Underhill-Lives-Here

You squinted. There he was, his dark cape billowing behind him. It was logical to assume he was close to the main door, you told yourself.

You still found it really hard to make out the layout of the castle, since you were having trouble walking around… Your own weakness distracted you constantly.

He carried your letter in his hands as he walked on the gravel, his steps uncharacteristically loud.

You wondered if he had read it before writing down the return address. You didn't care much for the content of it, since half of it was an invention derived from his own wishes…

But you did wonder if he trusted you enough to believe you had indeed lied in your letter.

You wanted to know how far he would take his carefully curated prevention.

At last the News Coo arrived, gliding easily and landing near Mihawk’s feet. You stared at the back of his head as the seagull approached him and he crouched down to grab today’s newspaper. He then proceeded to place your letter in its little red pouch.

A gush of wind made the bird stumble a bit, the cypresses rustling in accord. A bad omen for airway travel, as it is. Rain would come back soon.

Mihawk’s hair went slightly tousled. His shoulders tighter. You kept watching as he spoke something you couldn't make out and brushed back some stray black locks with his hand.

Your own breath was fogging the window now. But as you brushed it off, again with your sleeve, you were able to catch how Mihawk paid the messenger a ridiculous amount of berries only for a single letter and the newspaper delivery…

You swallowed.

Oh, he was desperate to send you away as soon as possible.

Mihawk made sure the pouch was well fastened, and only then did the bird finally take off, its flight encouraged after the generous tip. The sky was overcast, stricken with stubborn grey brushtrokes.

After some proud flutter, the uproar of distant thunder made the News Coo heave in fright, surrendering some feathers to the cold gusts.

You frowned at the sight. Only God knew if your letter would ever make it to Twin Snakes.

When you stared back at Mihawk, you found out he was already staring at you. He hadn’t even turned completely. He simply looked back over his shoulder, with that asphyxiating precision he always displayed.

You could handle his stare only for a few seconds before retreating back into the darkness of the corridor. It was impossible to dissect that look. He wasn’t giving a single emotion away.

A sigh left your lips as your back gently hit the wall… Now, you could only pray for your father’s answer, and your recovery. And for his patience. And yours, to be fair.

The chamberstick kept cackling, the quiet echo against the walls a simple comfort. It rested dignified against the damp cobblestone until you secured it again in your hands. The worn brass had become your companion in your little walks around the castle.

Mihawk was perfectly aware you were slowly beginning to widen your presence in his home, and he had surprisingly decided to let you wander.

Where you had been expecting an early warning, you had only gotten silence.

Nevertheless, the swordsman always knew the range of your detours. He’d be listening from downstairs, the muted sound of your steps. Observing if anything was out of place too, meaning you had found your way up to that very point, meaning you had set your flag on it like a proud conqueror.

Sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of the hem of your white gown as he walked towards your room, carrying a tray with your lunch, or maybe dinner. You’d be peering inside of those huge, dark-wood wardrobes that seemed like they could swallow you whole, or checking some old archives in the study.

But if there was anything you loved, it was looking through the windows. Climbing up the windowsills and just perching there like a little, tired swallow.

You wanted out, he told himself. Every time you looked out there, you were planning on your eventual parting, on resuming your research far away from here. Your life.

And, of course, he wanted you gone as well. He thought about it constantly. You had to leave, first for his own sake, and then for your own: you wouldn’t suffer anymore, and he wouldn't have to see it.

He wanted you to stay being what you appeared to be lately, a simple ghost haunting those walls. Only faint steps. A passing presence. He wanted the image of your hands on your lap as you stared through the window to remain on thin paper, until the edges yellowed, until the memory of your silhouette was nothing but a blurred, unreachable phantom destined to fade completely with time.

In those moments you were surely thinking of your father, too. No letter had arrived yet, that he knew of. It had been four days already since he had watched the News Coo disappear between the mist.

But the truth was he also didn’t want to leave you alone and sail to Gilda to check the mail himself. Not when you couldn’t even handle the stairs yet… how many times had he found you sitting down on the fourth, the fifth step? Catching your breath, massaging your legs…

You’d always look away when you realized he had been staring at you from the foot of the stairs. His eyes too inquiring. You’d think he was irritated at you again, at your weakness. You’d think yourself ridiculous for not being able to walk, and retreat out of shyness, trying to portray a bodily autonomy and strength you just didn’t have yet.

Mihawk would choose to believe your act. It was safer for him. His chosen word for it was pettiness, even when he was plainly aware of your true turmoil. He would also call it stubbornness, so it wouldn't become another of those pangs that pierced him near his ribs.

And so a smirk would threaten to settle on his lips. Yes, he had first wanted to be irritated at your obstinate antics. Now, he would have preferred to be simply amused.

But instead, the only thing he could do in those moments was to quietly watch your ascension, the twist of your shoulders, the tension of your arm, your white knuckles as you held on to the railing.

His body, meanwhile, would stay coiled like a spring, the birth of movement imminent in his limbs, lest you stumbled, or slipped, or trembled too much.

Mihawk loathed the way his lungs remained tight, only finding release once you had vanished into the shadows of the main corridor. Safe at last, leaving behind only the heavy, echoing quiet of stone and the ghosts of your lingering steps.

There was a limited set of activities to do while trying not to lose your mind in that sinister castle.

You had tried looking at each of those bone-chilling, faded portraits of the passageway to the stairs. See what you could make of them. You had already memorized the right eye of an alleged lady Vivian Hawthorne, an old woman with completely white, cloud-like hair. The left eye was almost consumed under the blackened varnish, giving her a horrific, poignant look.

That portrait-watching activity got immediately cancelled once that left eye started appearing on your nightmares as a part of what you had called your traumatic memories nighttime remix. Now you strictly looked away every time you needed to walk by the portrait of sweet mama Vivian.

You could also focus on getting better, more independent. One morning Mihawk had walked in on you applying the ointment to your forehead yourself, using a jagged shard of glass as a makeshift mirror, and standing close to a wall sconce to catch the meager light.

He had frozen in the doorway. He should have felt relieved. Happy, even. But seeing you risking a jagged edge just to keep him at bay felt like a quiet, preemptive rejection. One he couldn’t cherish fully.

Had his callous remark about Gilda stung deeper than intended? Was this deliberate distance his punishment, or simply your desperate attempt to stop being a burden?

You only glanced up to offer him a quiet, tight-lipped “Good morning”. For a few agonizing seconds, he just stood there, his eyes tracing the vulnerability of your hands before he turned on his heel and left in total silence.

You had conquered that for yourself, you thought. And surely, he must be relieved not to have to tend you anymore, not to be burdened by your weakness. You hadn't caught his expression as he walked away; not that it would have mattered. Lately you were starting to fully realize how terrifyingly skilled he was at giving nothing away.

