#strawberrycatbeans

Within These Sacred Bonds

I

I recently watched Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame (and its sequel) on streaming. I remember watching this as a kid, and Frollo obsessing over Esmeralda awoke something in me I wouldn’t understand 'til years later – I’m a girl who loves the bad-guy-gets-the-girl trope. Adult me was able to appreciate the movie all over again, even though I can acknowledge that Frollo’s behavior is toxic AF. So I decided to write this!

Disney’s Hunchback provides the main inspiration for this, but I’ve also read the book (did so a few years after watching the movie the first time) and for those who know, the ending is quite different! And Phoebus is a lot less heroic in the book than in the Disney version. Esmeralda is also not a Romani in the novel, although she was raised as one and doesn’t learn of her origin until the end of the book. Pretty wild, but I can understand why this wasn’t included in the Disney version, haha. I also watched and enjoyed the movie that had Salma Hayek as Esmeralda. So this story is a mixture of a few versions of the story (mostly the Disney version). I had that version of Frollo firmly in my mind as I wrote this. And being a judge fits him better than the more religious role he had in the novel (plus I think Frollo looks damn good in his judge robes)

Trigger warnings – None that you shouldn’t expect if you’ve read the book or seen any of the movies. Ableism, sexism, racism, religious batshittery, various abuses. I try my best to handle sensitive topics with respect and tact, but nonetheless I am aware that certain topics are going to be painful for some readers regardless, so proceed with caution.

o0o0o0o

“Choose me or the fire.” These words hung in the air as she stared up at the face of Claude Frollo, his angular features cast in sharp relief by the flicker and sway of the torchlight.

The fire seemed like the best option. She’d suffer for a bit, but then she’d be free of this despicable man for good. How easy it would be to spit upon his offer, to show him the same defiance she’d shown before.

But it was her defiance that had brought her to his attention in the first place. In standing up for Quasimodo and mocking the judge, she’d become a target. Where might she be right now, if she’d let Quasimodo be? And Phoebus? A sigh escaped her throat, and Frollo glared at her impatiently.

“If I choose you, will you spare the others?” she asked. A flicker of surprise passed over his features. “After all, I started this. Please don’t let innocent people suffer for my actions.”

“How… charitable,” Frollo replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Isn’t charity a Christian virtue?” she shot back evenly. A smirk stretched his thin lips.

“Your word, gypsy. Their safety relies on it. Swear before God you will make no attempts to escape, or use your witchcraft or other trickery.”

He wanted her word when he could so easily break it. But he was the one in power, and she was at the stake, about to be burnt, and others would burn with her. Romani. Gypsy. Despite whatever joys and freedoms she might enjoy within the Romani community, she’d learned from a young age how precarious freedom and safety could be for a marginalized group, and as a woman. Sometimes, all one could do was conform to the rules of those in power, even when they treated you like vermin. Gypsy trash. Gypsy scum.

“You have my word. As God is my witness. No tricks,” she managed to choke out, the words tasting like ash. She tried to console herself with the fact that she’d secured safety for her people, and the ones who’d tried to help her.

o0o0o0o

She looked up as she heard the key turning in the lock. The room she was in was what she’d imagined a priest or nun might live in. A narrow bed with a thin straw mattress. A small table with two stools. Stone walls and floors. A thin, narrow window high in the wall. A cross on the wall opposite the door.

“Stay here and contemplate the grace you have been given,” Frollo had said when he put her here. She’d examined the room before settling on the bed, pondering her fate. If he chose not to keep his side of the bargain, there was nothing she could do about it. Fiery defiance would do her no good. She’d inflamed him, and now she had to find a way to put out the flames.

It’d been hours now. She remained on the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor, painfully alert to his body language. Performing in the streets was a constant lesson on the importance of reading it among other things. The door slowly swung open, as if he was worried she might pounce. She kept her hands in her lap, presenting the image of a docile penitent. The door was pushed closed, but there remained a crack. The thought of shoving him aside and running out flitted through her mind, but she remained where she was.

“The gypsies are exiled from Paris. My men are marching them out. That is the one mercy I will grant them. If any of them return, they will be put to death.”

Better than dying with her on the pyre, or caged like rats. Some of them would perish, but it was better than the alternative. She nodded at him grimly.

“Quasimodo is exiled to the bell towers. Forbidden from leaving. It’s a shame to waste a good bell-ringer.”

She bit back a snort and simply gave him another nod.

“The captain… his injuries are grievous. He is under the watch of my men.”

She let out a slow exhale. “Thank you,” she forced out.

“Mmm. Gratitude is a lovely thing, is it not?” He approached her, and she could not help but tense as he sat at the foot of the bed. He did not touch her. She was well aware of what lurked under his imperious gaze. She’d spent the last few hours thinking of how she could bargain with Frollo. The things she could say to soften him… if such a thing were possible.

“Pray tell, gypsy, what made you stand up for Quasimodo during the festival?” he asked.

She thought back on that fateful day, seeing the hunchback’s distress. She didn’t have the religious devoutness Frollo did, but she remembered the lessons she’d learned about Jesus and compassion.

