did it linger on him after chopping trees out there in the forest? You’d also recognize some metallic undertones lingering on his hands.
That day you had something in score, so you began to test the waters. Since the first time he had started using the ointment, you had been trying to focus to identify the specific herbal notes.
Your nose scrunched a bit. His fingertips pressed against your chin so you would stop moving.
“Achillea?” You asked, your tone crafty nonchalant. He then hummed a bit, his eyes never drifting from your forehead, and added, his tone unwavering “And Calendula.”
You just nodded approvingly. His expression didn't change. He didn't need your approval, of course. You knew that too.
Your eyes fluttered closed again. A polite pause for him to prepare. He did notice something else was coming from your behalf, since that question had been ridiculous for a naturalist. Those were the most obvious components of the ointment.
So your question had been a polite feit. Would you engage further?
Only after a minute or two, you finally spoke again.
You did engage.
Salute.
“Mihawk”
You had called him by his name for the first time. Your voice was stern. No longer wavering. Weakness forgotten.
His eyes narrowed. So it had come, the time where you’d actually ask something of him. Yet there was no true pleading in your tone, you wore no signs of submission.
But hearing his name from your lips had been the worst part of it. As soon as it registered, it curled up and nested behind his ribs, invading him in such an uncomfortable way. He took a small breath, trying with all his might to only appear irritated at your inquiry.
His name, your voice. That was something he’d start covering in layers of carefully crafted detachment. He needed to keep that impurity away from the sanctuary of his flesh. It would turn into those wrong, shimmery, baroque pearls. Maybe he’d place it later in his hand, where it couldn't hatch. He’d made it run wobbly all over his palm, examining its aberrant shine under the candlelight.
He had involuntarily tilted your chin more, his thumb digging softly. As soon as he noticed the way your skin has tensed under his grasp, he released gently. You were still looking up at him, waiting for an answer. He could see himself reflected in those big eyes of yours.
Mihawk just resumed tending to your wound, as he hummed softly. …“Hm?”
You had seen it all. The pause. The pressure of his fingers. You kept going…
That was your opening.
“I’d like to ask for a favor...” You muttered, the intimacy growing by the second. It was a matter of time before he would retreat.
His eyes finally set on yours. You were very serious, studying every inch of his face to analyze his disposition. Mihawk didn’t like it, not a bit.
“... Ask away.” He resolved. He had gathered himself. His tone was relaxed and sure… you needed to be wary.
You began: “My father still lives,” His eyebrow started raising. “with the recent news, he must be assuming I died in the shipwreck.”
He was almost done. Didn't look impressed by your request so far.
“I’m from the West Blue…” you continued. His hands left your face as he reached for a new gauze. Your eyes followed his movements.
“I just want to write to him, since I can't leave yet. A quill and some paper will do, and I'd just need you to handle the News Coo... If that’s possible.”
He finished. Took a step back, started wiping his hands in some vintage handkerchief. As usual, his face remained unreadable.
You didn’t want to get nervous. You couldn't make the mistake of looking down, or away.
You tried a last resource. Raw sincerity. “I wish I could just handle it myself. I do not like bothering you.”
Mihawk remained silent. He didn't look away, but the muscle in his jaw tightened, as if he was calculating the cost of the ground you had just claimed.
The swordsman was measuring the depth of your resolve, finally finding it unexpectedly… formidable.
So he simply nodded.
You had landed a good strike. A simple request, dutiful. Coherent. You had seen through him. He was very fond of logic, of righteousness. To him, reason was a relief in itself.
Then you had lowered your guard entirely. Were you weaponizing your vulnerability against him? Or was it a good natured, involuntary blow?
He was afraid you had offered him your neck, not in surrender, not as a decoy, but in an act of absolute, disarming trust.
You wanted a common ground, and you’d expose yourself to reach it.
That felt way more dangerous than any duel he had faced before.
“I’ll see to it”, he said, his tone carrying a faint, lingering note of reluctance.