But your newfound favourite activity was looking through the window that overlooked the west side of the castle, almost embedded in the forest.

There you could watch the humandrills as they went about their days.You even started taking notes in some forgotten parchment you had found in the old study. How come you could have been so afraid of them? They now seemed even cute to you, with their little habits and wandering about, their frequent silly quarrels. Sometimes they’d catch you looking, and offer you a little wave. The first time it had frightened you, but now you always waved back, a little smile on your lips.

It was a funny thing too, how that big one, that seemed to be the boss, was emulating Mihawk, both by demeanor and by wearing that frilly outfit. And the sword, too. Oh, they were such menaces!

You smiled to yourself and started writing down some notes on their behaviour. It was fun, and distracting, and you were trying to figure out ethological patterns, their possible meanings, trying to discern how many human moves had they picked up—

“Y/N.” Mihawk’s voice pierced the very air.

You were so startled the parchment almost slipped from your fingers. He was standing there, just some steps behind you…

You had been so focused on the humandrills you hadn’t registered a single sound, not a ruffle, not a step. You doubted someone had ever called your name with the same reluctance he had displayed.

Your chest heaved as you turned to him. You put away your parchment neatly, with the same self awareness of a kid that had just been caught redhanded. Your name in his lips was completely disarming, a command on itself.

“...Yes? ”

Mihawk walked to another window and stared through it as well, as if checking what you had been watching. Then, his amber eyes returned to your face, his back now against the glass. A brief tinge of amusement crossed his expression at the thought of you now finding the humandrills interesting.

But his gaze hardened quickly, just as he crossed his arms.

“I have to leave.”

Your eyebrows raised instantly. Had you heard well? Leave?

“...What do you mean you have to leave? ” A painful meekness set on your lips. You started feeling very small at the thought of being left alone in that castle. In that forlorn island.

“A mission.” A heavy silence followed.

“Ah…” You finally managed to nod a bit, then your gaze travelled back to the humandrills, unable to face the way his eyes were analyzing every inch of your expression.

“And you’ll be back… When? ” There wasn’t enough nonchalance in you for the type of tone you wanted to give him. Your efforts to not sound slightly afraid were completely fruitless.

“Five days. I’ll stop by Gilda as well to check the mail.” His hat shadowed his eyes as he tilted his chin downwards. He wasn't completely at ease either, his jaw set. He refused to watch your eyes widen further.

“Mm…” It wasn't that long, you told yourself. You could handle it on your own.

He pushed off the window, your eyes scanning the grace of his movements. His constant elegance became so irritating when you were feeling utterly, painfully vulnerable.

“I’ll walk you downstairs.” He stated, his voice like a blade drawing on ice. It was clear he was not to be argued with at that moment.

“I have already arranged for you to settle there for the time being.”

Your eyebrow shot up completely as you looked back at him. But he was already walking towards the arched threshold, so the only thing left to do for you was to simply follow him.

“...I can walk.” You muttered, the sight of Yoru on his back never ceasing to diminish you.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t put me through that alleged walking of yours again.” He didn’t even turn to address you. Even the bile on his lips was painstakingly measured.

The comeback felt sharper over the baseline anxiety you had been harboring in your gut ever since he mentioned his departure.

You went dead silent.

How pathetic did you feel as he offered his arm to you? It wasn’t a measurable thing, that shame that choked you. You refused to look at him as your hand rested against the inside of his elbow, your fingers clutched at the fabric of his sleeve while your other hand gripped the railing.

The burgundy cloth felt sturdy yet soft, your fingertips grazing against its intricate embroidery. He adjusted his pace to yours, his posture straightening the second he felt you beginning to wobble.

Only mild irritation sat on his eyes. Your own were downturned, so you weren't able to catch how often his gaze drifted to your features during the descent, trying to assess you, trying to figure out the exact source of the storm that was taking over you.

He had thought it would be a relief for you, for him to be away. How come you weren’t happy?

Once downstairs, you muttered a breathy “Thank you.” and removed your hand from the swell of his bicep, as if the contact burned.

He then led you into the main living room, adjacent to the dining area. It was strangely cozy, anchored with a grand chimney, heavy tapestries and patterned rugs. He showed you the kitchen as well, which had power, surprisingly. Mihawk explained some operational details about the generator, trusting your scientific background would make short work for it.

Yet, with every passing minute, the moment of his departure loomed closer, pumping a cold, steady dread through your veins. You found yourself unable to sustain his gaze, your eyes constantly flickering down to his hands, or to whatever button or latch he was pointing out… Clinging desperately to every detail of him, hoarding images to press against your ribs once the halls fell empty.

“Only answer the Den Den Mushi if it’s me calling.”

You nodded, staring at the device with tired, hollow eyes.

When he was finished showing you the essentials, he shrugged on a thicker coat and lingered on the threshold of the main door. The heavy oak swung open, letting in a sharp silver of the distant coast, the gravel path, and the swaying dark shapes of the cedar trees.

It was the glimmer of the waves that finally did it for you.

You hadn’t laid eyes on the ocean in over a week. Not since the tide had violently spat you across the sand onto this godforsaken island. With him.

Out there, his ship awaited, moored.

Just looking at the endless, rhythmic push and pull of the waves made your stomach lurch with phantom sickness. You couldn’t help dragging a hand over your face, taking shallow, ragged breaths as you tried (and failed miserably) to mask the absolute turmoil eating you alive.

Mihawk wouldn't have it. Or, rather, he couldn't entirely ignore it. He had spent enough days watching your every move to recognize the tight, stubborn set of your brows when anxiety clawed at you, or the way you desperately avoided his eyes in that moment, something you had been learning to master.

He stepped right into your camp of vision, blocking the horizon.

“Look at me.”

You almost shivered at his tone. His eyebrows were furrowed, a heavy frown taking the expanse of his face. Was he truly angry…?

Mihawk pierced you with his gaze. His eyes look colder in that sickly light.

“You will tell me what’s troubling you.”

There was no way out, not when he had you in his clutch.

You swallowed, trying to look away again, but the looming sight of the open sea remained a nightmare just past his shoulder, fueling your rising panic.

He noticed your distraction instantly, and instead of stepping back, he stepped even closer, his imposing frame deliberately shifting to completely cut off your view of the ocean.

“I…” You did your best to keep on looking at him. “It’s… you are coming back, right? ”

His eyes narrowed. “This is my home. I earned this peace.”

You nodded slowly, looking down for a second. Of course. It didn’t make sense for him to just… leave.

A sigh left your lips. This was the only reassurance you were getting.

“And is it safe for you to sail? With… the typhoons and all…” You hated how your voice thinned… all the defiance was gone, now that the sea threatened to take away even the unstable beginning of the second chance it had given you.

“I don’t partake in negligence." He seemed almost offended at your doubt. He was also very eager to latch onto anything technical rather than keep addressing the underlying dread in your eyes.

