Sir Crocodile

The Den Den Mushi’s grin preceded the voice, stretching wider than any expression of genuine amusement ever ought to, as though it understood the reputation it carried yet failed to grasp the restraint that made such a presence convincing.

Crocodile allowed the sound to traverse the room unimpeded, not as a gesture of courtesy, but because there existed no discernible merit in advancing upon what had, of its own volition, already secured its place within the moment. The silence that followed was not empty, merely occupied, and he with it, fingers already drawn into the small, deliberate ritual that rarely failed to order his thoughts into something more legible.

The match flared briefly before yielding to the slow burn of the cigar. He rotated it with habitual exactitude, ensuring an even draw, taking in not merely the smoke but its layered composition—earth and leather at the forefront, dry with a deliberate weight that lingered along the palate before giving way to a more restrained cadence of spice. It was an indulgence that resisted haste, much like the glass set within reach, untouched but far from absent, where bourbon rested patiently, its tones of caramel and vanilla softened beneath the firmer, more structured edge of oak.

“ Faster than you expected… ” Expectation was rarely about the subject it was imposed upon; it spoke instead of the one who formed it, of the assumptions arranged in advance, of the margin of error one allowed themselves before surprise turned into miscalculation.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze rested on the Den Den Mushi only insofar as it served as a point of focus rather than a subject of interest. Men like Doflamingo did not indulge in idle remarks without purpose, and even their diversions tended to function as instruments of measure rather than genuine lapses in intent.

“ You're either bored… or you want something. ” He said at last, the tone neither dismissive nor engaged. He brought the cigar to his lips and took a drag, the ember answering with a faint, controlled response at its edge.

He was no longer a cohesive machine of blood and bone. By now, even his mind sojourned in planes beyond his existence; clinging to dulcet memories of his egregious mistake. A smile he had never been able to decipher, words uttered against lips, the taste of whisky and cigars, tangled sheets and golden skin, laughter, golden hues and eternal promises, bloodstained wings veiling the night sky… Reality blended with fiction, truth got lost in lies. Anything to keep the mind from shattering as the cracks rapidly spread.

The heart of it struck him in an instant, while chained to a wall, bruised, battered, barely alive. There had never been a mask; he had always been genuine—genuine chaos which he had embraced and wielded as his greatest weapon. Signs and subtle hints were ignored precisely because the darkness inside was real. To deceive his enemies, he had first deceived his allies. Crocodile trusted him even when it went against everything he stood for. He had trusted them both, to make matters even worse.

“Knavish fiend,” the grunt echoed off the walls, pounding in his head with hammer-like strikes. Shallow breaths, neither painful nor pleasurable, trapped his mind in a looped cycle of the events that had transpired. From the first moment their paths had crossed, to the current one where nothing but doom awaited. A sudden jolt of pain left him panting, intensifying the more he dwelt on it. Sweat ran down his cheeks, his teeth clenched, wishing they were biting into flesh—a visceral thought fuelled by rancour, yet so deep and real it confirmed his existence—or what was left of it.

Was there anything left at all?

Broken bones and derisive numbness affirmed there was a perception of sensation, a testimony of one’s physical presence. It was painful to exist in those restless hours. Sleep never came when summoned, and when it did, it was his own mind that kept him awake. Eventually, someone would open the doors of his current prison. That someone was more likely a foe than a friend, yet even then, Crocodile wanted to properly greet them as the quintessence of wrath. He wanted to beshrew their existence, but mostly his. Of that son of a bitch who had brought nothing but destruction with him.

His mouth ran dry, his chest throbbed from the impact of the knife embedded in his heart, and his body quivered vehemently from the sheer surge of emotions. His pride refused to let them escape. His teeth bit into his lower lip to remind him of the physical pain, yet his eyes remained defiant, misting over reality. The image before him was ephemeral, but it was more than enough to break him.

How did it all end up like this?

It was the type of city that drew people toward it. Those seeking very small yet very large miracles, adventurers longing for a new thrill, those hoping for the beginning of a new story, and those wishing for nothing to begin at all. A place to find oneself and a place to lose oneself completely. A place to evolve and a place to be devoured. A place to seek an ordinary life and a place to search for the extraordinary. A place of blinding lights and fastidious darkness. A city of wonders, lies, hopes, troubles, joy, and despair—a symbol of abnormality.

