#mandrill

Looming in the trees—massive, moss-colored mandrills. Bigger than any primate you’d seen in the Blue. Muscles like stone. Faces like judgmental grandmothers. And expressions that made it very clear you were not welcome.

Your first thought was, “That bastard husband didn’t mention this.”

Your second was: “I swear if I survive this, I’m making wine so strong it’ll kill joy.”

They didn’t attack. Just jeered, hooted, and flung more steaming insults through the air like wild performance art. One even seemed to shrug at you. Or wink. Which, frankly, was worse.

That’s when it clicked: Mihawk had told them.

Not much. But just enough.

You weren’t prey.

You were just… unfortunate.

Honestly, this was the most affection he’d shown since handing you the servant’s room and vanishing like a cryptid.

By the end of the week, you were collecting their “gifts” into barrels, mixing them with ash and whatever compost you could scrounge. It smelled like death’s armpit. Your eyes watered daily. Your boots had to be burned. But your seeds needed it. The earth needed it. And you needed something to fight.

You rigged a rain catchment system out of snapped gutters, shattered wine casks, and an overturned stone basin you yanked from the ruins of the chapel. It took two days, a pulled shoulder, and a yelling match with a squirrel, but when the first storm came, you stood in the garden, soaking wet, watching brown water swirl into barrels like salvation.

You raised your arms to the heavens and hissed, “Victory,” through a mouthful of hair.

But the real triumph came later.

You were digging behind the old stables, wrist-deep in ash and hope, when your trowel struck warmth. Not heat. Not light.

Warmth.

You clawed into it barehanded, heart hammering, and sank your fingers into something you hadn’t dared to believe was real—rich, black, living soil. Volcanic.

You froze.

Then brought it to your nose. Inhaled.

And laughed.

And cried.

And nearly kissed it.

Because this cursed island—the same one that threw poop at you, hissed at night, and possibly hated joy—had volcanic bedrock.

You collapsed to your knees, stained in rot, spite, and old hope, and wept soft, stunned tears—not out of sadness, not from defeat.

But because you’d found it.

Life.

This place could grow vines.

Good ones.

Wine-worthy ones.

The kind that would ruin a sommelier’s day and make Mihawk choke on his regret.

You laughed again—sharp and cracked, the sound of a woman on the verge of reinvention or arson. Possibly both.

You’d clawed through haunted halls, fungal walls, mandrill diplomacy, and a haunted toilet room. You’d slept with a knife, cleaned with vinegar, and used broken altar pieces as shelving. You didn’t need lace. You didn’t need vows.

You had soil.

And vengeance.

It takes six months.

Six long, bloody-knuckled, wind-scoured, fungus-bitten, near-starved months.

The kind that chew you up and spit you back out with worse posture and an attitude problem. The kind where you stop wondering if Mihawk abandoned you and start hoping he did—because if he walks through that gate now, you’ll need bail money.

But the vineyard grows.

It starts like most miracles do: pitiful and unimpressive. Three green shoots barely clinging to volcanic soil, fed on composted insults and sheer, undiluted rage. But they live. They thrive. The ash works. The janky rain catchment groans like a dying beast but does its job. The monsters keep their distance—likely due to your signature scent: “Rotting Hope.”

And you?

You don’t just survive. You build.

Trellises rise again. Lopsided. A little cursed. One’s held together with wire and an old spoon. But they stand. The vines follow your hands like they know who you are. Like they’re choosing you.

The garden stops hating you. Mostly. It even gives up a few squat tomatoes, resentful beans, and bitter greens so angry they bite back unless you boil them into submission. You eat them anyway. Victory has a flavor, and it’s aggressive.

But the real breakthrough comes at dusk.

You’re mid-harvest, covered in dirt and dried mandrill piss, holding a bucket of radishes and muttering death threats to a slug, when you feel it—a presence.

You look up.

And see it.

A creature. Massive. Fur like waterlogged hay. Teeth, like some god gave up halfway through making them. It doesn’t growl. Doesn’t charge. It stares at you from the edge of the vineyard, glowing eyes fixed like it’s deciding whether you’re worth the trouble.

You stare back, because what the hell else are you going to do?

Then, without ceremony, you toss it a carrot.

It catches it midair. Crunches twice. Spits out the greens. Then turns and leaves without fanfare, like a bad date.

It returns the next day.

You offer turnips.

It accepts.

No screaming. No hurling.

A win.

You name it Rude Bastard, because frankly, it earns it. By the third visit, it comes when you whistle. You don’t pet him. You’re not suicidal. But the fact that he doesn’t try to end you? That’s basically love around here.

And when some other abomination—something with too many legs and teeth in deeply incorrect places—slithers near your compost, Rude Bastard obliterates it. No warning. Just violence. Efficient. Beautiful.

You give him a squash that night. A big one. No questions asked.

By now, your vines reach your hips. The garden feeds you. The wine ferments in the cellar, each barrel cataloged, cleaned, blessed with the salt of your labor and the judgment of your ancestors.

You are sunburned. Bruised. Your knuckles bleed weekly. You talk to walls. You sing to radishes. You haven’t screamed at a ghost in three days. Progress.

And when Mihawk returns—if he returns—you’ll be ready.

Not grateful. Not humbled. Not interested in praise.

You’ll be waiting with a bottle marked yours, poured into the finest dusty cup you can find. You won’t say a word. You’ll just sit by the hearth you rebuilt, in the castle you tamed, and hand that man a glass.

Because if he’s stupid enough to ask how you’ve fared?

The wine will answer.

And it will say:

“You left a wife.

You came back to a problem.”

By the end of the first year, you had stopped screaming when something growled behind you.