“It was the right thing to do. I saw a fellow person in distress. Didn’t Jesus preach mercy?”

“Gypsy, you think to lecture me on Jesus Christ?”

“When I was a child, there was a priest who came around the Court of Miracles. He wasn’t like you or much of the clergy. He spoke of Jesus and kindness. He told us various stories from the Bible. He became welcome and often shared food with us.” She smiled faintly as she thought of the soft-spoken monk who’d become almost like a brother to the Romani. Many of the Romani didn’t care for him, but tolerated his presence for the sake of their kin who did, and Father Jean touched more than one heart with his sermons.

Frollo stared at her for several moments, as if unsure what to make of her sentiment. “A priest lived among you?”

“For days or weeks at a time, yes. It went on for a few years before one day, he stopped coming. He carried a Bible with him and read us passages from it. I miss him.”

“Years ago, I heard about a priest who lived among the gypsies. His brothers warned him that the gypsies would rob or kill him. And that’s precisely what happened. Some vermin took his life when he was on a mission of mercy, disbursing alms to the poor.”

She shook her head. “If any of us had done that, there would be consequences. He offered us no harm; we had no reason to hurt him. Father Jean was respected.” She took a deep breath. “The man who killed him was not Romani. But the Romani avenged his death.”

The Judge stared at her disbelievingly.

“News of his death reached the Court of Miracles. We grieved. Our leader reached out through his network. The man who murdered Father Jean was unwise with the purse he stole. He was a soldier. He was brought to the Court of Miracles, and justice was meted out.” She stared at Frollo steadily. “Believe me or not, but I swear by God it’s true. I was only a child when he died, but I have many fond memories of him. I would not sully them with a lie.”

“Why did the Romani not come forth with this information?”

“Would they have been believed?”

Frollo tapped his chin thoughtfully as he stared at the crucifix on the wall for several moments. “What a curious coincidence,” he finally said as he focused back on her. “But it proves that I was right to offer you absolution. Father Jean planted the seeds of God’s grace in your heart. I shall help them to bloom.”

o0o0o0o

It was fortunate for her that, for all his power and pride, Frollo respected the authority of the Church. This the Archdeacon made clear in his first visit to her, and as the religious authority in this matter, it was he, not Frollo, who would oversee her absolution. She remembered his kindness from earlier, and although he was not able to offer much practical help, he still wielded a considerable amount of power against the Minister of Justice.

Frollo could hardly argue against her receiving visits from him while she was confined to the Palais of Justice.

“How is Quasimodo?” she asked.

“He is safe. He continues his duties.” The ringing she heard every day was proof enough.

“The Romani?”

“Exiled. I oversaw their safe exit out of the city and gave them my blessing.”

“Phoebus?”

“He is recuperating.”

“I carry a deep sense of guilt. If I had not provoked Frollo, none of this would have happened.”

His hand rested on her shoulder. “You stood up for justice. God rewards those with good in their heart. Sometimes the reward is a long time coming, though. Have faith, my child.”

She didn’t ask about the Court of Miracles; Frollo had already boasted about flushing out the underground hideout.

“I pray for your soul, and for Quasimodo’s, and your other friends. Frollo’s God is one of vengeance. Mine is of mercy. Let us pray.”

It was comforting to listen to the Archdeacon, so she let him clasp her hands in prayer. His hands were large and warm, but his attention was chaste, the firm but caring hand of a father or older brother guiding a younger soul in need. Which was much more than could be said about Frollo.

o0o0o0o

She had made her confession before the Archdeacon and received the rite of absolution from him. However, there was still penance to perform. Anyone could say the words, Frollo said, but one’s actions belied the weight that words carried.

It was so tempting to point out his hypocrisy. However, she knew she was at his mercy. She was no stranger to being in a precarious position, but there was nothing quite like this. In the past, there was usually at least one route of escape and friends to help her out. Now, four walls and a locked door confined her, and her friends were either in exile or kept out of reach; even the Archdeacon was kept in check by the Judge. So when he prescribed a fast, she bowed her head. Hunger was an old friend, though not one she ever wished to keep in acquaintance with.

It gnawed at her, making grumbling noises. She did not dance that day, knowing she needed to conserve her energy. She meditated and prayed, rationing the water she had.

The vespers had already rung when Frollo entered her cell with a basket hanging from one arm. She swallowed thickly before she greeted him.

“Good evening, Judge Frollo,” She watched as he set the basket on the table, his movement smooth and deliberate. Her eyes followed the basket before she returned her attention to him, knowing she would not be fed until they’d had their prayer. So she sank to her knees and recited the Lord’s Prayer as he listened. It’d been four days since she was brought here. She hated it here. The boredom. The fasting. Having to listen to Frollo. Worrying about her friends.

“How was your day?” he asked as he set out two goblets and a wooden plate, unwrapping a meat pie. It smelled fresh, and she took a slow breath.

“I prayed. I contemplated. I worried.”

He took out a knife and cut the pie into quarters before pouring wine into the small goblets. “It appears that being separated from vermin has done you good. You made your confession. You received absolution. You bear the burden of penance without complaint.”