The city’s charisma and double-sided allure were why Crocodile came. It was a chance to start anew, to forget the past and the demons he had left behind, and to create something empyreal. Over ten years had passed since he had made that choice, and over eight since he had started building his underground empire. Baroque Works was a criminal organization, one of many in this city, which owed its rapid growth to its devil fruit users, Crocodile being one of them

No one was certain why people were born with unique abilities, but it was no surprise when governments took an interest. These abilities became a person's most important secret. Once awakened, some kept their powers hidden even from their families. Those who couldn’t were presented with two options: a life as the government's product or a life as a criminal. Interestingly enough, these two factions weren’t at war with each other, even if they sometimes stood in each other's way. They lived in a parasitic symbiosis, constantly feeding off each other. At times they were partners, at others they were enemies. What had become clear early on, much to Crocodile's expectations, was that no one was to be trusted. In an ever-changing city with swarms of ever-changing faces, offering trust meant immediate death.

[9:32] All done, Mr. Zero.

The text message came from his secretary, Miss All Sunday. A short, concise report on the last shipment of weapons to the Ganmi group, just as he was used to. The Ganmi group was a relatively new presence in the city, having appeared two years ago, but they were loyal customers. Calling them a "group" was generous—they were more of a local gang battling other small fries in their neighbourhoods. Normally, he wouldn’t care much about them, but he knew how useful connections could be when most needed. Even if Crocodile never intended to ask for anything in return for his services (other than money), he planned to use the Ganmi group as required. A neutral group with no specific ties to bigger organizations in the city was always useful if a distraction was necessary.

He didn’t respond to the message, merely left it as read. Miss All Sunday was accustomed to his lack of communication through the phone. She knew his paranoia, his habits, and his preferences. She had been by his side for seven years, and despite everything they had been through, Crocodile still believed she would eventually betray him. She was a lot like him, after all, and that was possibly why they made such good partners.

[10:03] Mr. Five’s task?

A hit job requested two weeks ago, another service his organization offered. Depending on the severity and importance of the job, Crocodile would sometimes send his elite officers to the front lines. Each of them excelled in specific areas, and so far, they hadn't performed below his expectations.

[10:05] Being worked on. [10:06] Results will be in in a week.

That was adequate. He preferred clean jobs with no strings attached. Hasty kills brought too many questions; protracted kills erased their significance and meaning. A balance was necessary, and his elite operated according to the balance he dictated. Those under them were sent out for insignificant hits meant only to bring in more money.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. He had been in the city long enough to develop a sixth sense for impending trouble. The other organizations had kept a low profile for the past few months, performing their services and patrolling their turfs out of habit, merely keeping up appearances. Even the brats who often got caught up in the city's whirlwind were unusually quiet. Sometimes there were street brawls between gangs; other times, the kids were simply enjoying their youth and school days while they lasted. But they were always loud and noticeable. Even the police weren’t as active, likely in response to the other side’s subdued behavior.

He didn’t like it.

It felt as if everyone was waiting for something. It almost seemed as if the city itself had altered its abnormal lifestyle. Or perhaps it was just about to begin. Crocodile’s hand reached for the tin with cigars and the guillotine cutter. He took a cold taste after cutting the tip, and once satisfied, he lit it evenly, rotating the cigar and taking the first puff of smoke. The mild flavor graced his taste buds, lightheadedness crept up as it always did with tobacco, and for a moment, he was able to relax his nerves and forget about his worries.

“I’ve just arrived at Calm Belt. I’m not in a rush, so take your time.” The man took a seat at the nearby table with his back turned to Crocodile, still engrossed in his conversation. Usually, he didn’t care about the lives of others, and normally, he wouldn’t have paid attention to this man either, if it weren’t for his laughter, which was simply too boisterous for Crocodile’s taste. “So, you lost her again? Fwahahahahahahahaha! I thought you were going together—”

Golden eyes lifted to judge the man behind his back. A fairly tall individual, young, white-haired, tanned skin, dressed in comfortable yet expensive clothing, with a loud, continuous laugh and an aura of arrogance that reminded Crocodile of a certain blond.