You were crouched low in the dirt, whispering threats and compliments to a struggling vine like a deranged horticulturalist, when a deep snort puffed warm air across the back of your neck. You froze mid-pep-talk.

Rude Bastard had returned.

With company.

Three of them—two larger, one smaller, all bristling, fanged, and far too intelligent. Their eyes tracked you the way a bored noblewoman tracked gossip—sharp, hungry, and waiting to be offended. They didn’t charge, but they didn’t leave either.

Still crouched, you slid your eyes toward your bucket of produce and whispered, very gently:

“I’ll share. Just don’t fling anything this time.”

They didn’t. The largest female took the bucket and dumped it out like a toddler with opinions. It was, by monstrous jungle-creature etiquette, a declaration of truce.

By the end of the week, you had four unwilling gardening assistants.

They didn’t know what spacing was. They didn’t prune. They did, however, chase crows, throw rocks at shrieking bats, and carry full barrels like gravity had personally insulted them.

They weren’t obedient, but they responded to tone—and more importantly, bribes.

Sweet potatoes? Worship.

Boiled pumpkin? Vanished.

Rotten vegetables? Hurled directly at your face, with disturbing accuracy.

Rude Bastard—your original tormentor, now the unofficial foreman—took up position near the south trellis like an angry lawn ornament. He occasionally helped by ripping out invasive roots with the same tenderness one might use on an enemy’s spine.

You gave up trying to understand their boundaries. Instead, you made a system:

Offer food at dawn.

Never interrupt their sunbathing.

If they hiss at a shadow, you hiss too. Don’t ask questions.

Don’t garden without permission. Ever.

One time, you forgot to feed them first? They unionized. Refused to move the compost barrel. Made a show of lying down dramatically in the mud until you apologized with parsnips.

They weren’t pets. They weren’t servants.

They were colleagues.

Ill-tempered, unsanitary, terrifying colleagues.

But when the vines finally began to climb—when the leaves turned that impossibly decadent green, full of volcanic promise and stubborn will, you stand at the edge of your patch of miracle and rot and beam.

This is working.

You.

The mandrills.

The shit and ash and bribes and broken bones of your pride—

It was working.

Two weeks later, another crate of insult rations crashed onto the dock.

Before you could sigh, one of the younger mandrills ambled over, picked through the beans, and chucked a fistful of dried lentils at the skiff with a guttural screech of disapproval.

You didn’t stop him.

You folded your arms. Smiled. And said, “Good boy.”

That night, you made a stew.

With your own onions. Your own herbs. Your own bitter little carrots that had survived locusts, salt winds, and your wrath.

You fed yourself.

You fed Rude Bastard.

You fed his judgmental crew.

You took a bite. Swallowed and closed your eyes.

And whispered:

“Come home, Mihawk.”

“Come see what your not-quite-wife did with your haunted little death trap.”

“Come and see what happens when you don’t kill something—”

You stirred the pot.

Smiled.

“—and it refuses to be forgotten.”

The duel was nearing its third hour. Salt wind stung their coats, and the sea below roared its applause. Their blades clashed and sparked, steel on steel, skill on skill—until Shanks pulled back just long enough to smirk.

“So,” He said, feigning lazily, “how’s the murder mansion?”

Mihawk didn’t answer. Parry. Slash. Silence.

Shanks tilted his head. “Still brooding on your scenic little death island? Lotta ghosts, not much conversation?”

Mihawk’s eye twitched. “Peaceful.”

“Right, right. Peaceful.” Shanks grinned. “Y’know, someone at port mentioned your region’s been really lively lately. Said the monsters on your island have stopped attacking passing boats. Even heard talk of a garden.”

Mihawk struck harder. Just once. Shanks danced back, laughing.

“I’m serious! Garden beds, new trellises, and some scarecrow thing that bites. Thought maybe you got a dog.”

“I didn’t.”

Shanks grinned wider. “Maybe I should stop by. Check it out myself.”

“No.”

The word came too fast.

Shanks raised a brow. “That so?”

“You’re not invited.”

Mihawk’s brutal next swing only makes Shanks smile more.

“Oh, I’m never invited. Doesn’t stop me. Besides, that's not the only thing I’ve heard.”

Mihawk exhaled slowly through his nose. His parries got sharper.

“I mean,” Shanks continued, casually circling, “I did hear a funny little rumor. Some Celestial asshole losing their powdered wig over a missing bride. Vanished right around the time a pirate with a bad attitude was spotted near a certain convent.”

No response.

Shanks doubled down.

“And word is she didn’t vanish alone. Something about a pirate. Dangerous. Miserable. Bit of a recluse. Carries a really big sword.”

Mihawk didn’t look up. “Rumors are untrustworthy.”

Shanks let the silence hang a beat longer. “Yeah, but they’re fun.”

Another clash. Mihawk nearly took his ear off. Shanks only grinned harder.

“Tell you what,” Shanks said. “If I swing by and find some barefoot nun, I’ll just assume I’m trespassing, yeah?”

“You are trespassing regardless.”

“Oh, I know,” Shanks said brightly, “But at least I didn’t abandon a wife in a haunted house full of cryptids and bad kitchenware.”

Mihawk lunged with lethal intent.

“Hit a nerve, did I?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I am. And yet you keep sparring with me,” Shanks said, fending off a particularly vicious blow. “Almost like you missed me.”

Mihawk’s blade rang against his with a force that would’ve snapped lesser steel. “I didn’t.”

“Sure. Just like you didn’t accidentally marry a woman and forget to mention it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Uh-huh.” Shanks snorted. “Guess I’ll go find out for myself. Bring wine.”

“If you set foot on that island—”

“You’ll what? Scowl at me harder? Send your little wife after me?”

There was a pause.

Mihawk said nothing.