You raised your eyebrows, genuinely surprised. Despite his whole demeanor, he didn't seem fully irritated. You muttered a heartfelt “Thank you.”
Mihawk didn't acknowledge you further. He returned the clean gauzes and ointment with precise, but fast movements. He wanted this conversation to be over. He wasn’t used to witnessing his own defeat.
Yet he was already at the threshold when he stopped, his hand resting against the wooden frame.
“I have a Den Den Mushi at my disposal. It would surely prove more reliable than a letter, given the current state of the weather.”
“Ah…” You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden willingness to accommodate you. “But we do not have one at home. My family is… quite modest, we have never been able to afford one.”
You couldn't help blushing a little. Bringing up your humble upbringing was something that always brought a sting of self-consciousness. It was worse now, since you were surrounded by that weathered, quiet opulence, that reminded you of luxuries you had never even dreamt of.
You wondered about Mihawk’s own background. He seemed to move through the castle as if these luxuries were barely an afterthought.
He caught the flush on your face and studied you for a second. There was no true judgment in his eyes, only a methodical sort of understanding. He actually even reassured you with a little nod.
“Then a letter will be.”
His gaze then drifted downward, lingering on your shoes for a fleeting moment, before straightening up and heading towards the dark corridor.
“Walk with me.”
The command was abrupt. You nearly bolted, your fingers fumbling with the laces of your shoes as you hurried to keep pace.
But he hadn’t left you behind. He stood poised against the wall, holding an oil lamp, waiting for you. His eyes studied you whole as you walked to him, leaning on the wall from time to time. You were still a little wobbly, forced to stop and catch your breath sometimes, but he didn't rush you.
All the way, your eyes remained fixed on his back.. He was wearing that enormous sword again. It looked so heavy, even with his usual good bearing. Then there was the case of the blade. The light of the oil lamp flickered against it, yet it died eerily fast, as if devoured by its own darkness.
Mihawk led you into an old study, not too far from your room. It was gloomy, the intense scent of aged paper and wood made the air itself thicker.
He signaled you to take the chair before a massive desk of dark, polished wood and fetched a quill and some paper for you.
Mihawk then placed the oil lamp close, the golden flame casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance across the shelves. You peeked, those weren’t books per se, it looked more like some kind of archive.
“Tell your father you’re safe.”
You nodded, setting the paper down and already planning your letter. As he retreated, his voice crept towards you with a stern, absolute finality.
“The return address will be Gilda island. I’ll write down the specifics when the letter is ready.”
That name hung in the air. Gilda? If you remembered right, that island was some miles from there, to the southwest of the Florian Triangle.
You quickly made out his strategy. By anchoring your whereabouts to Gilda, he was ensuring that when you finally left, you would leave as a complete stranger to his world. You were being untethered from his name and Kuraigana itself. As if you had never been there. A complete excision.
A sharp, unexpected pang settled on your chest. Why did that bother you so much? It was, by all accounts, the most rational way to handle this mess. Was it his total, cold willingness to erase you after he had single-handedly saved your life? Or something else?
Your eyes narrowed, the blank paper staring back at you, taunting. That anger didn't make sense, but it burned. You felt a sudden, dangerous urge to snap, to dissect out loud exactly how much of this "prevention" was for your actual safety and how much was merely a selfish desire to protect his own peace of mind.
But you held your tongue. You couldn't afford that behaviour with a man like him. You were in no position for that.
“I’ll state that I was saved by a passing merchant ship.” You murmured, dipping the quill into the inkwell, the dark liquid clinging to the nib like a secret.
You’d write nothing of the castle, or his hands. The monkeys. Or those ridges.
You’d erase him from your narrative with the same coldness as he had displayed while demanding your own eventual vanishment from his life.
“Good. Leave it there when you’re done.”
You stared at his back once more as he left the room, his shadow stretching long and thin behind him. Gone again.