      How wonderful to see they were still seen as that atrocious name by some sources–Eternal Faster–look at them, still remembered by that inability to do something basic. Though how many believed it true? Few and far between, if they had to guess. Yet back towards previous words, did Loki’s gaze fall to a lifeless hue, mention of names and aliases, while inconsiderate to the idea that a true name may even be forgotten, or perhaps without a true representation at all. One which has no change in it’s essence while shifting in how to say or spell it. Surface level changes while remaining the name–the soul. Still it remains a single name. Yet for many things.

      Though scarab’s wings, Loki surely did have a name they preferred, and a name they wished to die along with the man which provided them with it. Yet others using it so flippantly, they would hardly mind.

      What first was told, intrigued and twisted, they did wonder how exactly they were portrayed. What were they now, a martyr? Oh what deaths did they make up for them? Another assassination? A suicide? Old age? Poison, perhaps. How they needed to visit some library of historic merit to find those tales of shimmering silk and serpentine scales. Each with miniscule truths that somehow perpetrate through the dull shell of lies and manipulation. 

      Oh but by brother’s mention, they of eldest, yet throne taken by the youth just below the line. Negativity flourished while positivity twinned it’s energy, twirling in spirals, competing while hindsight struck both towers of emotion with the flood of thunder. All old memories, aged with time and unable to recreate such true colours and magics. That spark of feeling that died as fast as their vision was extinguished by that dagger. Words from a youthful man passed through their ears, recollection blank and the idea that they had perhaps zoned out even for a moment could be read across their face. All a farce, however, with their focus never quite leaving. Yet a mix of reminiscence and remaining in the presence fought like the barraging serpents for charge–to break those chains.

      “ All true to their own way, none too far from truth, while still being engrossed far deeper into the lying reality rather than the truthful fantasy. ”

      Their life did seem a fantasy more than what reality had laid itself out for others. Serpents possessing their mind and fighting for control, life flourishing while the age of a dying body ceased as soon as they were consumed by the will of a man whom they’d wish to never call father again. 

      True colours did reveal, from this man whom, though by appearance could be mistaken for older, was far younger than the prince for who was invited to drink and enjoy the times till they have ended. How truly childish was he, to seek power–they guessed. To have failed–they have seen it before. To have waited–as they all did. Though years mentioned of counsel to their little brother, one of eldest yet remaining youthful to them. The remaining eyelid fell over their grey iris as they leaned back against their seat and let skinny scarred hands over their lap. Voice soft, caring almost, while carrying a bitter undercoat.

      “ Nefertari Cerastes. I realize his name–lest the first–has passed on as did his intelligence had. He was idiotic, not prepared, how I could have taken my position so easily, and rightful it was…The thoughts had come. I did debate it with myself, yes. Ah, but do you know why I never acted upon it again? ”

      A question they did not expect an answer from, nor did they give it the time to form as their eye opened once more and their head turned to the side to look off into something–not specified, nor really present. They looked passed time, passed life, an ancient’s vision. One locked to those in the current era.

      “ There is a time and a place for rebellion, for assassination, for whatever name you may like to give it. Just as there is a place for leadership. So many forms for it, and expectations from the public. I am of the second dynasty, Crocodile. We were of youth, and still learning. Yet that is not exactly an excuse, is it? I witnessed foolish thoughts and speculations enter my brother’s mind, all far befitting of a leader. Then my gaze shifted to his son… ”

      One of convolution, that boy… 

      “ I knew my place in Alabasta, at that moment. Would the kingdom be better with this flawed man ruling it? Or shall it be ruled for centuries by a single person, whom may not even be able to continue the line, who has been seen as a curse since the day of conception. One must think of their people before their own interests, their own flawed desires. ”

      Finally did slit pupils move to look towards Crocodile once more, boredom now lying over that grey iris.

       “ Thus I finally answer your question. I did act upon it once, though it wasn’t in secret to Cerastes. It was far more a challenge, a private one between the two of us. We dueled, a fight for who should take it. And when I stood over him with the tip of my blade against his throat I saw how much a child he still was. Despite my victory, I allowed him to rule onward. He would die, and move on to the field of grain before I did. He, to the public eye, was the rightful king. I may be a child of golden blood, I may have been eldest and the rightful one to sit at that throne. Yet at that moment, I realized my time and chance for ruling was not then. Not in that way. ”

      A closure, perhaps, with flicking of a forked tongue out from their lips at the final word. Loki lifted a hand, finger pointed towards Crocodile and their brow raised and they spoke simply.

