somewhere in the past pt.6
summary: The world moves forward, but ghosts never rest. A familiar ship on the horizon. A name she has not spoken in years. A storm long overdue. Some things were meant to stay buried. Some things refuse to be forgotten.
c.w. : MAJOR SPOILERS for One Piece Film: Red, angst, mentions of violence, plot-centric, metaphors to rot
Disclaimer: Reader is called "Saram" meaning "Human/Person"
Uta had been found in a chest like a gift, treasure, and adopted immediately but there once was a timeâŠ..
âŠ..when there was only Saram.Â
Shanks would always keep his eyes on Saram. Always, carmine eyes, always drifting during the days on deck looking for the young child. Seeing her made him smile, seeing her made him feel like he was someone more than a pirate, a filthy criminal.
He paused to see little Saram sitting on a barrel, her hair wild and open, behind her sat Beckman on another barrel, a hair brush in his hand as he combed through her hair. Shanks stopped and watched, a smile blooming on his lips at the sight, Saram was grinning and chattering away as Beckman combed and tied her hair while sitting behind her.
âSeas, seas, wavey wavey we gooo~â Saram would sing as Beckman parted her hair.
He smiled, Beckman always got these cute little bows and hairpins for Saram whenever they docked, trying out new hairstyles on her while at sea â and Saram always enjoyed it, always running to Beckman to tie her hair, to comb her hair. He could not remember the last time she had let someone else touch her hair without protesting or complaining.
âToo harsh!â She would pout if anyone other than Beckman ever touched her hair to work with.Â
Shanks chuckled at the memory; Saram was as much like Beckman's child as she was Shanks' and everyone knew it. Saram was closer to Lime Juice, but she could never hide her feelings and silent favouritism towards him and Beckman, he knew because he saw, saw how Saram always watched with admiration and awe whenever Beckman would speak.
The crew sometimes would steer clear when Beckman was scolding Saram because only he could get her to listen properly. Because Saram saw Beckman as a parental figure too. Because Beckmanâs stern voice was the same soft one that would listen to her stories when he would do her hair. Or the same softness of his eyes when she would hold spoonfuls of food towards Benn, garnering jealousy from Shanks and amusement from the crew.
Beckman loved Saram as his own child, and everyone knew it.
That's why when she was presumed dead, no one questioned why he still bought those bows and hairpins, storing them away in a box.Â
For all they knew, the First Mate had not done Saramâs hair in years since he began doing Utaâs hair.
For the first time in a long while, Saram felt something stir beneath the surface. She could feel the faint echoes of when he had once looked at her like she was the only person in the room. But those days were gone. He wasnât that man anymore and neither was she.
His eyes held hers for a long moment, and then, like an invisible string snapped, he shifted. He blinked, once, and turned his gaze elsewhere, back to the conversation he had been having with Beckman.
Saram exhaled softly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her plate. She pretended to not notice the burning at the back of her throat. Pretended to not notice the dryness of her mouth. Pretended to not notice how the backs of her eyes ached ever so slightly. Saram looked down, eyes trained on the slight redness of the meat she cut into, red, rouge, carmine. The carmine of blood, the carmine of meat, the carmine of his eyes.Â
Her throat caved in, instinctively swallowing dryly and harshly as she drank water from her glass. Her ears were ringing, cold seeping her bones, chest aching, her eyes burned slightly. There were no tears, there hadn't been any for twelve years. No one had noticed. They never did. The crew, wrapped up in their own conversations, laughed and ate like nothing had changed.
Licking her lips, she swallowed, ignoring the taste of rot in her mouth. Saram smiled as she excused herself calmly from the table with a small smile, acting as if a simple look from Shanks had not just caused her nervous system to go into overdrive. It reminded her of when she was ten again, when she was twelve again, when she was a child again. She inhaled and exhaled slowly as she headed towards the grooves of trees on the ship, practically hiding her figure as she leaned against a tree, crossed her arms and stared out at the sea.
Staring at the horizon, Saram let her mind unfurl. Disassociating from her thoughts of her father, his gaze and how it completely dismantled her, she spoke to him yesterday and had no problem yet one gaze, one look sent her crumbling. It was laughable how much control Shanks still held over her even though he didn't know, how could he? Shanks believes that Saram hates him, that she does not see him as her father, that all she wants to do is never see him again.