You blushed. “Mm. Of course, it’s just…”

It was a lot, the memories of the shipwreck coming back to you like a freight train. The idea of being alone in that big castle, in Kuraigana. You were struggling to put it all into words, and his demanding presence was as asphyxiating as the idea of his departure.

Mihawk looked down at you, your turmoil a sharp edge he found himself not being able to let go of. His fists threatened to clench, but he reigned himself.

He had to deflect, soon. It was foolish to bleed for this.

“You’re no longer afraid of the humandrills, are you?”.

Some heat began to return to your cheeks at the very reminder of your most humbling moments. You weren’t expecting such a comment. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for your answer.

“...No.”

Mihawk registered your honesty and offered you a single nod, his eyes leaving you for a second. Then, he offered the most pragmatic reassurance he could muster.

“They will protect you. They’ve grown fond of you.”

Your lips parted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.

“...What? ”

A flicker of a dry, exasperated breath crossed his features, his tone swiftly recovering its edge. Yet, as his amber gaze settled once more on that scar near your hairline, revealed now by the breeze, he bit down his frustration and offered a softer, grounding voice to finally end the matter.

“You’ll be safe. That’s all you need to know.”

The swordsman pushed the gate further open with an easy gesture. Now he was the one avoiding your gaze.

“And quit moping.” He added, harsher. His hand rose to adjust the brim of his hat.

“You're smarter than that.”

Mihawk gave you a last sideways glance before strolling away. It was both a warning and a final assessment, his gaze lingering on your face just long enough to ensure you were breathing properly again.

He didn't offer a farewell. That would have been a concession he wasn't prepared to make. Instead, with a sharp, decisive turn, he abandoned the threshold, his cape snapping behind.

“Five days.” He signaled with his hand, his long strides already taking him away from you.

Your eyes left his back to focus on the vessel once more, bobbing quietly by the small pier.

How the hell was he supposed to embark on any journey with that… raft?

You shook your head.

Then, a pointless mutter managed to escape your lips.

“...Bye.”

You didn't stop looking when the mist began to blur his retreating figure.

Only when the swell of the hill finally swallowed him up, the hilt of that huge sword disappearing from view, did you dare to retreat into the castle, pulling the gate closed with a strenuous effort.

The gritty, solemn boom of the door reverberated across the main hall. It sent the candles swaying, the hearth surrendering tiny, shooting-star embers to the gloom.

You stared at nothing and everything at the same time, still gripping that heavy set of keys too tightly, their tangy metallic smell grazing your nose like a curse.

Were they still warm from his hand? Or was it all yours now?

A sigh slipped past your lips. Your eyes focused and unfocused on every surface, on every shadowed corner.

This was it.

You felt your chest starting to tighten again. He was gone… maybe you could afford crying a little. You didn't have to muffle yourself now, scared to give away the dimensions of the disquiet that sometimes took hold of you.

But his words hung heavy on your heart. He was right, as always.

You were much smarter than this.

So you wouldn't let yourself wallow into that sweet, paralyzing self-pity.

You left the keys hanging in the ancient tree hall, right next to his gardening straw hat, one you gently caressed with your fingertips, the fiber surprisingly soft.

It was only five days, after all.

Wandering over to a side window, you peeked outside. Down in the distance, Mihawk had already boarded his ship, and chased the gray horizon.

The first hours alone proved to be the worst, of course.

Now that he was gone, the castle seemed to come alive in the worst way possible. Unidentified creaks, distant rustling. Every dark corner a living thing ready to pounce.

You’d walk around as long as your legs would hold you, inspecting the limits of the fortress, keys dangling from an old belt you had found. Their tingling echo was usually your only company, only paired with the howling of the wind against the windows and the usual rain.

Pointed arches loomed behind you in your exploration. Forgotten, abandoned belongings appeared everywhere, as if never again to be touched, or thought of. A pair of leather gloves, a golden necklace, a forgotten scarf.

The castle was a place of stasis, and as you stared at the horizon, the mist appeared to you as the ineffable force that kept Kuraigana frozen in time, kept away both from relentless decay and blooming growth.

After hours of your first exploration you ended up exhausted. All the stepping around rubble, peeking behind heavy, dust swollen curtains, your heart a frantic little bird falling helplessly in your chest.

Your temples throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, forcing you to sit heavily on the nearest wooden chair, your fingers gripping the edge of the table until the strange dizziness that had gotten over you finally receded. The exhaustion was getting to you, clearly.

Eventually, you gathered your remaining strength to walk to the fridge, such an anachronism, anaestheticism in that castle, and you almost gasped at it. Mihawk had left food for you, diligently organized in glass containers.

You let out a sigh of relief, a little smile setting on your lips.

It wasn't until late afternoon of the second day that the relentless gray sky finally offered a brief truce. The rain ceased, leaving behind a heavy, humid silence that coaxed you out of the heavy atmosphere of the halls. Wrapped in one of the thickest cloaks you could find in the wardrobes, you pushed open a side door that led to the overgrown castle grounds.

The air outside tasted sharp, smelling of wet earth, cedar, and distant salt.

Wandering past the rugged stone walls, your steps guided you toward a structure you had only managed to glimpse from your second-floor window: an old, grand greenhouse. Its glass panes were weathered and streaked with moss, but as you approached, you noticed rows of vibrant vegetables growing over forged tables.

You wrapped the coat better around you and started going through the keys, the sudden curiosity of checking Mihawk’s pots instilling your will.

Yet the sudden feeling of being watched made you pause. Your senses heightened the moment the shuffling of the keys stopped, and you started looking in every direction.

A few yards away, huddled near the glass walls, a couple of humandrills let out a surprised squeak as you drew near. You froze, your heart giving a nervous flutter, but they didn't bare their teeth or make a threatening sound. Instead, the smaller one tilted its head sharply to the side, mirroring the exact gesture you had made a moment earlier when examining a damp fern leaf.

A startled, breathy laugh slipped past your lips.

You resolved to say hi, and offered a tentative wave of your hand. The humandrills blinked, exchanged a glance filled with exaggerated gravity, and clumsily raised their paws in response, mimicking you with a seriousness that was almost endearing.

Encouraged by the fact that the awkwardness was shared by both sides, you stepped closer and decided to test the waters of this bizarre diplomacy.

“Hello? Don’t really know if you can understand me.” You murmured, your voice sounding foreign and small against the vast quiet of the island.

After some seconds you noticed more movement behind the bushes, you assumed you were surrounded. You took a deep breath, not letting anxiety get a hold over you.

You looked around, hoping to addressing all of them. “Is it true? Are you really watching over me?”

That was when the boss humandrill, the one sporting that ridiculous imitation of Mihawk's outfit, made his way between the foliage and let out a low, inquisitive grunt, patting its chest with an air of profound self-importance.