      “ Now I look into your eyes, and I see but the infant he was. ”

Those of ancient memory had idiosyncratic views and speech, Loki being none the wiser to it, and yet, words that would be seen as ostentatious to many, were misplaced in their litany. Scintillating on first hearing to children and sycophants, but utter paradox to anyone of experience and knowledge. The ancient relic was left to go on, yet compared to the knowledge of centuries, their opinions were to be taken as anyone else’s with acrimony, and then, based on Crocodile’s own dichotomy, judged.

Had the other known that the man before them was far more finagle than at first sight, they most likely wouldn’t have bothered with their litany and kept the reply short. Yet, snakes were a paradox of existence, their roles just as insidious as their nature, but they were capable of propriety just as much. Their movement a red herring when needed, and their fangs a sharpened blade. Two things at once in a single moment of peradventure. Still, there was a lacuna in their reasoning, as if they wanted their words thwarted, or at least wanted to engage in such a manner. It was just as much a challenge as it was a trap, the emotions usually stirred by those of opposite opinion temerarious scilicet fugacious. 

Golden hues never spoke of the opinion on the ending words, aware that those easily labelled wise often had no clue what respect was. Or rather that, despite the age and events of many summers lived, they weren’t able to see ubiquitously, rather subjectively and stuck in the past. For what was time to one that never died?

“ Essentially, you both got an easy way out. When words of one smarter become a good anchor or control, when a role model becomes either a cage or a key, the wise counsel supports the wisdom and the foolish man becomes a king. ” Lips stretched into a smile, like a knife cutting into flesh. “ You understood people wouldn’t want you on the throne, but you refused to let go of the power you could hold, one that was rightfully yours. So you propel your incompetent brother on a seat he wasn’t ready to be in, let his name be written down in stone, pretending it never mattered to you in the first place. The idea of doing it for your people, while noble and it might’ve served as the driving force, means little in the eyes of those who’d rather have you exiled. Still, it is befitting of your nature, but no one with an intention of ruling, or rather, the capabilities of leadership, be it by their own hand or by supporting the leading figure, should be selfless but the exact opposite. ” 

“ You may disagree with it, but while I can’t speak for your brother, it seems to me you’re simply unable to comprehend different views on what being a king actually is. Your approach is idealistic, it leans towards uniting people through intellect and idealism of the mind rather than war and blood. Your brother might’ve been of a more conqueror mindset, thinking of kingship as something his people were supposed to envy and follow. Someone else might be a mix of both or a completely different entirely... I actually had a misfortunate opportunity of indulging a king for hours on the topic, and he concluded, after purposely keeping the subject alive, that there isn’t a right or a wrong way of being a king. It is simply that the king is right, no matter what he chooses. ”  

He wouldn’t speak much of how the guy had angered him, how Socratic he was during the whole conversation. The thought alone almost gave him a headache, yet he wouldn’t call the whole experience terrible at that, simply call it one of the worst in his life. 

Granted, Crocodile would never do what Loki had done. He was simply too ambitious to not find a solution to the problem, even if it took years to solve. In his eyes, Loki had given up. People’s hearts were able to be swayed, their opinions changed, but unlike the ideal of the mind he took as his approach, Loki was too much of a hypocrite to endure the full extent of it. One who valued people over all and supposedly thought of them, had to be more human than those people themselves. There was a chance Loki simply didn’t want to waste time on being accepted by others, yet another example of the paradox a snake was. And Loki wasn’t compared to a snake by accident.

      Faint memories. Smaller details on an ever building fog that only pushed away itself when reminded of those larger aspects. Flaked in gold and rinsed through filters of sand, a shine to it without thought, an instinct that could only be described as tempering. Serpent’s tail, how it rattled onward and brought them few steps closer to that shining day, when all was returned and they may wait further years till requiring them-self to travel across the sea once more. A task it was, one coated in disgust and hatred, for the inner beauty of sweet and intriguing. To learn yet with risk of danger perpetuated by their inner self slowly depleting away from them. That outer shell become what reminds within, empty and unknowing of what would be the norm to say, while old memories plagued them and influenced every bone in their body. Ah, when death came again–it would be a true gift. Let it not be taken away again soon after that. Let higher powers not trick them into believing they would walk in that field for eternity.