A sigh left your lips. You turned slowly, back to your letter. It was time to gather your thoughts, then paint over them. The weight of the nib against the paper was heavy, the ink spreading in dark, frantic veins. You wrote with a stiff hand, the lie coming easily, yet the silence of the room felt like a physical pressure against your skin.
You were crafting a ghost of yourself to send home, just as he was crafting a ghost of you to cast out into the world.
warnings: female reader; near death experience; PTSD; slow burn; use of Y/N; forced proximity; gothic atmosphere; english is NOT my first language; no nsfw (at least for the time being)
Chapter Two
Your eyes slowly fluttered open. Still highly disoriented, you did exhale a sigh of relief at the realization you were safe. Mostly, at least.
In your feverish dreaming, you had been revisiting the pungent horror of the gloomy depths under your weary limbs. Of eyes not entirely human. Of impossibly curled ridges and years of lost research.
You could feel your eyeballs still burning up as your gaze focused on the dark wood coffer of the room. The detailed ornaments danced under the flickery candlelight. It was weirdly comforting, so you welcomed it and kept staring for a while, your mind both blank and overflowing at the same time.
Eventually, you noticed the light source on the bedside table. The movement of the flame lured you at first, but after some seconds it became way too bright, and you had to look away. That was followed by a few more seconds of mindlessly staring again at the ceiling.
In your state, subconsciously procrastinating the process of making sense of your situation felt incredibly right. At last some moments of peace.
That was until the sudden recollection of those apish features hit you, and made you instantly raise your head and look around the room, frantic.
After some seconds, a sigh of relief. No monkeys! Good. At least this wasn't the monkey fortress.
You took that as a fair enough start.
The truth was you weren’t conscious enough to realize the true vulnerability of your position when it wasn't in relation to those monkeys. You were fixed on them, and as long as there were no over-intelligent monkeys around, you felt quite safe. Cozy, even, in that room with the chimney and the soft bedding.
You spotted a water carafe on the bedside table and the worst kind of thirst possessed you. It provoked such anguish you actually managed to move a bit just out of sheer need, despite the pain it caused you.
As you leaned over the massive bed and extended your arm in a very pathetic way, the door to the room opened. You were startled, then frozen. Busted.
The warm shroud of the candlelight fell over his frame as he crossed the threshold. The gloom waited behind him.
When he stopped there and you locked eyes, the room grew significantly smaller. He was tall and imposing, yet he had barely made a sound as he had entered the room.
His brows furrowed slightly. He didn't seem surprised to find you there, but he certainly wasn't expecting you to be awake by the time he came back. Surprisingly tame irritation crossed his sharp features as he took in how ridiculous you looked all sprawled over that big bed trying to reach the carafe.
“Don’t.” He uttered. He didn't raise his voice to scold you, his formidable presence was enough. The “you’re still too weak” was only implied, not dignified enough for him to say it out loud.
You were still too blissfully drowsy from fever and exhaustion to feel truly disturbed by that dark haired man that now crossed the room like it had personally offended him. You also couldn't catch the way he doubted before walking closer to the bed.
He was awkward in a demure, asphyxiatingly controlled way. To him, it felt as though your mere existence, not his own internal turmoil, was the root of the problem. You were the one torturing him with your inconvenient presence, a burden he was forced to endure.
It was a convenient deception, for sure. As long as he could cast you as the source of his agitation, he didn't have to face the fact that the turmoil was entirely his own.
“Lay back” His sharp eyes once again studied your poor disposition. It felt like he was judging you down to the very marrow.
You actually just complied, failing to discern the warning in his tone. The menace a man like him represented. In your oblivious state, you rather favoured clinging to the fact of his presence on itself. You weren’t alone after that terrible shipwreck. A biting remark from that man would always be better than roaring waves, or absolute nothingness.
However, as you attempted to rest back against the pillows, a bolt of pain shook your body, and you couldn’t help letting out a feeble yelp. He only withstood your struggle for a few seconds.