When you got over your initial startle, you couldn't help the small, genuine smile that touched your lips. The humandrill looked down at you, and a familiar, carefully curated coldness greeted you.

Your smile widened.

“Alright… Thank you, I guess. I appreciate it a lot.” You offered a little thumbs up, not knowing if they’d get the cue.

In some seconds all of them were doing it back to you, sporting a somewhat haunting smile too, the only one they could possible manage with their simian features.

After a rather awkward silence, you assumed they were waiting for your next words, or move. The long keys resumed clicking in your hands.

“So… I’ll check on Mihawk’s vegetables now.”

A couple of chitters followed, you took that as a “go on”. Once you found the key, you stepped inside. The smell of damp earth greeted you, such an easing scent. You walked around a little, both observing the aromatic seedlings and checking on the thickness of those kale leaves. Mihawk seemed to have a green thumb, as well. You wondered if there was anything he didn’t excel at.

You were inspecting some carrots when the boss humandrill entered the greenhouse. Its massive frame contorted slightly to make it through the door, its fur now parted where it had touched the frame.

You raised an eyebrow, turning to him.

“Mm… Are you even allowed here?”

The humandrill remained still, a ridiculous seriousness on his features. Its eyes were almost empty when they looked at you, displaying a childlike guilt.

You chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

If it had been possible, you’d swear that monkey friend had blushed. Maybe it was a line of research you’d go over some other time.

You smiled gently. “Just don’t go touching everything.”

You were now hovering by some garlic, tracing their long leaves. No signs of nutrient depletion, or root suffocation.

When you straightened to keep checking on the rest of the pots, again that dizziness ran through you uninvited, the edges of your vision blurring fast. Your legs suddenly forgot half of their steadiness, and you had to hold on to one of the wrought iron tables, a greenish patina covering it.

The humandrill was quick to help you, its strong furry arm steadying you by grabbing yours. You looked up at its face, the furrowed brow and the curve on its mouth. The way he held you just like Mihawk had done back when he helped you go down the stairs.

“Thank you.” You muttered, offering a little tap on its fur. A little proud chirp was the only answer you were getting.

Once the greenhouse stopped spinning, you resumed walking, but the humandrill’s big hand remained resting on your arm, the gentlest touch, just enough to sense it and be ready to catch you again.

You smiled softly at how diligently they were willing to take care of you, and without noticing you ended up talking to them about all the plants you were seeing, getting amazed chirps and eager nods in exchange. You doubted they could grasp everything you were telling them, but you said it anyway, a certain happiness taking over you the moment you could speak freely about your passions, even if the audience was absolutely uncanny.

You locked the door again once you were finished. The humandrill remained by your side, attentive as ever. And around you, almost a dozen lay resting around, or messing with some tool or trinket, but always keeping attention at your moves.

The humandrill was walking you back to the door. You kept rambling. “But you know, I’d really appreciate it if you guys didn't sneak up on me the next time. You almost gave me a heart attack back there…”

Again the half blush. You really had to research that. Once you were about to cross the threshold, your eyes met its gaze, then it wandered to the red of the plume that sprung from its helmet against the pale sky.

You smiled softly, a tentative thing. “Do you want some tea?”

The humandrill remained silent, its head tilting again to the side. You did a quick enactment of sipping a cup and asked again, getting now a shy nod in return.

You smiled wider.

“I'll bring out a tray.”

The day passed in a pretty bizarre and yet comforting way, a quiet warmth setting on your chest. You were sitting with the humandrills, talking mostly to yourself, as you did realize they didn't get everything you told them, always resorting to accompanying your words with gestures.

The lightheartedness of the day bled into the damp night, and as you warmed up some stew, a sweet tiredness clung to your limbs, and no worries could reach you.

That was until a sudden noise startled you.

The Den Den Mushi was ringing. A rush of trepidation took over you. Who would call at this hour? Could It be him? Already?

You dried your hands with a dish towel and gave a last check to the stew before walking fast towards the living room. Mihawk had left the Den Den Mushi over a tea table, and you sat beside it, on an antique ottoman, waiting for the transponder snail’s features to shift.

It was taking its time. You were already picturing the sharp eyebrows, his amber eyes, the carefully trimmed moustache. Your heart beat faster at the very thought.

Or maybe it was the Marines calling…? Who else could it be?

The shift finally started to take place. The first thing you noticed was the stubble, then the tan. You leaned closer, inspecting the snail, holding a candle to try to see better…

Did it have three scars across one eye…? Your fingertip lay as soft as a feather upon it, the Den Den Mushi gave you a very nasty side eye.

You sat back, eyes widening by the second. It was more than obvious, now that a tuft of messy red hair adorned the snail.

You were flabbergasted. What did Red Haired Shanks want with Mihawk?

The Den Den Mushi kept ringing until it emitted a sad beep, unanswered. Could it be that the pirate was leaving a message?

You watched the snail collapse slightly. Your breath caught, expectant. You were too invested in this.

Suddenly the situation got serious enough for you to scramble back to the kitchen, overrunning your weakness, to turn off the stove and come back as fast as possible so you could listen if the message played out loud.

Suddenly the Den Den Mushi’s eyes opened again, and it straightened up.

“Hey, ‘Hawk. It’s been a while, hasn't it? Haha.”

Your hand shot to your mouth, as if you were hearing classified information. He was indeed leaving a message…

And, for better or worse, the pirate sounded absolutely drunk, the face of the Den Den Mushi a wasted, poor thing. He had a deep, but very warm voice, his little shifts in tone denoting easiness. But there was also a bittersweet hint on the little smile the snail was displaying. Its eyes were heavy lidded, maybe tired. Or a bit sad.

“Just calling to wish you a happy birthday.”

Your eyebrows raised immediately. His birthday…? How familiar were they?

“Beck says hi.”

There was a lot of noise around Shanks, as if a party was going on. Other drunk voices, loud music. Many laughs, glasses clicking. You weren’t sure if you could also hear the sea’s roar in the background.

“Well, he also told me not to call you. Since you rarely answer and all.”

A tinge of rawness took over his voice. The Den Den Mushi looked away, its expression lost, maybe to the horizon.

“But you know very well I can’t really shut up sometimes.”

Shanks laughed a bit to himself, trying to shoo the bitterness away.

“Just… I hope you’re doing fine, you grumpy swordsman.”

The smile now was evident. Wider, easier. You couldn’t help smiling too.

Shanks seemed so fond of Mihawk. Just the very gesture of calling him on his birthday was absolutely heartwarming. It was the tone of his voice, too, how the redhead was trying to kindle some embers you supposed Mihawk didn’t take care of. How he was aware but tried anyway. Cared. A strange warmth started seeping under your ribs, unannounced.