Oh, she had so many of them. She could feel them burning on her tongue. You have nowhere to run, she reminded herself. Nowhere to hide from Frollo.

“Does that really surprise you?” she asked in a neutral voice after taking a couple of sips of the wine. A rich red. She took one of the slices of pie, bringing it to her lips and taking a small bite. The filling was still warm, with pork and chopped vegetables in a flaky crust.

“I had my hopes, but there is much in this world that disappoints me.”

“You’d be surprised, if you took the time to listen, instead of judging.” The words slipped from her mouth. Her pulse quickened. It was the closest thing she’d come to a rebuke since she was brought here. What would he do? Take away her food? Instinctively, she drew her hands closer to herself to protect her pie.

Frollo stared at her for several long moments, his angular features cast in the waning light of sunset.

“You told me that your people do not practice witchcraft. What of all this trickery on the streets of Paris, reading palms, telling fortunes, laying curses?”

“Nothing more than trickery. For fortune-telling, you take a look at the person, figure out what you can, make your prediction based on it, and throw in something they’d like to hear. Such as, if a young woman comes up, one thing to say to her is that she will marry a kind or rich man, or something like that. You get the idea. We meet lots of different people, so we see all sorts of things. Curses? Nothing more than words in the Romani tongue. Fuck off, you smell, that sort of thing. Sprinkle some herbs in a bag or say words over a trinket they bring with them.”

“Such blatant trickery instead of seeking honest work!” Well, at least he didn’t accuse her of lying. She nodded as she took another bite of her pie, considering her next words.

“Such means are resorted to when most honest work is not open to us. We go out when it’s time to farm and hire ourselves out. But landowners try to short us on what they owe us, or accuse us of thievery to get out of paying. The guilds don’t want to hire Romani. We must feed ourselves and our children by what means we can, though when it comes down to it, we really do prefer an honest transaction; it just doesn’t come up as an option all the time.”

He drank his wine as he mulled over her words. “Still, the reputation of gypsies is not ill-earned, is it?”

“There are crimes among all people, even Frenchmen. Not that I am accusing you of anything, Judge,” she quickly added. “But I’ve seen abuses from French citizens directed at Romani without provocation. I’ve experienced it myself as a child. But I don’t hate all Frenchmen for the actions of a few. There are good men of your nation, just as there are among my people.”

“Well, you’re here to make a fine example of how good a gypsy can be. Do not squander that opportunity.”

“That was delicious, thank you,” Esmeralda said when they finished the meal. She could almost swear she saw a smile tug at Frollo’s lips. She was aware of much more in the way Frollo gazed at her, but she would not put it on the table, so to speak.

“Before you leave… I need to ask… how are Phoebus and Quasimodo?”

He raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, she saw displeasure dart across his face before he schooled it into a grim set of his lips. “Phoebus’s wound has become infected. And I believe the bells tell you enough about Quasimodo.” He reached out, placing a couple of fingers under her chin when she looked down, feeling a twist in her stomach that had nothing to do with appetite.

“I suggest you focus on your own edification,” he said as he forced her gaze upward. She wanted to slap his hand away. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can pray for your friends.”

With that, he was gone.

o0o0o0o

She learned to tolerate his presence over the next few weeks. She was fed and watered, and given the means to clean herself. She was given a light gray robe to wear. Frollo asked her about what she learned from Father Jean. She’d never heard some of the stories or names Frollo mentioned, but could easily recite the tales of others.

“It seems that you’ve opened your heart to the Lord, when given the chance,” Frollo said with relief and pleasure. His approval should have made her happy, but it made her skin crawl, the condescension he had for her people.

“When you’re more occupied with feeding your children and keeping them safe, or putting some food in your belly and having a roof over your head, religious matters hold less weight in the life of a peasant. And I don’t just mean Romani. I see many commoners here in Paris living in poverty. You speak of piety or other virtues, but that doesn’t fill your stomach.” She glanced at his hands and the rings that adorned them. “You were born into a well-off family. You’ve lived a life of privilege.”

Frollo glanced down at his hands before his attention returned to her.

“We talked before about trickery and witchcraft. If we were capable of such feats as I’ve sometimes heard, we wouldn’t be scraping by. Many instances are simply about survival, even if that resorts to pretending to practice magic and telling people what they want to hear. You have an air about you that doesn’t come from mere wealth. It’s the way you walk. The way you carry yourself and speak to others. For what it’s worth, the title of Minister of Justice suits you. I remember the way you commanded your soldiers.”

A slow grin spread across his face. She had to stop herself from smiling triumphantly. “It’s as simple as that, Monsieur Frollo. Observation. Not just that of dress, but of habit. When you’re poor and have lived a hard life, observation skills can be a matter of life or death. It’s a harsh lesson to learn, one you will not find in books.”

She expected another accusation, another of his unfounded statements that he liked to hurl when he was on the defensive. God, hellfire, judgment, all that.

“This is a very different world than the one you grew up in, gypsy. You will learn the lessons I have to teach.”

o0o0o0o

A Romani – or a commoner in any part of the world – did not have much need for reading or writing. Their knowledge of the Bible came from the sermons at church and conversations with the educated members of the clergy. However, Frollo was correct about one thing: there were new lessons to be learned, and with her sharp mind, she dived into her studies. She listened attentively when Frollo went through the alphabet with her.