That fool does not even know that every night she would stand on the burned and destroyed roofs of the castle of Elegia, staring at the seas and praying for his safe journey. Didn't know that she always kept updates on the crew. Didn't know that she was the one who made sure that Uta never put up a barrier around the island when she held the concert.
That fool does not know how much she would break if he even held her with a moment of love.
If he ever held her just as her father, Saram feared that she would crumble. Even at twenty four years old, all she craved was for a sliver of love that Shanks so easily gave Uta. How can she still chase after him despite blatantly knowing the truth of her birth?
What Yasopp told her that night, twelve years ago, still echoed in her ears, in her brain, in her sleep.Â
"You were never supposed to exist.â
Those words had carved themselves into her bones, sunk their teeth into her heart and soul, never letting go.Â
âBenn! Can we go to the night market tonight?â
Saram tilted her head to the side, watching the seven year old Saram run after Benn with an expectant gaze in her eyes, hair wild and free. She always called him Benn, that name that was something so easy for her. A tie that bound her to him. She was so small, so short, so kind.
âSure kid. Finish your chores first, then we'll go.â Beckman had a smile, ruffling her hair as she smiled and nodded, running off.Â
Saram watched as night fell and the little girl walked up to Beckman, eyes excited about going to town only for him to smile regretfully, ruffling her hair, âNext time kid.â
Next time never came and Saram never asked again, because even as a child, she saw it, that flash of something alike to annoyance that glimmered in his eyes before he had ruffled her hair. Because that's who Saram was â she watched and learned, and when she learned something, she remembered it forever.
Saram smiled and the phantoms were gone, at that corner she had learnt to not bother Beckman with going out to town at night. Her smile slowly faded away as she slid down, eyes on the horizon and her head back against the tree, to the deck. With a sigh, she quietly closed her eyes and composed her thoughts before opening them and whispering quietly to herself.
âWelcome home, Saram.â
She had adapted over the course of days, Saram mainly kept to herself, tinkering with her vials in Hongo's infirmary while he worked â Hongo had given a small area to work and she had utilized it pretty well, making potions and medicine, concoctions and some. She spent her days in the infirmary in her quiet little corner, with Uta on and around the deck, staying in her room or in some secluded area of the ship. It would not be a far reach to say that she was actively avoiding direct conversations or contact with the crew, especially her father and Beckman.
If she was not doing anything, then Saram was slipping away in corners and nooks of the ship, in the shadows or places where she had figured out the crew did not patrol as much, not that it bothered her. Her father may seem pretty laid back but his management of his ship was precise, all, if not most, places on deck were arranged in a way that the executives could access them and patrol them while simply walking around. It was simple but meticulous. It reminded her yet again that Shanks was a formidable Captain and Pirate.
Currently, Saram was sitting in the palm tree groove, back against one of the trunks, quietly messing around with her knife lazily, staring at the way she uses her arm to swing the blade. Saram tilted the blade just slightly, the metal catching the sunlight in a flicker, a glint of silver against the warmth of the wood beneath her thighs. She wasnât even holding it in a combat-ready grip, just letting it roll around her knuckles, flipping the flat of it against her palm, then catching it again and repeating. A muscle memory more than anything.Â
It was so sharp. Not just in blade but in purpose. In implication. There had been a time when she used to swing it because it made her feel powerful. When her muscles burned from training and her calluses split from overuse, she told herself that if she got good enoughâfast enough, precise enoughâthey would see her. And then there was a time when she swung it simply because it was the only thing she knew how to do.Â
Because all Saram ever knew back then, was that wielding a blade would get her looks, and she craved those looks.
Her thumb brushed the edge. Not enough to bleed, but just enough to feel the bite. She didnât fear pain. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Pain had been her constant companion, right from the moment sheâd been left behind. Not just the flamesâthough that was the kind of pain that left a mark even beyond skinâbut the kind that sat in your chest like lead. Heavy and unmoving. The kind of pain that made you quiet.Â
Her gaze flicked up lazily, eyes scanning the ship from where she sat. She could see a portion of the open deck from hereâjust enough to catch movement. Utaâs laugh rang out faintly from above, probably near the helm again. Lime Juiceâs voice boomed in response, lighthearted and warm. A few othersâGab maybe? Or Monsterâchuckled as well. Their voices were like wind chimes: soft, familiar, distant. They had all moved on. She had no place in their present, not truly. Not the way Uta did.Â
The blade flipped again.Â
No place in their present.