Another comment interrupted your train of thought. “No, Lucky, I won’t tell him that. It’s a surprise!”

Some fun hollers followed. You chuckled at the couple of teasing remarks you managed to hear on the red head’s behalf.

Shanks finally chuckled, a fake annoyed eyeroll taking over his expression. “Alright, alright. You win, Roo.” You smiled again, eyes set on the transponder.

“ ‘Hawk, I sent you a couple of Nero d’Avola bottles. As a birthday gift.” Oh, that was some fancy gift. Shanks must know him very well… You were now even more invested.

But after a long silence, Shanks’ tone soured slightly.

“So… yeah. Take care, Mihawk.”

It seemed like there was nothing left to say. You were still breathing softly, as if you could be busted in some way.

Yet Shanks cheered himself one last time, dragging back his easy tone for a finishing remark.

“See ya soon? ”

A door left wide open.

Then a final beep. The message was received. Saved.

A sigh left you, the lingering warmth of Shanks' voice still echoing quietly in the dim living room. You sat there for a long moment, staring at the now dormant Den Den Mushi, turning over the secret of Mihawk’s apparent friendship in your mind like a hidden treasure.

The idea that someone could speak to the world's greatest swordsman with such tipsy familiarity clashed violently with the carefully curated coldness and desire for solitude you had experienced. You couldn't help wondering what kind of invisible tug-of-war kept them tethered across the seas.

And, by extension, what that meant for your own situation.

You had been letting it fester in the back of your mind, that underlying distress at his hypocrisies. The contrast between his cold desire to be rid of you and the meticulous care he displayed was a shapeless creature knocking at your ribs.

But you knew better, of course. He said it, didn’t he? That you were smarter than that. You wondered at the extent of his words, at how deep he had planned them to pierce.

You wondered if one could ever expect a mistake from such a worshipper of the blade.

A heavy sourness creeped from the bottom of your spine.

Yes, you made the promise to erase him back. There was no use in dwelling on such matters.

The next morning was a quiet, gentle thing. The rain was back, but only as a soft drizzle against the dark earth, the mist blurrying the horizon in pearly shades.

You let out a little chuckle, shifting your weight against the cold stone. “You have to stay still. Turn a bit to the left, please.”

A young humandrill was awkwardly posing for you, its brow furrowed in intense concentration. It straightened up abruptly and turned to the right instead, looking entirely clueless.

“Your other left.” A gentle smile touched your lips, you found the humandrill absolutely endearing.

“Like that. Perfect.”

You had been sitting on one of the wide windowsills of the main floor, nursing a mug of morning coffee while sketching the gloomy landscape with an old charcoal pencil salvaged from the study.

You were taking a slow sip when you noticed the humandrill approaching soundlessly, holding out a delicate flower. A soft, blushing pink kissed the centre of its petals, stark against its rough, calloused paw.

“Good morning. Is that for me?”

The monkey nodded eagerly, insisting with stubborn, clumsy gestures until your smile widened.

“Thank you. You’re very sweet… ” You gently took the flower from its big hand, feeling the fragile stem.

“Ah, it’s Helleborus! I loved sketching them back when I was travelling.” Your smile soured softly. “But it’s not a species I recognize. It would’ve been a great addition to my collection.”

You looked up at the humandrill. It was alternating its gaze between the parchment, the dark smudge of the pencil, and back to your hand.

“I was sketching.” You demonstrated with a few quick strokes, its eyes widening as the black pigment clung to the yellowed paper. The monkey looked down at your drawing, then turned its head towards the horizon itself, as if checking the resemblance.

“See? It’s like taking a picture… but poorly, in my case. Well, I don't know if you know what a picture is, anyway…”

The humandrill looked utterly entranced by the whole concept, its breath fogging slightly in the cool air.

After a few seconds, an idea sparked in your mind. “I could sketch you, actually.” You stared back into the castle’s dim gloom, pointing a charcoal-stained finger toward the corridor. “Like that portrait, you see?”

The humandrill went quiet, squinting hard to appreciate one of the faded, ancient portraits half-swallowed by the shadows. But it eventually produced a sudden, excited holler, looking back at you and jumping a little on the spot. You laughed softly, the sound light and foreign in the old fortress.

“Alright, hold the flower for me, hm? It will look very nice.”

And so you had ended up sketching that humandrill’s portrait, watching it clutch the fragile stem of hellebore close to its broad chest with a reverence that felt almost comical.

“Don’t crush it, okay? That is the third one already.”

As the poor animal struggled heroically to maintain the pose, you kept talking, your voice a soothing hum as you traced out its shape; the harsh angles of its brow, the tufts of fur, its surprisingly slender fingers.

“You should never eat that plant, actually. It’s very poisonous. Do you understand? Like, it could kill you.” To make your point, you made a swift, sharp ‘cut-your-throat’ gesture with your free hand.

“See? Dead.” The humandrill startled visibly at the demonstration, then nodded with wide, solemn eyes. They were very intelligent, indeed.

The charcoal pencil froze in your hand when the familiar, shrill tone of the Den Den Mushi suddenly rang out from the depths of the castle, shattering the quiet.

“Hm? Wait a minute.”

You hopped down from the windowsill, brushing the black dust from your fingers, and walked toward the transponder snail. This time, Mihawk’s distinctive features were unmistakable across its face. You let it ring for a beat, your heart doing a strange little flip as you wondered how the call would unfold…

But you eventually picked it up.

“...Hello? ”

“Morning.” His deep voice rumbled through the receiver. A heavy silence followed immediately.

A rare, uncharacteristic hesitation clinging to the line as he seemed to search for the right footing, struggling slightly to pull together his next words.

A soft breath slipped past your lips, breaking the tension.

“Is everything going well? ” He finally asked, his tone carefully guarded.

“...Yes.” You answered, fingers instinctively tightening around the coiled cord of the snail.

“You’ve been eating?”

“Yes… The stew was delicious.”

He hummed, a low sound of quiet approval that vibrated straight through the earpiece.

“Any problem with the humandrills?”

“No, they’ve been really nice.” You said, a faint, involuntary smile ghosting over your features as you glanced back toward the window where your charcoal sketch still rested.

A deeper silence stretched between you then, thick with the unspoken miles and the strange, fragile rhythm you two had somehow fallen into.

He shifted on the other end, the faint, low friction of fabric and sea-breeze against the receiver reminding you just how far removed he was. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an extra fraction, stripped of all command, reduced to a raw, clinical inventory.

“Fever? Dizziness?”

“Only dizziness, when I’m exhausted.”

Silence again. But this time it wasn't empty; a tangible, tightening coil of disquiet seemed to bleed directly into his breathing, subtle and heavy in the static.

“And the nightmares? ”

The word dropped into the space between you like a stone in deep water. A silent breath caught in your throat. The quiet realization settled over you, soft and sobering: he knew. He had heard you through the dark hours, watching over the fragile boundaries of your sleep without a word.