There was little else to do in her room, so she mulled over the things she’d learned from her lessons. On occasion, she would please Frollo enough to earn praise, though that inevitably came mixed with some sort of condescending remark.

‘I’ve never imagined a gypsy could be this intelligent.’

‘I’ve seen well-educated women, but only from noble families.’

‘It’s a blessing to see a heathen learn the ways of God so quickly.’

She chose her words carefully. Depending on what sort of mood he seemed to be in, she’d occasionally needle him about this or that religious doctrine. She wasn’t sure what she believed in. The Romani had superstitions, and some spoke of various gods or spirits. Some were open to learning about Christianity, but she’d never known any Romani who was what Frollo would consider devout. She did her best to understand what Frollo and the Archdeacon were teaching her, but sometimes it was hard to think that a God who allowed so much misery in the world was also one of love. Hellfire and salvation. Damnation and grace. Vengeance and forgiveness.

A couple of months passed. She could practically taste Frollo’s lust in the air sometimes. The way he looked at her, or spoke to her. The way he’d brush his fingers against her arm or the back of her neck. She didn’t want to imagine being here indefinitely. She danced and stretched, but the room was small enough to curtail her more dramatic dance moves.

She closed her eyes and imagined herself on stage, twirling, leaping, arching. The music. The cheers. The coins. The money she’d made dancing at the Festival of Fools would feed herself for a good while, and she’d share some of it with the neediest members of the Romani, the few who were actually blind or disabled, or simply too old to work. Then the bell-ringer of Notre Dame decided that today of all days would be his first time out of the cathedral.

Yet she could hold no anger toward the poor hunchback. It was a cruel twist of fate. She stretched her arms above her head as she slowed, her legs folding gracefully under her.

“You take to the lessons so well… yet you cling to your old, sinful ways.”

She flinched and opened her eyes, seeing him stand there at the door, peering at her through the slot. The lock was opened, and he slid into the room like a threatening shadow, his robes heavy and dark. She lifted her chin and rose to her feet, squaring her shoulders.

“Is it sinful to keep oneself in good health?” she challenged in a calm, even tone. “Dancing takes a lot of discipline, believe it or not. Stretching and practice, so that I might earn enough coins to take care of my family.”

“What family?” he shot back. She took a short breath before pressing her lips together, silently praying to God for guidance.

“Fair point, Monsieur Frollo. But it is still pleasing to do. The twirls can be quite lovely. I know you enjoyed watching me dance back then. And you did just now, didn’t you? How long were you watching before I ended my dance?”

“I will never admit to such a sinful thing.”

“You don’t have to say it out loud, then. But we are creatures of the flesh, just as God made us. Our bodies require attention and care. And Father Jean said that we should use our God-given talents to make people happy. Which is precisely what I was doing.” She stared right into his eyes. She’d seen the glimmer of pleasure and desire when she jumped into his lap at the Festival of Fools before he collected himself.

“I grew up poor. In that aspect, I am no different than the average Parisian commoner. When I danced, I made people happy. I let them forget their sorrows and ills for a time. Did you not notice it when you sat there, presiding over the event? These people suffer hardships in their lives that you have never experienced. They reach for joy wherever they can find it, and if I can give them some joy… then so be it. Do you truly hate me so much for that?”

She wondered how he might react if she reached out to touch his face. His face was a mask of conflicted emotions. Anger. Confusion. Desire. Even admiration, however begrudging it was. She watched as his hands balled into fists.

“I hate what you’ve come from,” he spat out. “I hate that you’ve proven yourself to be such a worthy student. I hate that you rouse such… lust in me,” he said, spitting out the word like it was a curse.

“I am sorry,” she replied contritely. “I never intended for there to be such… consequences to helping Quasimodo. That an act of mercy should lead to… all this.”

Frollo stared at her imperiously for several moments before his features softened almost imperceptibly. “What’s done is done. There is the future to discuss.”

She felt herself tense for a moment before forcing herself to relax.

“Your behavior has been exemplary. The Archdeacon is pleased with you. He is very invested in your welfare.”

She offered a modest smile. “I find solace in these lessons and in prayer. It is amazing how much time can be devoted to study and reflection when one is taken care of.” If Frollo was aware of the jab aimed at him, he did not show it.

“I am sure you are eager to return to the world.”

She nodded. She was rarely let out of the room. Her world these last few months had been constrained, her only escape to be found in her lessons. Ruminations of her former life were sweet but painful. She thought about her friends and fellow Romani. She thought of Phoebus, and the way he’d been willing to stand up for good, despite what it eventually cost him. And poor Quasimodo. She recalled the wooden figures he’d so lovingly carved, and the enthusiasm he’d shown when he introduced her to the bells.

“However, to simply let you loose would be an unwise thing.” Frollo steepled his fingers as he stared at her.