The tip tapped softly against the tree bark beside her thigh.
But then again, she never had much of a place in their past either.
She could still remember the old routes, despite not being on this ship for twelve yearsâwhere the crew avoided walking, where Beckman tended to turn left instead of right, the places where Shanks used to stand and lean against the rail with a bottle in hand. None of them had changed much. And it was terrifyingly easy to slide into the shadows they left behind. For how could the memory of her childhood that was seared into her memory ever be thought to be separated from her muscles and habits, from her instincts.
Saram took a breath in. The sea salt burned in her nose just slightly. The wind carried the cry of gulls far overhead, and the sails flapped against the pull of the horizon. The ship was moving. The world was moving. Only she was still. Always watching. Always just outside of the center. She dragged the flat of the blade down her arm â just to feel the smooth metal slide against her skin. She liked knowing it was real. That she was still real. Her voice was quiet, nearly inaudible beneath the wind, ââŠwhat a mess, huh?â
Everybody moved on, but Saram was still stuck at the start line, she was too slow to catch up. They were too fast and busy moving to look back. Like a memory long gone, she closed her eyes and thought back to her younger days. They werenât all bad. If they were, she would not have been alive. Shanks had been kind, She knew he had been. She knows because he had taken her in â a child he had no obligation to raise â people, pirates, men, women, family always left behind their kids or family, he, too, could have done the same.
But he had not and that was why despite the scars marring her skin, the pain in her childlike heart, the ache in her bones â Saram never could quite hate Shanks or blame him, for he had been a father to her once, had shown her the view of the world above his shoulders, held her in warmth and in the cold. Saram would never say it out loud, yet, her bones knew that despite the pain, despite the things she went through â Saram would choose Shanks as her dad over and over, again and again, in every lifetime.
Saram frowned, holding the pair of scissors in her hand as she sat on a crate, sighing. Her hair would be a problem, it was already tangling up and any more salt air and water spritz, it would coil into a mess of tangles. And she was not the best at tying her hair, so she came up with one solution, to cut what was there. Plus, it's not like she knew how to do hair anyways.
She paused at the thought, âDo hair, huh?â because there once was a time when large calloused hands would hold her hair and caress and brush and do them with the softest of touches. Saram ponders for a few moments, back at Elegia it was easier to maintain her hair due to the products that Gordon would get her and Uta, well, easier for her because as far as she could remember Uta never really had trouble maintaining her hair.
Saram sighs, now that she thought about it, she never really took much care of her appearance, except her hair, she always wore practical clothing because she always had to be on her feet, moving or working in her workshop, white was always out of the question because she thought it was pointless. She did try wearing dresses, she really did like wearing dresses but then eventually just stopped.
Unlike Uta, Saram didn't have any special abilities so wearing a dress on Elegia hindered her movements. She could almost laugh, so many dresses lay at the back of her cupboard back at Elegia in her room, never to be worn again, never to be seen. The thought felt strangely bitter to her.Â
It was strange, because, Saram could swear that there was once a time when she enjoyed dressing up, wearing bright coloured dresses and patterns. Pretty bows, clips, pins, bands â everything, pink or blue, every colour. Once she used to take pride in dressing up, maybe when she was young, when she still believed that she was a little girl who could play dress up on a ship. Who could pretend to be a princess.
The thought caused her to let out a small chuckle, âA princess? Perhaps an ogre would be more befitting.â The thought was just there, because Saram didn't see anything princesslike in her. Not with her dull hair and eyes, or her unkept attire and worn out clothes, unlike Uta. Uta was more of a princess, it was her moniker too. Princess Uta. Pretty eyes, hair of white and red, beauty that followed her.
Saram didn't think she was anything like that. Nothing fancy about her, just plain old Saram. Ordinary, forgettable.
A small smile came on her lips as she stares at her worn out leg warmers, as of now she had only the clothes on her back and the extra pair of clothes she always kept with her, stashed away in the sub-space she created from Uta's devil fruit powers stored in her wrist mechanism. For the days she's been here, she was either wearing this or that, one of the two pairs. On the other hand, she smiled whenever she saw Uta wearing a new outfit made from her devil fruit powers, the young girl had offered her too, but Saram refused.