Mihawk wouldn’t have it. He would rather help you efficiently for one second than having your weakness disarming him for way longer. So he simply hushed an exasperated, sharp:
“Let me.” His hands set under your arms as he positioned you. Once you were well set, he withdrew them with quick composure.
You reclined back against the bedframe and watched him handle the carafe. His hands were well groomed, somewhat pale, as he placed a glass on yours.
The water looked absolutely inviting, and when you managed to raise it, your first instinct was to down it in gulps, a little feral due to the horrible thirst you were feeling.
“Not like that.” He scolded, again, as soon as he saw you raising the glass too quickly. “Drinking in such a manner could worsen your condition.”
You couldn't catch his irritation. You were too focused on the way the flames lit his amber eyes. He didn't know how much kinder he looked in that gentle candlelight.
“... Alright.” you managed to utter, incapable of losing sight of his eyes. You slowly lifted the glass and took little sips, your arms were a bit shaky.
Mihawk was deeply unsettled by the way you kept looking at him. He told himself you just weren’t in your right mind. No one ever looked at him as if he could ever offer any kind of comfort. You were just weak. Fawning like those rabbits he sometimes hunted in the prairies to the West of the castle.
He did catch on to every detail like a conniving beast of prey. His attention could never be foreign to your soreness, your shaking. His own perceptiveness didn't protect him or aid him through the tasks. It poked at his side, demanding. A knife he turned against himself.
Your eyes, they were still very much glassy from the fever. He wanted to check your temperature again, but now that you were awake, even the mere thought of doing it felt entirely too intimate for his own peace of mind.
“You were lost at sea, if you can recall.” His voice ran deep, but never a rumble. Despite his discomfort, a certain confidence never left his tone.
The early birds were beginning to sing from their perches. The rain was now a rather quiet murmur. The sun hadn't risen yet.
You were still looking at him with that unwavering gaze, the glass now resting on your lap.
“You washed ashore.” He continued, stern. Again, you were still enough out of it not to catch on how hard it was for him to say the next words. He actually turned away as he kept talking, adjusting the curtains. “I’ve been taking care of you.”
You remained silent for a moment, as if processing what he had just said. He didn't know what to make of an unknown, fever-struck woman’s silence, so he could only wait. He doubted she had recognized him yet. That wasn’t the cause of her lack of response. She didn't seem stunned or fearful, which was what he usually got from everybody. This was different.
Your eyes set on the broad of his back as he walked now towards the chimney. He proceeded to crouch down to check on the embers and shift the logs.
Then, you said something he hadn't been expecting at all: “... Where are the monkeys?” Your voice was a thin thread of sound. It seemed so confused, even scared. “Were they real monkeys?”
Mihawk raised an eyebrow. Oh, he actually was almost amused. Had you been spooked by them?
“They found you before I did.” He was still kindling the flames, his voice monotone. “The humandrills.”
Your brows furrowed. After a beat, you replied, drowsy and weirdly offended. “Are you fucking with me?” You could sometimes be very much skeptical. “Hu-man-drill?” And you also were coming across as absolutely rude right now.
Bratty, even.
Mihawk bit back the warning that had almost gotten a hold of his tongue at your insolence.
After a long silence, he just stood up and turned towards you again.
Your gaze was still off, pupils dilated with the fever. He looked at you and told himself you weren’t behaving like a spoiled kid on purpose. The humandrills really had spooked you, and you just wanted to feel safe in your weakened state.
Meanwhile, you kept staring at him as if he had all the answers in the world.
After a while, again something unexpected. “Which species?” You uttered, very demanding for someone bedridden and still very much feverish.
Oh, his irritation grew a tad. Had he been trying to reframe your brattiness for nothing?
And you? You were still so insufferably invested in knowing that stupid fact. You were still waiting for an answer with those big eyes of yours.
“... Humandrill, just that.” He said, the outer composure never leaving him.
“But which species? They have to be one species…” You were starting to speak more weakly. He noticed you beginning to drift, and took the glass from your hands.