“You have demonstrated how well you flourish under protection and guidance. I see no reason to change that. Therefore, you will place yourself under my permanent legal protection… as my wife.”

o0o0o0o

Claude Frollo spent much time in prayer and meditation since Esmeralda agreed to absolution. He was not sure what to expect when he embarked upon this path with her. His lust continued to burn for her, but his admiration for her intelligence grew. He looked forward to his lessons with her. She was less malleable than Quasimodo, so she found ways to provoke his thought. It was refreshing in a way that meting out justice to criminals did not offer.

He carried guilt and shame over the lust that haunted his dreams and conscious thoughts. He kept it at bay with prayer and with his work, but the gypsy had burned herself into his flesh and bones bit by bit. Every gaze. Every faithful recitation. Every question. Every time she tensed or trembled when he touched her. It was a slow burn that was consuming him. His loins ached for her. The loneliness gnawed at him. When he was young, he’d had opportunities to court or arrange a marriage, but he found solace in his studies, and the lust that burned in so many young men seemed to have passed over him.

He considered that a good thing, for his hard work paid off. Over the years, he’d managed to rise through the ranks until he was the vaunted Minister of Justice. He was a faithful, pious man living a life of order and justice. He was the shepherd protecting his flock, even if some considered his ways harsh. He’d exiled the gypsies and destroyed the Court of Miracles.

And here he was, lusting like a young man over a gypsy girl even as he instructed her in the ways of God and the church. He had all sorts of lurid mental images of Esmeralda. He lay in his bed at night, losing himself in the sins of the flesh, using his hand as he thought of her, enjoying the ecstasy, only to have it be chased by the agony of shame. He wanted to hate her for rousing these thoughts. But it was impossible to hate a mind that he’d come to admire.

That led him to a startling revelation. Wasn’t it often said that God worked in mysterious ways? He’d failed to find a suitable mate in his youth, but there were plenty of older men who took young brides. And the desire a husband felt for his wife was sacred to God. It was within the holy bond of marriage that lust had its place.

She would remain under his protection, her mind nourished on materials provided by him, and his lust could be fulfilled in a way pleasing to God.

And there was nothing forbidden about a husband enjoying the sight of his wife dancing… as long as it was for his eyes only. He remembered the feel of her warm, firm body in his lap as she gyrated against him for these delicious but too fleeting moments.

These green eyes stared back at him as he made his pronouncement. He saw no need to ask or offer. What other choice did she have? She’d bound herself to him with her word when she chose him over the fire. It was a simple matter of renewing that bond before God. He wouldn’t have to feel guilty. After all, he would be giving this lovely young woman continued spiritual guidance, as well as physical protection. It was a better future than a gypsy faced on their own in this sinful world.

He smiled at her, his benevolent smile holding an underlying possessiveness and triumph to it. She would not drag him down to Hell. Instead, he would elevate her, and in turn, himself.

Finally, she spoke. “The Minister of Justice… would have me as his wife?” she asked, and he did not miss the fear in her voice even as she kept herself calm.

“There is no better option,” he reminded her evenly. “You’ve said more than once before how a life of poverty makes sin more tempting.”

She let out a low sigh, but offered no argument as she looked away.

“The life of a Parisian gentlewoman awaits you. You shall continue your lessons. You will provide me companionship when I have need of it. A life of comfort will be provided for you, and we shall see what skills you have other than dancing. See, I can be merciful.”

“When I was a girl, I never would have imagined such a life being offered me,” she admitted.

“Well, as it is said, God works in mysterious ways.”

“It would be nice if these mysterious pans didn’t involve so much suffering. I’ve seen much ugliness. I pray to God to let me understand why He allows such things to happen.”

“He tests us,” he reminded her.

“I know. I remember. It’s just…” She let out a small huff. “I’ve seen children die. I’ve seen unprovoked acts of cruelty committed against innocent people.” She took a deep breath, stretching out her hands she’d been clenching into fists. “It’s hard not to question things sometimes.”

“Mmm. Everyone has these moments. Another test of faith. You have done well so far; do not waver now. I will be here to continue your education and edification.” He reached out to touch her shoulder. She’d lost a bit of weight in here, but her flesh was still strong and warm under the linen and wool. He felt her stiffen, but she remained where she was.

He smirked to himself. He’d taught her well. Soon enough, he would be able to enjoy more of her, and there was not a thing the Archdeacon could do about it. He pulled closer to her and wrapped his other arm around her. “Of course, as a husband, there are other things I will be looking after, too,” he purred. Her hair no longer smelled of the perfume she’d worn during the Festival of Fools, but her skin still had a warm, pleasing scent to it. He felt his pulse quicken in need.

To his surprise, she pulled away from him.

“We are not married yet, monsieur.”

Impudent gypsy. He could force himself on her here, and there was nothing she could do about it. However, he straightened himself, maintaining his dignity.

“Did you ever tell other men to wait?” he asked.

“What other men?” she asked flatly as she turned to face him fully. He smirked at that.

“Am I really to believe that a young, attractive gypsy girl is not acquainted with carnal pleasures? The way you danced on stage… you ground yourself against me so shamelessly.”

She snorted at that and crossed her arms. “Flirtation does not promise consummation. Batting my eyes, wiggling around, a few kind words… It’s not much different than what I told you about fortunetelling and giving people what they want to see and hear. However, I’ve seen the trouble that certain actions lead to, so I’ve avoided them.”