She didn't have a reason to dress up or have another pair of clothes. She wasn't upset either. This was just her being her if she was being honest. Saram, afterall, never needed more than absolutely required. Whether it be clothes or things or even love.Â
Saram shook her head out of her thoughts and brought the scissors to her hair, maybe, cutting what she had, off, would be better. Besides, she didn't have any attachment to it either so cutting it off wouldn't really affect her.
Bringing the scissors closer she paused, not knowing why, before positioning it so that she would cut off a huge chunk at once, just like always. It was just hair after all.
âYou have beautiful hair, Saram.âÂ
It didnât mean anything.
Saram had taught herself to not get attached. Never get attached. Not because she was afraid but because getting attached meant having something to lose. And Saram had lost too much already to lose anymore.
Just as she was about to snip off the entire portion up to her ears, a hand engloved her own, her eyes snapping to her side, as her heart ran like a race horse. Large. Calloused. Warm. She turned her head and met Beckmanâs stormy eyes, smoke curling from his cigar.
âWhat are you doing, Saram?â
Suddenly, the hair in her hand felt heavy, no longer light and nothing. Now, it felt like lead and something.
âJust cutting it off.â She said softly, voice firm but quiet, moving her wrist away from his hand, the warmth of his calloused hand that weathered away at sea.
Why was Beckman suddenly so questionative? She blinks and turns towards him, slightly frowning, she was rather confused.
âWhy are you cutting off your hair? Itâs nice and doesnât seem bad.â
âIts not exactly practical.â
She almost wanted to yell, hair at the sea was not practical, not to mention, she didnât want to bother herself with tying it again and again.
âYeahâŠ. I donât really enjoy messing with my hair or tying it again and again. Itâs annoying to comb and brush it. Plus, it's different from back on Elegia.âÂ
There was a moment of silence. So silent. Only the sounds of the seas and the seagulls, the creaking of wood and voices of the crew. Beckmanâs eyes felt like they were piercing through her, so she looked away, like always, the first to look away.
Saram didnât get a moment before she was guided by Beckman to sit on the barrel, she frowned, about to protest but the hand on her back, so warm, so strangely familiar and new, prevented her from doing so. So, she let him. Let Beckman guide her to the wooden barrel and sit on it. He said something about coming back, she probably nodded, her mind fuddled and all muddy. She didnât even know why her body had gone into autopilot again â it was almost ironic how around Beckman or Shanks, her body just stopped resisting and went on autopilot.Â
She stiffened, spine rigid and straight as she felt him sit down behind her, his warmth so close, too close. It frightened her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, the heavy lump that always lingered whenever she talked to this crew, fingers clammy, ears slightly heavy with the beginnings of a ringing in them.
âWhat⊠are you doing, Beckman?â
There was a moment of silence, a moment too long.
âYou used to always run to me early mornings to do your hair when you were young.â
Her world hands clenched as her eyes widened, all her thoughts coming to a standstill as she stared up, ahead, heart hammering against her ribcage.
WhatâŠ. was he talking about?
âEvery morning, before doing anything, you would run to me to get me to do your hair.â
Why was he saying that now?
âWhenever we docked at islands, you never left the ship without me fixing your hair.â
Saramâs ears rang, her vision tunneled, memories she had locked away. The time of her life that only she was privy to. her most precious memories. He⊠why was Benn Beckman telling her all this? Her mind jolts up memories from years ago, memories that she had locked away, just as he slowly starts untangling her hair with his hands.
âSaram! At least wear your shoes!â
A frantic LimeJuice runs after a young Saram as she bolts across the damn ship like a rabbit, cutting across the men who watch in amusement as she makes a straight line for the man by the mast, smoking and reading the newspaper. He looks over the paper as the sound of feet appear before the kid in a blue dress turns the corner, barefoot and runs towards him, LimeJuice following close, a pair of white shoes in hand.
The man raised an eyebrow in amusement, putting out his cigar and placing the paper down to lean forward to pick her up. She grins widely as she looks up at him, now in his lap, a bright smile on her chubby face. LimeJuice pauses and sighs, slightly out of breath and an irritated look on his face, but everyone knows he could never be mad at Saram.
âTo what do I owe the fortune of you so early morning kid?â
âHair!â She holds up the small box that usually held her ribbons and clips and other hair accessories.