“Are they not described yet?” You looked up again, very confused. He was setting the carafe back up. At the ausence of an answer, you muttered again, so softly and foolishly, “Which species?”
Mihawk glared at you once more. You were very persistent. He noticed your closed fists over the covers. Were you really suffering over not knowing a taxonomic fact?
Again that vertigo in his stomach. He felt like a fool himself.
After a while, he just made it up, reluctantly choosing to entertain your drowsy wants.
“…Mandrillus gladiensis”
The truth was, he had not been able to withstand your demanding silence. Now, he was desperately hoping you would shut up soon, and go back to sleep. And it did look that way, from the way your blinking was getting slower by the second and you seemed more dense now.
You took a long minute to process it. “Ahh… right” Your face now was that of a perfectly convinced scientist. You were even nodding a little. A little smile on your lips. Completely ridiculous.
He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, half intrigued, half absolutely exasperated.
You kept muttering, unfortunately. “Because, the swords and all…” Your head had sunk completely against the pillows, your eyes closed now. “Mm….” Such a silly satisfaction crossed your expression.
Then, after a couple minutes or so, sleep had claimed you once again.
He remained silent, looking at you as you rested. Your eyelashes fanned peacefully over your reddened cheeks, your breathing now untroubled, gentle.
Mihawk felt a corrosive sense of shame at how much this situation had been draining him. The unnaturalness of maintaining that impenetrable wall of indifference while playing nurse to a stranger. It was sickening. It was hypocrisy. Ridiculous.
Was he really acting as mindlessly as he constantly proclaimed? Or had he been merely yielding to a vestigial sense of duty, some honorable sentiment he still hadn’t carved out of his chest?.
He wouldn’t confess it, not even to himself.
Now, he was once again trying hard to be fully annoyed at your feverish antics. He just sighed when he finally admitted to himself he couldn’t. Not fully, at least.
A hint of interest had started welling up in him, and he hadn't been able to stop it. He was still so weak, wasn't he? All his work, had it not been enough?
Had it all been in vain? The isolation, the detachment… yet once again his hand moved on faster than his thoughts. Now you were asleep, now it was safe to gently rest his hand on your forehead. That was the true thought he had then, the only one that could bring him to action. The one he couldn't verbalize to himself.
Self-allegedly mindless, once more, he reached for a clean cloth and the fresh water basin he had fetched earlier, and produced another cold compress for you.
You were still too warm for comfort.
For his own.
A breeze whistled across the room, inviting in the bittersweet stench of petrichor. The candles went out with a breathless whisper.
Ivory curtains fluttered in a gentle, untroubled dance, taking over the room like another living presence.
The rain had stopped.
Only big, heavy raindrops resonated against the damp soil and the rugged stone as the water methodically collected itself and ran back to its earthly mattress.
You opened your eyes slowly when the chill afternoon breeze finally reached you. The ceiling welcomed you again, now dim and still.
The fever had finally broken.
Faint sunlight made its way between the gloom. The sun still waited eager behind those dark clouds.
Your body felt absolutely sore. Still, you tried to move a bit, letting a slightly damp cloth fall off your head. You looked at it, not awake enough yet to process its implications.
You didn't remember much of your feverish wakings, it had felt like those easy dreams that kindle the spirit but one never remembers in the morning.
Now, the room was cold. The bedding, too heavy. Your fingertips brushed over some animal fur that had been resting near your feet. The wild softness sent shivers down your spine.
A heady, melted wax scent took over in waves, mixing with the petrichor and with the sharp ozone of the aftermath of the storm. You tried to ignore the unsettling sight of the gliding curtains.
Yet, as they swayed, you did notice one of those spiral ridges through the window. Gods. That unsightly anomaly you had witnessed when you were lost at sea.
All started coming back to you in such an asphyxiating rush. The ridges overlapped with the curled fiddleheads of your precious ferns. Flashes. The Terroir sinking, the roar of the bellows. Rich garnet meeting the silvery waves.