“I suppose miracles really do happen,” Frollo finally said after several moments of processing this revelation. He’d accepted that an attractive young woman like La Esmeralda would have had her share of paramours. It’d be foolish to expect better from gypsy vermin. But she had her absolution, and he was willing to offer her a fresh start and show her grace when this matter was concerned.

“It’s not so much a miracle as it is… good sense. I promised myself years ago that I wouldn’t let someone have me until I was certain they would take good care of me.”

He would be the only man to have carnal knowledge of this ravishing gypsy. For a moment, he glanced to the ceiling, wondering if God had rewarded him for all his hard work and faith. It was what he deserved, after all. He’d driven the gypsies out of the city, and had gained this exquisite trophy for his labors.

XXV

o0o0o0o

It was getting late, so Arlong rose from his desk in his cabin, flexing his neck and shoulders to ease the stiffness before he went out to the deck. He found Yolande at the bow of the ship, leaning against the railing and staring out at the water, taking an occasional swig from the small jug she had in her hand. He was no stranger to the smell of alcohol, especially with his sensitive nose. Her breath smelled of mangoes.

She looked up as he approached, and he regarded her with a predatory smirk before his hand came to rest on her shoulder. It was a clear night, and as the ship was sailing away from Pmort, there was nothing but ocean in front of them.

He rubbed his thumb along the back of her neck. “It’s a cool night, isn’t it?” he asked with a soft purr as he drew closer to her, his front pressed against her side as he looked down at her. “I can offer more warmth than what’s in that jug.”

“A fact that you’ve proven more than once.”

He smirked at that. “More than twice. Much more…” he reminded her with a leering growl. She tipped what remained of the bottle into her mouth as he listened to the quiet slosh. He took it and set it aside, maintaining his grip on her neck as he cornered her where the railings of the foredeck met at the bowsprit, the smooth wood of its back providing a steady surface for her to lean against. The faint scent of mango brandy provided a curious contrast to the mixture of other scents from the bitter herbs and chemicals she’d worked with earlier.

The night breeze blew across his skin and through his hair, and he let out a slow, satisfied sigh. Despite the loss of several nakama, they’d been avenged, and he had gotten to put pathetic, miserable humans in their place. Yes, despite his inglorious loss of Arlong Park, he was only becoming better and stronger. His hands went to her shoulders as he looked down at her. After all the earlier excitement, his blood was pumping.

His hands slid along her body. She was clad in one of her old shirts, along with her cargo shorts, as she often did when going on outings or chores, the baggy fabric obscuring her curves. Sometimes he liked it when she dressed sexy in some of the things he'd gotten for her, but he'd come to appreciate the practicality of her donning a frumpy appearance.

And as he'd come to realize, taking these sorts of clothes off her was almost like unwrapping a present, seeing the tasty surprises that lay under such inconspicuous attire. His hand slid the hem of her shirt up, revealing a tank top. He rubbed her breast through the thin fabric. His other hand moved to her hip, squeezing her hip and ass. As she stood there, he started to grind against her, trapping her between his body and the back of the bowsprit.

“Feel how I ache for you," he said with a rumbling growl. His fingers squeezed her ass as he pressed himself against her, his turgid manhood nudging firmly along her stomach.

Her arms hung at her sides, hands resting against the wood as she looked up at him. No… she wasn't looking at him. His hand moved from her breast to her chin as he tutted at her. "Surely you're not too drunk for this?" he asked half-jokingly.

“No. Carry on.”

“Mmm.” He grabbed one of her hands, leading it to his cocks, where they strained against the front of his shorts. Her hand slid up and down the cock closest to her, and his eyes rolled back in his head for a moment as he savored the sensation of his little siren pleasuring him. He tilted his head back down, and his smile froze as he saw where her gaze was fixed. Normally, if she was touching his cocks, she’d look at his face to enjoy his expressions, or his cocks so she could see how they responded to her touch. This time, her gaze was blank, resting in the direction of his chest which was at her eye level.

Most men wouldn’t have cared, as long as they were getting stimulated. But this bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He lifted her chin, and she continued to avoid his gaze, her stare drifting along his shoulder.

He tutted at her, trying to pull her focus to him, running his thumb along her lips.

“Isn't that what you want? A good girl?" she asked flatly. It was like a bucket of ice had been dumped on him. He stared down at her for several moments, taking in the calm, almost blank look on her face as she stood there, her hand continuing to move mechanically, waiting for him to make use of her.

He placed his hand over hers, forcing her to stop. “What’s the matter?” he asked with a low growl. “I thought we were past… that.” He’d given her a wide berth, releasing her from the obligation of chores so she could rest and read and do as she pleased.

“We are.”

He let out an impatient growl. His cock flexed against her hand, and she tried to pull away, but he had her trapped. “Do you object to what I did on that shitty little island earlier, then?” he asked. She shook her head.

“When I was… locked up, I…" She trailed off for a moment. "I had no one to talk to. No one to help me when I was having my panic attacks. I was alone with my thoughts, and also my worries for you and the crew. I know it's hard for you to understand, but it… fucks me up. Afterwards, it numbs me for a bit." Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of an angry reproach, and he felt annoyance clash with guilt.