Your fingers traced the shell's spiral curve, a gentle, involuntary tremor in your hand.

“Yeah… I think they’re receding, anyway.”

“...I see.”

The two words were a low, flat murmur, stripped of ease. A subtle, quiet disapproval hung in the space between you, as if he found the lingering reality of those nights entirely unacceptable. Not just the shadows themselves, but the fact that they still reached you.

Another heavy pause swallowed the line.

“And you’re alright? ” You finally muttered, a bit on edge. You could only hope to deflect.

The words slipped out before you could trap them behind your teeth, and instant, sharp regret pooled in your chest. You closed your eyes, mentally cursing your own slip. Why should you care…? It was none of your business. You were only a guest, after all.

He stayed quiet for a long, agonizing while. You were afraid he would even end the call over that mishap.

But after a beat, his voice returned, stripped of its usual edge.

“Yes.” The snail’s eyes narrowed further.

“Not a scratch.” It was a rare, staggering concession from a man who loathed offering unnecessary explanations. A quiet, reluctant comfort meant entirely for you.

“Mm. That’s —” The sentence trailed off your tongue, dying a quiet death in the space between you before you could give it away entirely.

“I’ll be back in two days.”

A brief pause hung on his end, heavy with unspoken weight, before his deep voice murmured through the receiver once more.

“Goodbye.”

Your voice lowered, suddenly drained.

“...Bye.”

The connection went dead before you could say another word, leaving only a soft, rhythmic hiss in your ear. You stared down at the transponder snail for a long moment, watching its features melt back into the ordinary shell, unsettled by how the heavy, quiet gravity of his attention had managed to dismantle your defenses from miles away.

author's note: this one ended up so long, 7k+ words... I hope it doesn't get too tedious, again thanks to all of you for taking the time to read this 🙂‍↕️♥️

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.

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.

You had worked as a deckhand in exchange for passage on your last voyage to Banaro Island, since the money department was really starting to become worrysome, but for this one trip to Lulusia you had given yourself the luxury of being just a passenger. This way, you could spend all the time examining those rare fern specimens you had collected back in Banaro’s swampy regions.

The book you had been consulting, a detailed guide on ferns and their life cycles, released a small puff of dust as you closed It with exasperation. What species could It even possibly be? It didn't make any sense, not at all. The curvature of the young leaves made no sense, and it wasn't described properly in that guide, anyway. Worst of all, you didn't even have a proper prothallus sample to check under your portable microscope. Those you had collected had all gone moldy due to the high humidity of the region, or got squished during your shenanigans.

Teeming with frustration, you removed your reading glasses and rubbed your eyes. It had been a long day, the hike, the boarding… A headache was starting to bloom across your temples.

Eventually, it did feel quite logical to just call it quits for the night. You climbed onto your hammock, wasted. The heart-shaped prothallus didn't leave your mind for a bit, and after a while you actually ended smiling to yourself.

It had always seemed kinda cute to you, to think of how ferns spent part of their life cycles being little fleshy hearts buried in the earth… Almost poetic, as if the heart itself needed that smug time in the damp earth to mature and finally go through those life-altering processes that allowed it to produce shoots and complete its cycle.

Your thoughts started to dim and grow sillier with the passage of time, and It wasn't long till you were gifted with the release of sleep, the swaying of the vessel lulling you to a dreamless slumber.

It was now early morning. You were sleeping soundly, enough not to be startled by the quick steps and the heightened heaving of the Terroir.

The situation on deck was starting to grow quite alarming. A hefty decision to go around a certain reef that had never supposed any trouble for the Terroir had gotten the course compromised, and now the ship was helplessly drifting towards the dangerous waters of the Florian Triangle, with little hope of a safe redirection.

The currents were unyielding, the captain was hysterically scolding the new navigator, and the deckhands awaited orders as they held fast to the rigging. “Now we’ll never make it to Kuraigana on time, you fool! We could lose the client… Do you even know who dwells there, lad?”

The captain, a rugged man in his forties, didn't let go of the navigator’s collar as he walked across the deck, checking the sails and barking new orders. “The devil, the devil himself!” The young man grew pale.

As he headed towards the poop deck to address the helmsman, the wind started to grow stronger, and with it the waves, that now grazed and conquered the bulwarks with terrifying ease. “Heave!” The captain exhorted, his voice breaking. The rising sun couldn't even pierce from behind those rolling clouds that maimed the sky, a promise of the squall to come.

You only woke up when the desperate beat to quarters took place and all hands were summoned on deck to try and salvage the ship and its cargo… You had just gotten up, head still cloudy with sleep, when the cross tides shook the ship violently. You ended up hitting your head with the desk’s corner as you stumbled, and fell half conscious on the wooden floor.

The rest was an absolute blur of desperate voices, the unbearably loud roar of the waves… You could remember the groan of the main sail collapsing, the men falling overboard. How you tried to run back to your room to try and salvage your notebooks and your samples, only to see how the ship was starting to take water as it capsized…

You only got little snippets of the ship breaking in half under the pouring rain,

how the storm clouds roared and the cargo sunk, now forever claimed by the Florian Triangle’s hellish embrace.

Some men of the crew tried to get a hold of you as you drifted away, holding on to some planks with the little strength you had left, but you ended up losing sight of the crew and the shipwreck.

Now, you were face to face with the impending doom of a very much possible death and the rawest loneliness you had ever felt in your life.

You were drifting under the storm for hours, holding hard to the planks and a couple notebooks you had managed to take with you before it all went down. The winds changed terribly, you felt disoriented and sore all over, and eventually started acknowledging the possibility of not making it. Not at all.

Conscience left you from time to time as the storm lost most of its viciousness. The Triangle had apparently spared you after taking away two year’s worth of research from you… and you could only weep helplessly, mourning. There, soaked and freezing down to the very bone with the vastness of the open sea under your belly, you could only imagine your samples, your pressed specimens and annotations sinking to the bottom of the sea, never to be revisited, or revised. Or published. Hell…

As the last of your strengths failed you, you spotted the faint outline of an island engulfed in a thick, unnatural mist. An unending warm exhale against the cold autumn air. The sky still wore that shroud of bruised grey, yet some sickly faint shafts of light pierced the gloom, eerily illuminating certain spots. A deep shiver shook your battered body.

The sight of the island unnerved you to no end. It looked very wrong, as reality looks when it’s poorly recreated on a bad dream.

A primal, sinking dread began to take over your lungs. There were ridges that curled impossibly in the air, and an endless extension of gloomy, dense pinetree forests.

Your heart labored as the fog receded just enough to unveil an eerie castle, its towers menacing against the grey horizon. Where the hell had the currents dragged you?

The next time you woke up, the ghost sensation of the tidal waves still lingered on your weary body. You had somehow managed to beach like a helpless dolphin while being unconscious.