A firm bolt of grounding touch in the gloom, your notebooks sinking. Pools of warmest amber. Hiking in Banaro’s swamps. Hopping on the ship. Furrowed, dark brows. Driftwood. Lost research. Misshapen faces. A deep, commanding voice.
The room grew significantly colder. Your breathing, labored.
You looked down. You weren’t wearing the sleeping gown your mother had tailored with gentle hands so many years ago now.
Once again, you suddenly recalled those mandrills and performed a frantic monkey check-up across the room. One never knows.
Thankfully, still no monkeys, as in that distant dream. Alright.
Your chest heaved as you tried to reign yourself in. It wasn't just the physical pain. Not the soreness, or the stinging ulcers. The worst of it was the way you were helplessly aware you hardly had a hold over yourself.
You didn't have a solid grip on anything. All seemed to escape you. Yes, you had apparently escaped death itself, but now this unsettling unknown laid before you.
Those ridges. Those eyes.
The thirst again. Your temples pulsated. You sat on the edge of the bed and helped yourself to a couple of glasses, handling now the carafe on your own.
Afterwards, your naked feet softly brushed against the carpet as you tried to get off the bed, holding onto the dark wood headboard, the mattress itself, and anything you could get a hold of. Your knees waddled a bit as you tried to straighten yourself. You resolved on standing there for a while, hoping the pain would recede soon.
You looked down at your feet, your trembling legs, the shiver in your hands. Realizing your own weakness was slowly wrecking you, but here was no use in panicking completely. You needed to suppress that cold, coiling fear in your guts. It was true, you were in no state to fight whatever might come for you. You were trapped in that terrifying island you had seen on the horizon. Not even fleeing was an option in your current state.
But you couldn't help it. You were never good at admitting defeat, so you shook your head and simply attempted to take a few steps. However, that stubborn effort betrayed you immediately. You lost balance and had to lunge for support against a heavy bureau, sending a golden, rusty candelabrum straight to the floor.
Thankfully, only a muted thud echoed against the carpet. You spooked yourself, your breath catching in your throat as your gaze flew swiftly to the closed door, waiting for the worst.
You remained silent for several agonizing seconds, heart hammering against your ribs.
No steps could be heard. Good.
Mihawk had been resting in the adjacent meeting hall when the faint, discordant sound registered in his senses.
His eyes sharpened as he isolated the noise—clumsy, uncoordinated steps. Your stubbornness was as predictable as it was foolish. You were already attempting to walk. After a few minutes of calculated silence, he rose, deciding it was time to intervene and inspect the state of his “guest”.
He slowly opened the door.
Mihawk found you near the window, pale, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. A thin veil of sickly light surrounded your weakened frame. You were holding on to the windowsill, poorly, your knees almost shaking. The sleeping gown was too big on you, it almost got to the floor and swallowed you up a little, the faint outline of your body visible under the old linen as the light pierced it.
You were completely silent, frozen. Not a trace of that unabashed warm gaze you had given him while feverish, asking stubbornly about the humandrills. That had vanished.
Your lucidity had finally erected the wall he had been missing. The one he had been expecting, and wishing it’d appear as soon as possible. Now, you were no longer poking at him with that raw, directed vulnerability. You were something he could manage, now that you had recoiled into yourself, pushing him out. The blur that had threatened to compromise his own boundaries was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp distance.
He caught himself wondering how much of the previous night you remembered, now that you were so attuned to your wakeful dignity.
A flicker of something… an unfamiliar, dissonant disappointment, set on his gaze only for a heartbeat before the coldness returned. He refused to name the feeling, let alone examine its roots. It was illogical to expect anything else from your return to consciousness.
You studied him from across the room, desperate to keep your trepidation contained. Trying not to give him an unnecessary idea of the extent of your fear.
Then, your gaze drifted and set on that cross behind his back. A sword? That hadn't been there before. Back then, it had all just been… warmth. It hadn't been a dream, after all. You quickly understood you just hadn't been able to assess him properly in your weakness. His eyes were now too sharp to you, his hands a potential menace. He was miles away now.