âYeah, of course.â LimeJuice adds in, âShe ran across the whole ship, barefoot, just so you could do her hair. Can you believe this kid, Beckman?â
Beckman cracks a smirk as he ruffles her hair, âYeah, I can. Kidâs a riot but its a routine.â
She abruptly stood up, her ears ringing, throat constricted, almost unable to breathe, she couldnât breathe. Her hand went to her chest and rubbed hard as she slowly began walking forward, away from him. The world was caving in as she took sharp breathes in. Beckman called her, frowning slightly and catching up to her with long strides. He reached out his hand towards her to hold her arm but the moment his calloused fingers even brushed against her skin, she flinched away.
âNo!â
She was facing away but her shoulders were shaking, trembling so slightly that he almost missed it. His eyes narrowed. A pit forming in his gut.
âSaram?â
âDonât do this⊠whatever you are trying to do. This kindness, this rejogging of memories, you have no right.â
Beckman paused, physically, he could not move. His chest ached, the way he could feel her fear, her anxietyâŠ. It was startling. Beckman could not ever recall Saram being so fearful of him. Ever so afraid of his touch.
âSaram, I just wanted toâŠ.â His words died in his throat the moment he caught a glimpse of her eyes, as she turned her head slightly over her shoulder to look at him. The pure rawness in her irises froze him. The numbness of her eyes chilled him.
âDonât cling to ghosts, Beckman. The Saram you knew, you already mourned her death, did you not? I am not her.â
And she was gone, almost running away, Saram left his sights and went below deck.
âSomeday, I will be the worldâs best singer!â
Young Uta grinned, her proclamation echoing the walls of the castle as Saram quietly attempted to do her hair, Gordon fed into Utaâs dreams, teasing and joking.
âWell for that you will have to grow up to be a nice lady.â
âHey! I am already a nice lady!â
Saram simply smiled as she tried to braid her dual toned locks. Uta warmed her hands by the fire as Gordon read the music notes with her.Â
âYou suck at this Saram.â Uta laughed and Saram simply chuckled, âI guess I am.â
âYou know Gordon? Saram never, never does her hair! Such a shame, she has such pretty hair too!â
Gordon simply listened, the old King never knowing how to deal with the young singer.
âI like my hair plain, thank you very much.â She tugged her strand intentionally.
âThen stop moving!â
âWhy don't you ever let any of us do your hair?â Uta whined but was quickly distracted by another music sheet.
Saram didn't answer. Uta and Gordon went back to talking about music sheets. For a moment Saram paused and simply stared at the haphazard braid and then at her own hands. Her thoughts were just flowing and circling in her head as she plays with Utaâs hair.
âBack then, I never felt the need to learn. I always had Beckman doing it for me. And then you had him. And somewhere along the lineâŠ.â Her grip on a clip tightened, the purple of it too similar to his choices of accessories for her, ââŠ..I stopped caring for my hair.â
âWhat design would our bunny like today?â
âMaybe, because I knew that if it wasnât him, I never wanted anyone elseâs hands in my hair.â
Saram locked the door to her room behind and leaned against it, breathing heavily, her throat constricted as she slid down the door, rubbing her chest. Her ears ringing, vision unfocused as memories, stupid, warm, memories kept appearing and appearing.
âShut up.â She whispered.
âShut up.â
âShut up. Shut up. Shut up.â
She squeezed her eyes close as she leaned forward, forehead against the floor as she tugged at her hair in frustration, anger, pain.
âShut up. Shut up. Shut up.â
Warm hands, warm sun, cool sea water.
âShut up. They are all gone.â
Soft tugs on her hair, her pouts as Lime Juice teased her, Beckmanâs hands separating sections of her hair.
âIts all in the past. Stop it.â
Shanksâ smile, Lucky suggesting to use skewer sticks as rollers.
âStop. Stop it. Its all gone.â
Flames. Shanks. Beckman. The smell of burning flesh. Her death.
A ringing in her ears. The smell of the sea. The smell of the wood. The sting in her palm from her nails.
Saramâs hands trembled as she covered her mouth, muffling her voice, hunched over on the ground.
âIâŠ. I don't want this....â
âSweet bunny, youâll always have a home here as long your crew is alive.â
Saram hunched over, body trembling, her chest tight, as if rot and thorns growing in the crevices that remained unburnt. She screamed into her palm, muffled, body shaking, aching. The burnt, scorched parts of her skin felt as if they were burning again, felt as if she was once again under that debris; once again, she was a child.
Once again she was alone on the ship of her dead childhood that was burnt away.
THAT WAS A ROLLER COASTER!! I AM BACKK!! If you see typos, no you did not.
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