Summary: Shanks is haunted by his time in Mariejois and the similarities between him and the ones he shares his blood with.
Trigger warnings: body image issues, self-harm (unintentional).
Dividers used provided by: @ diviniyae !
It's been about a year since Shanks returned from Mariejois.
He never told his crew where he went, or what he had been doing during that period he left the Red Force.
After all, how could he?
Even now, every other night, the shadows of that place come crawling towards him in his dreams, filling his slumber with nightmares of the horrors that he had known about, but had never witnessed closely, had never participated in.
Until he was in Mariejois, pretending to be one of them, Saint Garling Figarland’s beloved son that was lost to the lower world.
The red-haired Captain has fought many battles, killed many people, although he tries to avoid taking lives unless they are a threat to his crew, his real family.
And yet, the blood he never seems to be able to wash off his hands is the blood he shed during his stay in the so-called Holy Land.
He could still hear the screams, the cries begging for mercy, the sobs of children too young to even understand what was happening around them.
Would his crew even stay by his side if they knew about the things he had done in order to fit in and avoid suspicion?
Or would they look at him with as much disgust as he felt whenever he thought about that time and the blood running through his veins?
Tonight was one of those nights where he was lying in bed after waking up from yet another nightmare, those questions echoing inside his head over and over again.
He was too scared to seek the answers.
His hand squeezed his arm where the mark of the shallow-sea covenant was left on his skin, he felt like it was burning under the fabric of his shirt.
He wanted to tear it off.
However, the moment that thought comes to mind, so does the face of Gaban. He still remembers how the man held him close, not wanting him to blame himself for anything.
And so Shanks lets go, before slowly sitting up, taking a moment to compose himself with deep, shaky breaths.
He should wash his face, maybe that's going to help.
He gets up, his legs slowly carrying him to the bathroom connected to his quarters. Once inside, he turns to the sink, glancing at the mirror above it-
His whole body freezes, staring into the red eyes looking back at him.
The face in the mirror changes.
Older, jaw hidden under a blonde beard, blonde hair shaped like a crescent moon.
“You’ve been so deprived…my poor son!”
His voice suddenly rings in the red haired captain’s ears.
“Speak your desire, and whatever it is, you shall have it!”
Shanks could feel his throat closing up, his breathing growing heavier and sharper.
No…!
“Those miserable peons are not people…forget what happened in the lower world!”
His body starts shaking while the image in the mirror changes once more, the previously blonde hair and beard turning a bright red, as if showing Shanks his own future self.
He looks just like him.
He doesn't even process his body moving, a cry tearing from his throat.
The next second, the mirror is shattered, blood dripping down his knuckles, trembling fist pressed against the broken glass.
He’s not like that, he’s not like him, HE’S NOTHING LIKE HIM!
Shanks can barely breathe, his vision now blurry from the tears welling up.
Stumbling back, he absent-mindedly feels his back hitting the wall, before he slides to the floor, head hanging low, staring at his bloody knuckles, some shards sticking out, digging deep into his skin.
He doesn’t feel any pain, the adrenaline in his body numbing him, all he can feel is his heart racing between his ribs.
He thinks he can hear heavy footsteps running closer, but he isn't sure.
Seas, he needs a drink…or a few.