      Yet mention of death’s behest, last breath taken as the wind does leave the storms depleting air. Loki took no response physically and yet their eye did narrow and close for only a moment. The flash of shining dagger, the ocean’s abhorrence towards the devil that resided within, how it drained them of everything. A splitting root, spilling venom while life was taken so gruesomely. An uprooted life that never seemed to end, poison to kill the blood of gods. They had guessed the final breath, they knew it yet it was blended and shuffled.

      Who. Who had done it. Who brandished their blade with the socket of their eye? Who.

      “ Close. ”

      A simple word for a simple gesture, their hand moved towards their face, a single thin finger tapping the unkempt scar that scattered strings across the side of their face. That was not there when they had taken their final breath. Ah, they perhaps had an eye, they could see the depths of the sea and the widespread clouds, the layers of every individual. No trouble with what may be closer or further. Still did it cause for adjustment, a lack of limb, from arm to eye, was a hinderance, no matter what or where it may be.

      They hadn’t said a word after, the tapping over the scar was enough, they believed, to get the hint at least. Afterward, they lowered both hands to their side and slowed as they were offered a seat. One of pleasantry and kindness, a serpent took rest quite freely. It would have been quite easy, as it always was–and would continue to be. Stiffness, however, had tinged their neck at the sight of alcohol. Let it be by wine or spirit, it hardly mattered. The scent of it made their senses become flippant for even a single moment. The Alabastan prince relaxed their posture and waited though, for explanation of answer to the question they had provided. Till then, did they speak–oh after statement was made of preference and booze.

      “ Perhaps it is to my liking, and yet I do not wish to delight myself in this fashion, not with another. Caution reigns my mind and alcohol requires a sense of control. As for fruit, I do not eat, I am afraid. ”

      A warning, more like, with their dead grey eye relaxing boredly as they turned their gaze away from the glass of wine and rather towards Crocodile himself. A pirate, perhaps they could see it, however vaguely a possible. How plentiful they were in this era, it seemed every other person they came across was a pirate or connected to them. It was…unconventional, in Loki’s mind. Had the world no control or peace? No, it had never, and yet perhaps with over restricting, has this cause of pirates and crime be a warning or what is to come. Ah, they returned on the bridge of collapse, of change. How….lucky.

      “ A single name for many things, that is what I see from your reply, Crocodile. Yet I feel there something more…Nonetheless, you carry yourself as one with knowledge, more than many. History, if I may. You offer so immediate with gifts and becoming guest to such honoured host. What have you the knowledge of myself? ”

A simple word, a simple furtive gesture. As the eyes caught it, he did have to silently come to the revelation that those gestures were the loudest and the most honest ways a soul spoke of its story. Lissome they were, graced with lassitude, yet a pastiche of the person before. Subtle changes on the art, in its complexity and structure, yet still honoring, complementing the original. And he found himself fond and disgusted by the word itself: change. The harbinger, as he saw it. An aphonic event in which one either became a butterfly willing to reenter the cocoon or suffer the fate of the phoenix. Poetic, crucial, a panacea to some, a chimera to others. His own a combination of both, resulting in a later fate, a cyclic rhythm of ups and downs which ended in a more cautious approach, in reaffirmation of what was to be kept close and what was to be handled as the mere tool.

The grudge against the cause of the change wouldn’t disappear years to come, but the lessons engraved in the body were an epoch to the man he was today. As the golden hues locked with the eye observing carefully, there was a sense of ephemeral understanding for the words spoken, the ones that would never be, and the ones which would in soon future. Caution was such a snake-like quality that ran through blood in their lineage, one that evoked a hearty laughter when shown on display. “ I won’t take offense. I would’ve considered you a fool if you had so easily trusted one you’ve just met. You didn’t strike me as a puerile person in the first place. ” Taste of pomegranate soon overtook the taste of vestigial cigar, sour and sweet and befitting of the topics he was sure they’d venture into. It was only a matter of time.