He watched your eyes set on Yoru. It was an inevitable reaction. At last a familiar foundation he could safely work from.
His deep voice quickly interrupted your train of thought. He hadn't moved from the threshold, gloom creeping behind him. His eyes were now unforgiving against the pale light.
“I assume you do not need an introduction on my behalf.” He took in your appearance again, his commanding gaze almost unbearable. Mihawk seemed irritated, or maybe absolutely exasperated. You couldn't read him properly.
You exhaled softly. Swallowed. Your eyes couldn't leave his as you answered, voice faint and wavering.
“...I do not.”
You had heard about him, of course. Who hadn't? He was the world’s best swordsman. A warlord working for the Marines. But you weren't thinking about those bleak, worldwide known facts right then.
Your mind had quickly drifted back to that first night in the Terroir’s galley. The gentle swaying of the oil lamp. Cookware clicking, soft munching. The comforting murmur of the rolling waves against the hull.
It had been quiet, not peaceful. That was clear as day. You were enjoying your rations in silence, taking in the mood of the room. The gazes were downturned. A heavy gloom set over the men. You hadn't seen them so wary and tired til that very moment.
The deckhands wouldn't dare utter the name of the first stop of the voyage. Not the island, less the customer.
That old seaman Steward’s face had crumpled with all his wrinkly years just at the thought of it. The weight of a long life at the sea’s unyielding mercy had slowly begun to fragment his lucidity.
His voice became twangy as he started swaying back and forth, murmuring mostly to himself. “His hubris goes on, unpunished. That man reached highs no living soul should’ve.”
The other sailors had looked away. This seemed like a recurring scene for them, Steward’s loomings. Some of them gulped hastily the reminding grog in their tin mugs. Others even left their tables.
“He turned his back to the cross.” Steward continued, his eyes wide and glassy. His hands shaking. “No, no, worse, he wears it now! Aye, stole it, stole it from He that watches over us.”
Another man coughed. “ ‘Tis better not to talk about him, lest our own angels flee.”
“Aye,” muttered the third mate, crossing himself. “may God keep us.”
Steward shook his head wildly, disapproving. “Nay, God himself forfeits us as we approach his lair!”
You were never one for superstition, nor faith. Yet, you had witnessed the visceral terror the mere mention of this swordsman’s reputation elicited in grown men. Could a man ever not be a man? What else could he be?
You were a woman of science, and science demanded evidence. He had touched you with hands of living, warm flesh. You did remember some of it. He had shown you mercy. Reluctant, perhaps, but mercy nonetheless.
He was no wraith, no devil, no vile, unnatural aberration. You refused to believe it.
No, no supernatural entity could ever be that conflicted. No unnatural phenomena showed itself unwilling.
A flash of light illuminated the room. Then, distant thunder. The prelude of another relentless downpour.
Mihawk was still looking at you. You seemed far away after your first exchange.
What was it, were you that scared of him?
Mihawk exhaled. He was a patient man, but he wasn't immune to the growing discomfort between you.
“Well, that being sorted.” He took a single step, just enough to claim the room fully. That brought you back entirely to the present.
You didn't flinch when he approached, you told yourself you weren't going to give it to him.
“I would like to learn more about my guest.” His tone wasn't mocking, but the hint of exasperation raised some alarms in your mind.
A long silence crept between you. You were searching inside yourself. Poking at your own guts. Looking for a tone that would be enough to keep his asphyxiating inquiry at bay.
“Name’s Y/N.” You finally uttered. A forced defiance.
Mihawk instinctively overlapped that new tone over the weak voice he had registered earlier. That voice that had begged her father for forgiveness. Or him, for taxonomic closure. He tucked it away, and wrote your name over it, like a keepsake. He couldn't tell if he was completely glad of this new development. That bugged him, again.
“I’m just a naturalist. I do not mean harm.” You kept talking. Everything you had been rehearsing in your mind was slowly leaving you. Not the defiance, but all the words.