You couldn't move, not an inch. Your limbs were completely cold and stiff, and felt like a lifeless extension of your own sunken spirit. Now on land, away from the merciless sea, the salt rash and the awful dehydration were beginning to feel much worse. Not to mention the gnawing hunger that plagued you.

Some musky, damp scent violently stopped your weakened train of thought. Then, faint sounds, but the rolling waves were still deafening enough not to let you make a good assessment of them. So you slowly and painfully managed to part your salt-streaked eyelids, only to find some broad, awful blurry figures looming over you.

As you were trying to focus, a deep anxiety started welling up in your chest. They were like bad drawn caricatures of men, a misshapen version that still looked very human-like and capable. You blinked and blinked, hoping this was some castaway delirium that was taking you before death itself did.

It took you quite a while to understand you were looking at apes. Yeah… And they were absolutely looking back at you, with those uncanny brown eyes, a bit too intelligent for your taste. Wearing clothes, to make it worse. And weapons.

A deep, gut-wrenching horror set on every inch of your body, the one you still couldn't move. You could barely register how bad you were shaking, how on earth would you be able to stand and run away from the biggest, weirdest monkeys you had ever encountered in your travels?

So the only thing you could do was utter a faint, very heartfelt “ … the fuck?” and just roll with the situation.

They got spooked when they heard your voice. Immediately, they started what seemed to be a heated conversation in grunts and apish gesticulated gibberish, the tension growing by the minute.

It had started to pour again. The sky was all moody, so cloudy as you peeked behind those simian heads. You definitely were on that terrifying island you had seen earlier from afar. Great.

It looked as if those monkeys were doubtful about what to do with you and each of them had a different, very well-formed opinion… You smiled a bit at the fucking absurdity of it all, and then shook your head softly, your vision still somewhat blurry. “Yeah”, you thought. “I’m going utterly, absolutely insane. This is it”.

You even chuckled shortly, inducing yourself to immediately cough all the seawater you had gulped while being adrift. One of the monkeys realized and quickly turned you to the side. Damn, those were some incredibly intelligent monkeys. What were they, orangutans? mandrills…? You couldn't even think straight anymore.

Shortly after your salty coughing fit, you fainted again. The humandrills freaked out, (this time very collectively) and hastily picked you up. Their hollerings and cries echoed against the swaying canopies of the pine trees as they hurried towards the castle’s imposing figure.

Kuraigana’s fortress had been home to a

powerful lineage decades ago, the Hawthornes. They had “deserted” the Holy Land due to a rather long history of disagreements with Saint Saturn over knowledge censorship and forbidden lore.

And so the Hawthornes had withered there in that forlorn island, ignored by the rest of the world, always submitted to the Florian Triangle weather’s whims. After the desertion, a sudden, deathly gruesome sickness had taken all their lives over the course of weeks.

Now, the remains of their home and belongings loomed terribly on the horizon, engulfed in that perennial mist. In many seaside taverns all across the area, old sailors didn't dare utter that family’s name anymore. They recounted many terrifying stories of spirit sightings on Kuraigana’s shores through spyglasses, of phantom ships and distant cries in the dead of the night.

Still, no ghosts could ever be as unnerving as the current, allegedly living dweller of said castle. The rumours ran low, or didn't run at all. It was just too risky, or so it seemed.

The humble flame of the chamberstick flickered ghastly against the raw stone walls. Behind him, his distorted, erratic shadow, and the mournful sigh of his long coat against the splintered steps. His boots struck with rhythmic finality as he made his descent to the lowest level of the castle.

Warm light bloomed over his sharp features as the air begun to grow more oppressive, the scent of damp earth and old stone intensifying by the minute. Little dust particles shimmered against the candlelight and hurriedly dispersed to make way for his stern frame.

He finally arrived at a sturdy wooden door, and produced a bundle of long, half rusted keys. After a dry click and a slight groan of the old wood, he walked inside the old wine cellar.

The candlelight hardly lit a quarter of that ancient room. He remained still, staring at the vacant spaces he had been looking forward to restocking soon.

Sadly, the wine shipment he had ordered months ago was already five days late. Certainly unacceptable, he thought to himself, as he examined the rest of his collection.

The distant, roaring thunder only served to feed his own growing gloominess.

He was deep in thought. Yes, it was typhoon season in the Florian Triangle, but the Terroir had always made it to Kuraigana with ease, even in such conditions. They simply had to take the longer, safer route to the North of the Tsenian archipelago, as they always had done before.

His favourite wine was on that shipment, that vintage from Dressrosa's finest winery, carefully crafted from a delicious mix of local grape varieties and aged in autochthonous oak barrels. He had only five bottles left, and with no news at all of the Terroir, he was apparently set for a rather boring typhoon season.

The world’s strongest swordsman sighed softly at this meek inconvenience, but shortly after he brushed it away. He picked a bottle of his second favourite vintage, locked the cellar’s door with an elegant gesture and headed upstairs.

The muted hollering made him stop for a second. He deliberately stopped and tilted his head gently, aiming to listen properly.

The humandrills weren’t usually that loud, not after the tour de force he performed on them a couple years ago now, when he had arrived to the castle and aimed to claim it for himself.

The hem of his coat followed ghastly behind him as he picked up his pace.

As soon as he reached one of the big windows overlooking the beach, he peered through the jagged stained glass. A sudden, cold hush of wind extinguished the candle’s dwindling flame, plunging him into darkness.

Through the afternoon gloom, he noticed the heaps of driftwood the sea had taken to rest on Kuraigana's shores. Then, his gaze caught the avid, fearful parade of the humandrills, as they hurried towards the main door.

He shook his head and walked now towards the entrance. Dust-heavy drapings adorned the castle’s halls. Old portraits, remnants of vibrant persian rugs and ornamented banners, those traces of an ancient, vibrant past stared at him as he made his way across the castle. His steps barely made a sound as he went about the rooms and passageways, a growing foreshadowing of uninvited inconvenience building up on his chest.

He adjusted his feathered hat and finally pushed open the main door. The humandrills had formed a circle, and as soon as they heard the heavy door opening, they all straightened up and turned towards that tall, inquiring man, who now examined the scene in silence. Their eyes were bright with fear and doubt. When one of them eventually resolved to start a gibberish discourse to try and address the situation, they all resumed hollering and wailing at the same time, panicking.

That earned them an annoyed eye roll on his behalf. “Quiet” the man coldly commanded. He then offered a disapproving look. “What did you find on the shore?”

The leader of the humandrills wore a gaze that was way too solemn for such a chimerical creature. His beastly hands gently deposited the shaking figure on the paved entrance. It was a young woman, soaked to the very bone, terribly pale and oozing of salt and sheer tragedy.