The identity before him an illusion, a reflection of the past in similar physical form, yet the ventures of mind had never been easily understood even by the one travelling. To which amount did one change? To which did they stay the same? What had the experience brought forth? What certainty was there the knowledge accumulated over years was true when the illusion itself could ratify it or disown it?

“ A single name for many things... Interesting wording, but that is what aliases are in the first place. Until they become so integrated in one’s persona they become the actual name. ” Their own identity similar to the one of Loki’s, an illusion masking the gold and sun behind it, one which they wouldn’t share, yet surely, there was always a name one preferred to the other, be it the occasion of its creation or deep-rooted reasoning. “ Of you I only know of knowledge that had been told me, or some that I had been able to read on my own. The eldest son of Alabastan royal family, an heir to the throne later stripped of his powers in the hierarchy and known as the Eternal Fester. There are stories which state everything in your life had been a setup from the get-go, some which depict you as a tragic hero forced into a story you weren’t allowed to write, some which depict you as a Byronic one. ”

A brief summary to one’s life, yet he figured the Alabastan prince wasn’t as interested in actually hearing his story retold, rather wanted to grasp of how much he was acquainted with his persona, or how much he had researched into it. “ Your personalty a reflection of cautiousness and experience, you’re a scholar and linguist with immense knowledge, an observer of events rather than the cause. What struck me as odd in your life was not the death itself nor the childhood, but rather the fact you’ve helped your brother rule without an attempt on his life to retake that which is yours, even if you yourself were more suited for the throne. ”

“While I appreciate the thought, Mister Zero, I must ask that you stop leaving dehydrated corpses in the casino.  It’s rather boring trying to deduce the conditions of the deceased when it’s quite obvious how they died.”

Miss All Sunday smiles, tilted her head ever-so-slightly.  Her movements were like that of a snake’s - waiting, watching, in anticipation for the chance to strike at the first sign of danger.  

Not that she feels she is in any danger (yet).  She’s a necessity to his plans.  The perks of being the last person alive who can read the ancient language, she thought wryly.  

“I’ve also had some complaints from the staff - some of them want a raise.”

“ Dehydrated corpses? In Alabasta? In my casino? ” Furtively he observed her,  surreptitious smile just barely tugging on his lips. Punishment by his own hand merciful and swift compared to barbaric and cruel if by his beloved pets. “ It is rather hot in Alabasta, Miss All Sunday, and water the most valuable of treasure. ”

Her untoward glare rippled his own cautious behaviour, her lithe figure and abyss-like eyes so far removed from anything mammalian, just like a snake, even if the colour rivalling the sky was just a penumbra. Survive, kill, hunt, her intentions under the dark scales unpredictable and venomous, as cold as the blood that ran through her veins. Yet, he knew, if he were to touch the skin, it would be his fingertips getting burned, the volcano underneath erupting at the slightest of touch. He hated the similarities, other times he loved them.

      With every step did memories come and go, passing as the wind or the cigarette smoke from the younger. Loki hadn’t the words to speak or interrupt, rather intrigued by the words spoken, every phrase taken as equally as the next. All taken to consideration–all a study of the other. For many a reason, yet one could learn miles through actions and tone more than words that could underlie lies. Of words that caught an ever curious serpent was mutual opportunity. Oh of both benefit. 

      With travels of centuries, holding knowledge long dead and erased, desire could come out as near lust for such knowing breaths. A threat, oh a threat, could such spectator be seen, through endanger eyes and childish positions. Through the highest peaks of royalty, and lowest depths of ocean’s best. All encapsulated in one mind, one life, in ways one death. How years have passed, yet behest those years such were written down, yet year they did pass no words in libraries nor among whispers of peddlers and sickly. Learn they did of blasphemy and lies, slander of peakish idiocy passed through by higher beings in disguise while being human of blood, perpetuated by their own selfishness to rule. Fear in another that provided imbalance and discord, after settled wars and battles, what did they do? But create more severance and polarity. How ironic, they found, that from one to another, the world’s ever tightening leash was passed, from peaceful with threat of ancient perception, to selfish and walking upon broken bridges. It scented of spilled wine, of a child’s attempt to act an adult. In that, even oldest of this age, fell short at least one century to their own expansive years. Yet look, they did, many years their senior.