Mihawk slowly raised an eyebrow. So, a naturalist. One of those idealists, maybe. Or a true woman of science. He could ask more about It. Later.
No, he wouldn't. Not at all.
He kept staring at you in silence.
“I was just travelling, I…” The words died as you got lost in thought. Your legs, still frail from your ordeal, finally gave out. Sliding against the stone wall, you ended up sitting on the floor, a dull ache running all over your body. The gown pooled around you. You were mortified. Ashamed of your weakness.
Mihawk followed your pitiful descent with his piercing gaze. You could only focus on your own misery.
Deep dread sat on your eyes before you wiped your face slowly with a shaking hand, refusing to meet his gaze for a minute. A big, unforgiving shroud of heavy sorrow rested over your body.
“The ship, the Florian t-triangle…” you sighed.
He didn't offer a hand. In fact, he did cherish the way you didn't look at him, neither asking for help. You still had some of your pride. To him, that was sort of a show of strength and an exercise of dignity, even when you couldn't meet his eyes.
So he simply loomed there. You almost whimpered, covering your face.
“I lost all my research—”
His eyes narrowed further with that statement. Was it that second hand embarrassment again? Or was he moved by your pain, by what you had been through? Anyway, his own weakness was again the source of his discomfort.
His voice carried through the room like sharp thunder, cutting you off.
“That’s enough.” He sounded almost on edge. Mihawk didn't want to hear another pitiful word. Or see the heartbreak in your eyes, your voice wavering. He had to first pick apart his own thoughts, trace the source of that unsettling feeling.
You couldn't help flinching at his tone, at the interruption. You couldn't avoid widening your eyes. Oh, you had just given yourself away completely. No pride could ever salvage your composure now. You were terrified he would now use your fear against you.
Yet your flinching had tasted sour on his tongue. Those weren’t the underlying notes he preferred. No, the truth was he had a taste for deeper, heavy-bodied. Not for blood-sour pain, or tangy guilt.
Mist was slowly taking over the room.The faint outline of a red crescent moon loomed over them.
His eyes darkened. He lowered his voice, but didn't fix his commanding tone.
“You must be hungry. Go back to bed.”
With that, he just left. His calm stride didn't let out a single hint of his own turmoil, nor did his face.
It was as if the room itself had been holding its breath in his presence. Now the walls stretched out, the furniture creaked. The candelabrum laid lifeless over the weathered rug.
You remained there, somewhat stunned. You didn't know what to make of him, not at all. You had never been this clueless.
The sailors had painted him a devil. They had whispered and crossed themselves over those old wives’ tales around him. Then, supernatural beliefs aside, he was reportedly ruthless. It was rumoured he could slice in half a six ton three-decker ship if he was in the right mood for it.
Yet he had taken you in his castle when he could have left you to die. He had treated your wounds. Sat with you through your fever.
All meanwhile looking at you with that reserved complaint. With the silent reproach of one that had been unfairly invaded. A curse the sea had washed up on his shores.
You went over his command. It hadn't been unkind. Could have been a little patronizing, yes. But it had felt like a challenge, too. He expected you to be able to do that. He seemed like the kind of man that wouldn't waste his breath on commanding something impossible. It was clear he had also caught on your stubbornness. Maybe he had honored it. You couldn't tell.
You did manage to stand up. Then, after a gush of wind that nearly froze you on the spot, you succeeded at closing the heavy window. With clumsy steps, you almost tripped over your sleeping gown as you made your way back to the bed, but you did get there, and plopped over the covers, already exhausted again.
The silence of the room returned, thicker than before. Outside, the ridges still loomed, a stark anomaly against the fading light. You covered your eyes with your arm, shielding yourself from the sight, yet you could not block out the thoughts racing through your mind. A long, slow recovery awaited you, and you realized, with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, that you were just as terrified as you were desperately curious to know what exactly you had stumbled into.
author's note: hope you like it! and thanks again for all the love on the first chapter ♥️