He lifted his chin and tutted. “Surely you’re not numb down there,” he said in a last-ditch effort to ease the ache in his cocks.

She shrugged. “I’m not stopping you.”

He’d fucked former girlfriends even when they weren’t that into it. If they made it available, and he was horny, he was willing enough to overlook some lack of enthusiasm as long as he got off. Just carry her to bed and have your way with her, you’ll both feel better, his libido purred in his subconscious. It certainly was an enticing thought.

But he couldn’t. He just fucking couldn’t. It didn’t feel right, with her like that. He let out a frustrated tut as he took a couple of steps back before storming off to his cabin.

Fishman District

35 Years Ago

Arlong had only ever known poverty. It was embedded in his earliest memories. It was mostly him and his mother, his father drifting in and out of their lives. His mother did her best to support them, but opportunities were slim in the Fishman District, especially if you didn't have a talent or genius – preferably a combination of these, along with luck – to increase your odds of making it out of poverty and staying there.

Then one day she got sick. She directed him to use the last of her coins to buy medicine from the local herbalist, but the relief that came from that was temporary, and one morning she simply didn't get up. Fortunately, his father came home just three days later, because Arlong had run out of food the first day, having used some of it to feed his mother, and he was too little to earn money to buy more food. The last time his father had been around was before Mam was sick.

There was nothing of value in the little room, but rent was paid through the month, so Arlong’s father made use of it, and Arlong thought that now with his mam gone, his dad would have to take care of him. So when the little sharkboy was told that a new place had been found for him to live, he was excited and hopeful.

He was led to the orphanage under the Ark. Even at the tender age of five, he'd heard horror stories about it, almost like a bogeyman whispered of by the children of the neighborhood. A child who lost their parents and was unfortunate enough not to have a guardian would be sent to the Ark, where only the fittest survived, where the bigger fishboys would eat the smaller ones. Of course, once Arlong realized that this was intended to be his new home, he cried and begged. He'd be good.

Fine, you don’t want to go to the Ark, but I can’t take care of you, his father said, prying himself from his son’s desperate grip.

He’d tried to chase after his father, but the canny old bastard disappeared down the twists and turns of the pathways between the tenements, and Arlong finally collapsed, out of breath and sobbing brokenly. He had no parents, no guardian to keep him safe from the Ark. He was too little for a man’s work, and his mother often warned him about the dangers of slavers and predators. He was painfully aware of how little and young he was. He wanted to grow up big and strong… but it’d be a while. How the fuck was he supposed to survive if he was too little to protect himself?

A low chuckle emerged from the shadows...

Arlong jerked awake with a snarl, panting for several moments before he looked around, registering his cabin aboard the Shark Superb. He looked down, seeing his large and strong hands, hands that could crush a human’s skull. His thoughts flitted over to his loss of Arlong Park, how weak and stunned he was after Luffy defeated him.

Never again. His hands balled into fists as the rapid beat of his heart slowed.

o0o0o0o

Yolande took a long drag from her blunt, feeling the sweet, musky smoke fill her lungs as she stared up at the stars. A deck chair on the foredeck was nowhere near as comfortable as Arlong’s bed, but hey, here was a killer view.

A soft gasp burst from her throat as a surge of emotion hit her out of seemingly nowhere, jerking her back down to earth. She placed her hand over her chest as she felt the flutter of her pulse. -grief, sorrow, fear- before she oriented herself. It didn’t happen often, but she could feel and taste Arlong’s emotion in these flashes.

… It'd only ever happened if she stared into his eyes, though. But now, he was in his cabin, and she was out here, and she could feel his pain.

Oh, fuck you, Arlong, she thought as she gritted her teeth. He was the one who chose to go back to his cabin by himself. Part of her wanted to go to him and comfort him. No. He'd caused her enough pain; he could bloody well deal with his own. With a determined huff, she took another long drag. She had to protect herself.

o0o0o0o

Yurie stretched out, feeling Shioyaki’s body against her own before she draped her arm and leg over him, enjoying the morning cuddle. After a bit, the salmon fishman stirred, his hand going to her side. “There’s my birthday girl,” he rumbled into her ear.

She smiled a little at that, but inwardly she was experiencing a mixture of emotions. Slaves didn't have birthdays, so this would be the first celebration since she'd lost her family. It was hard not to feel some sadness as she thought about her father and his crew. But as Shioyaki had said before, no one could replace them, but that didn't mean she couldn't have a new family.

Twenty-eight. It was almost hard to believe she was approaching thirty. She remembered the old slaves on Marzu, whether they be human or fishman, and for years, feared that was what her life was going to be.

“I suppose you intend to help me celebrate, hmm?” she asked with a smirk. He was clad in nothing but his leopard-print briefs. She was wearing a tank top and panties.

“What, you’d prefer I just ignore you?” he teased.

“Hardly. It’s just a little overwhelming thinking of what I’ll do today. No chores! I get to choose what we have for dinner! I choose the entertainment! All just because it’s my birthday!”