      Loki did sigh, a breath ancient yet in a world younger and inexperienced. They did not give knowledge freely, perhaps to children who knew little better–but those of adults, they required more than simple trivia.

      Oh but then was their attention caught away from reminiscing of past years, and now of question. So humorous to look an age barely pass childhood, barely an adult, they were stuck yet scarred. Nothing had changed, and it since hadn’t. Yet their memory overflowing and some parts like shattered glass, hard to put together. A haze overlaying their mind that proved minor details to be hard to recall. Perhaps death was what put fog over them all to finally set them to rest. Yet with already two years back on their belt of life, those foggy memories have since began to clear.

      “ Ah but old age comes in many ways, let it be through eldering eyes or soul, not only in wrinkled skin or thinning limbs. I have been marred beyond belief, and my memory a veil, I travel to remember, even if those bigger, more important one could say, details have remained without fog or otherwise. ”

      Keeping it vague did assist in the passing, most would not question, or perhaps in their mind they would trivial the thought of asking yet not say such thing. A child’s curiosity would request what words they spoke might mean in such context, to which they might explain better. Yet adults could figure out on their own. They paused for moments before continuing, raising a hand to their neck and settling it carefully around thinner skin from lack of nutrients. Although they still looked full in a way, no meal never stopped their life, it would not then, it would not now.

      “ I speak of myself, yet I know nothing aside from your name of you? A name might hold power, yet I require more before I speak too freely. It is a mutual opportunity, after all. Is it not? ”

Free, chaotic, wind followed its path, even if it had infinite possible destinations. Yet, it still had a destination but was there an end to its journey? It was the air with passion, a drive that powered onward, every direction as its option. Lithe and diaphanous, amorphous and equally rancid, and dressed in robes of melancholy. Yet, those who let it blow and sing of songs lost long ago, those who let it bring sweet memories of times gone knew how beguile the wind was. Whether it spoke of the gift of living, or bebiett the emotion of grieving, it would deprive the one it touched. Similar was knowledge. 

And knowledge of the world’s history gathered throughout millennia walked next to him, the one whose eye had witnessed the beginning and written it down in memory. Enraptured by the opportunity ahead, he was genuinely bemused how the threads of a tapestry intertwined, slowly creating a crystalline design painted over by that considered ineffable. And all of it reminded of home. Of the golden soul painted with a brilliant sky and the story of a resilient nature born to survive and thrive. It spoke of the kingdom above others, of his rightful domain, his, his, his! It reminded of the finest linen, of the most pleasant lullabies, of poems and alabaster stone, grandeur of architecture, of gods, political influence, military strength - the oasis on Earth. He had always been nothing but fascinated with it, yearning for that which was denied him - the birthright of the son of Amun-Ra. 

A smile tugged at his lips, the words of his ancestor (he was sure at that point, he had heard too much about him) nothing but the confirmation he needed. “ We have a tendency to forget details which we deem unimportant. Even if you had a different experience, there was a high chance you wouldn’t remember it, which implies that even if you remember the most important, there are minor details you’ve forgotten that are of value, whether personal or on a larger scale. ” Golden eyes observed that ahead, a long satisfied breath of air taken into his lungs. “ Your soul may have aged, but your body is youthful. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s exactly as it was on the day you took your last breath. Well, what was presumed your last breath. ” 

Regal strides took him forward, and even if legs walked on the paved path, mellifluous and ineffable pride took him to the desert itself, even if it was ephemeral. Vague, as expected of someone cautious, it didn’t surprise him Lorelei let him decipher things on his own, hence why he wouldn’t confirm directly he knew who the one walking beside him was. Even if he hadn’t for a second doubted the man realised it as well.

Servants waited for his return, the table set with wine and fruit, and a book for his afternoon reading. Usually it was Daz who would sit in the other chair as company, even if the man was never interested in finer arts, however, on spotting Crocodile, he had stood up and offered the seat to the guest. “ As suave with your negotiations as you are with words, Lorelei. ” He hummed as he relaxed in his chair, his reply coming swift. “ On this island, these people know me as their master, on the seas, I am a pirate. On black market, I’m a former leader of a crime organisation, and in Alabasta I’m a casino owner. ”