Mihawk looked at her for a long time, his amber eyes completely unreadable. She was fully unconscious, her swollen lips the color of late harvested plums. A white linen sleep gown clung to her body. A castaway.

The sight was completely pitiful, and it sent through him the familiar, nerve-wrecking second-hand shame he always felt when he witnessed weakness in another being.

The swordsman eventually crouched down and stretched out his arm to check her pulse.

Awful coldness permeated through his own fingers when he pressed them to the side of her neck. Her heartbeat was very faint.

Again, that same pang of irritation ran through him.

And yet, if he was half of what was rumored of him (and completely what he thought of himself) he would have turned back to the castle, shut down the door and continued with his day as if nothing had happened.

But the truth was he couldn't ignore those pangs. Not at all. The irritation, the shame. Because, well, deep down he knew the weakness he feared was his own and no other’s. Being witness to such a vulnerable scene just reminded him how weak was the flesh that clung to his own bones. How fragile life was.

And maybe, how precious it could be, if It wasn't for the variety of silent torments he daily subjected himself to.

He didn't dare address any of those thoughts as he scooped her wretched body off the ground with an uncharacteristic, gnawing gentleness. Or as he disappeared with her behind the castle’s doors, not another word to the humandrills.

The storm had escalated. Thunder and hammering rain was an usual background noise to anyone who had ever dwelled in Kuraigana’s castle.

Mihawk went upstairs and picked the chambers on the North wing, where the driest rooms were. He laid her on a soft mattress, discarded his hat and fetched some towels.

The swordsman diligently ignored his own internal agitation on behalf of taking care of that woman. Such inconvenience.

He wasn't being extremely careful, or feeling an exacerbated urgency about her. Yet, as he undid her soaked gown, his discomfort with the situation got to a point where his hands pathetically fumbled with the buttons for a second.

Mihawk froze.

He got so embarrassed he had to actually stop what he was doing. He straightened, looked away. Then, at his hands. What the hell was wrong with him?

The swordsman closed his eyes as he tried to compose himself. He rested his hands on her waist, his chest heaving, his head low. But after a couple seconds he immediately removed them as if he had burned himself, suddenly remembering to respect her modesty.

Oh, he was feeling completely pathetic.

He took some deep breaths and finally removed her nightgown. Then, he proceeded to dry off her body only guiding himself by touch, always looking away. Finally, he put her in another nightgown he had found on one of the castle’s old wardrobes.

Mihawk chastised himself as he noticed how his movements were way too careful. Way too gentle for a stranger, for anybody, really. He sighed, tucking her in the bed, exhausted with his own train of thoughts.

Then, he moved on taking care of her, in that nonchalant way he thought he was absolutely pulling off…

He kindled a fire on the chamber’s chimney, and sat on a padded chair close to it. The sun was almost set, and the only light in that room was offered by the flickering flames. His figure was uncharacterically hunched, his elbows resting on his thighs. He rubbed a hand across his face and started thinking on a course of action.

He spent some minutes in silence, staring at the embers, debating with himself. He had never taken care of another person, and now he had an unconscious, castaway woman sleeping under his roof.

Mihawk eventually just sighed again and stood up. He walked to her. His usual composure came back as he touched her cheek softly. She was starting to warm up, thankfully.

He stopped that train of thought immediately. Thankfully, in the way that he wouldn't have to bother digging a grave for her… Corrected. That was it.

A while after, he was in the Hawthorne’s old library, consulting some books on natural remedies, on salves. While he had been drying her, his fingertips had traced some wounds, maybe ulcers, on her arms and her sides. Then there was that nasty wound just below her hairline. She needed treatment.

After writing down all he needed, he went to the kitchen, fetched some dry herbs he himself had foraged on the last spring, and started preparing a salve. At the same time he began to simmer a pot of light broth he thought she could drink when she woke up. Completely nonchalant, of course.

He remained silent as he examined and treated her wounds. Mihawk simply decided to see it as a methodical task. Her little flinches, even when she was asleep, of course didn't have a single effect on his composure. When he finished, he checked her forehead again. She was almost at an acceptable temperature now.

Mihawk had brought with him that bottle of wine he had picked earlier. He stared at it as if it was the answer to all his troubles. To all of life’s troubles, actually. Then, he poured himself a glass and sat beside her bed, on a chair he had previously moved. Close enough to be able to watch over her, but far enough so it wouldn't feel suffocating to him.

Thus, he proceeded to stay awake the whole night, watching over her.

In the early hours before dawn, her shaky voice made him look up from the book he had been reading.

“Father… Father, I…” she was sweating terribly, and struggling on the bed. During the night, the hypothermia had given way to a nasty fever, and he had been systematically swapping damp cloths over her forehead and neck and adjusting the temperature of the room.

“Father, I've lost it all…. gods, I'm so sorry. I…” Her distress was pitiful enough for Mihawk to actually put aside his book and stand up. There It was again, that gnawing feeling. She was so helpless. He couldn't bear it.

Not sure of what to do, he rested a hand on one of her cheeks and applied a bit of pressure to try to ground her. He did the same with his other hand, but over her shaky shoulder.

“Just delirium from the fever… stop struggling.” His deep voice echoed across the otherwise silent room. After a beat, she started to calm down, her breathing becoming easy and longer paced.

A soothing feeling took over the room again. She was now sleeping untroubled. Mihawk’s mind had wandered elsewhere, but his hands hadn't. Not for a while.

Then, there was this one moment when she turned her head, and her soft features brushed against his palm. He held his breath as her chapped lips nuzzled softly against the warmth of his hand.

He immediately put it back, abashed. Eyes slightly widened. That sleepy gesture of hers had moved him in such an eerie way... It hadn't caused enough discomfort for him to feel fully like himself. These last events had done nothing but humble him constantly. He was exhausted.

Mihawk slowly walked back to the bureau, where his half full glass had been waiting for him. Then, he made his way to the window, the burgundy swaying to his footsteps.

His eyes set on the large expanse of water behind the castle. The sky was still grey and unsightly to most. Lake Vantare stared back at him, always a place for reflection. Or for endless rumination.

The oaky undertones ran smoothly against his throat as he took one of those elegant sips of his. His eyes were still set on that still water.

The storm had receded down to a gentle pour.

Author's notes: thanks for reading this if you come across it <3. It's obviously not perfect and I know it's not the usual fanfic tone either, i'm not skilled enough yet to pull It off. But I did want to post it now as a way to push myself to keep writing, since I have never posted my writing in any platform. I'll probably revisit it and keep editing, but here it is. Chapter 2 is half written already and on the way.

On account of the gothic vibe, I wanted to characterize Mihawk as a troubled and awkward when no one else is looking. I think It gives him depth, I didn't want to portray only his usual stoicism and nonchalance. I like my men tormented and a little bit pathetic, god forbid. You'll haunt each other!