“You deserve it, honey.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her flush against his body as he spooned up to her, placing kisses along her ear and the side of her neck. “All that, and more.”

o0o0o0o

“I hope that’s not what you intend to wear tonight,” Arlong said casually as he saw Yolande step out of her workshop. She glanced down at her old clothes and apron before looking back at him with what he could almost swear was a defiant glint in her eye.

“You want me to look more like a pirate wench?” she asked. He chuckled at that.

“It’s a birthday party for your friend. You’re a guest and member of the crew, not a maid.”

“Duly noted, captain.”

The little squid certainly knew how to clean up when she wanted to, Arlong thought with approval as she made her appearance that evening for dinner, wearing her capris with a black and red striped boatneck shirt that showed her gills and claiming mark nicely, just as he’d intended when he got that shirt for her. Her hair was pulled back with a bandanna, highlighting her slender neck.

He admired her as she approached him, taking her seat near him as the dishes were brought out, including Yurie’s request, sukiyaki, the savory soup ladled out for those who asked for it. Arlong inhaled the scent from the beef strips and hot broth as a large bowl was set in front of him with extra beef in it. He glanced around, seeing his crew enjoying their dinner, chattering or giving birthday wishes to Yurie. The birthday girl was sitting between Caten and Shioyaki, laughing and talking as she enjoyed her birthday meal.

At this point, he'd celebrated many parties with his nakama. Somehow, it never got old. Who didn't like a party with good food, good booze, and good times? He sat back, holding his bowl in one hand as he tilted his head and the bowl carefully, slurping up the sweet and savory broth. With a contented sigh, he set the bowl back down and enjoyed a bottle of sake as his gaze drifted back to Shioyaki and Yurie. They were such a cute couple, it was almost nauseating. But they were happy, and happy crew members were hardworking and loyal.

“Yurie’s chosen stories for her birthday entertainment,” Caten said. “How many of you know the story about the two women who argued over who had the more foolish husband?”

Arlong was not familiar with the story, but he heard a few murmurs of surprise and approval. He grinned, settling in for what sounded like it’d be one hell of a story.

“This was one of my grandmother’s favorite stories to tell,” Caten said as she settled back in her seat, several fishmen scooting closer to listen to her.

“...In the deep sea, surrounded by a forest of kelp, was a little village. There lived two couples, friends and neighbors. The men, who went into the forest to cut kelp, were good friends, but their wives were in a state of constant quarrel.

Unlike most wives who liked to boast that whatever they had was nicer than what others had, these two women quarreled most about who had the stupidest husband. 'You should see what he does!' one wife said. 'he put on the baby's frock upside-down and tries to feed it boiling soup! Then he picks up stones and sows them like they're potatoes!'

‘You think you have it bad?’ the other wife snapped back. “Be glad you’re not married to MY husband! When I ask him to feed the livestock, he’s certain to give them poisonous stuff instead of the proper feed! He once took my best bonnet and gave it to the sea-hen to lay her eggs in! And he jumped from the loft window to the garden because he said it was a shorter route than going down the ladder and through the door!’

Not to be outdone, the first wife proposed that they put their husbands to the test and show once and for all who was the most foolish. They parted ways, and the first wife set herself at her spinning wheel around the time she expected her husband home from work. She spun the wheel, her hands moving quickly while the man could only stare at her for a few moments before he found the wits to speak.

‘Have you gone mad, there is nothing on the wheel!’

‘You may think there is nothing on it, but I assure you, dear husband, there is a large skein of the finest wool that could be got from a sea-sheep! It is so fine that it is understandably difficult to see, but relax, I'm making a nice coat for you,' she replied in all sweetness.

The man blinked and rubbed his eyes, convincing himself that he did see something. She continued moving her hands for a bit more time before making a show of putting the wool away in a basket, talking about how she would weave it next, and then cut and stitch it together. He got excited at the thought, thinking of how he could show off his fine new coat to his neighbors and friends.

The next few days, the wife went about her chores, and when her husband came home, she made a show of weaving and cutting. Not once did the husband see anything, no matter how hard he tried, but he kept his doubts to himself, knowing his wife was cleverer than he.

‘Now it’s ready for you to try on,’ she cried out triumphantly, and he took off his old coat and stood in front of her, letting her put on the new coat. He watched as she patted him down, making a show of pinning this, stitching that, and smoothing out the wrinkles.

‘It doesn’t feel very warm,” the man pointed out.

‘Silly man, that's just because the wool is very fine; this is not the same as the rough clothes you wear every day.'

The man bit his tongue, consoling himself over how fine the new coat was and how smarter he’d look compared to his peers.

Meanwhile, the other wife was not idle. While her friend was pretending to put together a fine coat, she came up with her own scheme. The next day, when her husband returned from the kelp forest, she looked at him with such concern that he became frightened.

‘Oh! go to bed at once,’ she cried; ‘you must be very ill indeed to look like that!’

Naturally, the husband was surprised because he was feeling fine, if a bit tired and sore from his work. But his wife looked so concerned that he figured he should heed her words and retired for the evening. 'If you sleep well, there may be a chance for you,' she said, shaking her head as she tucked him in, 'But if not…' She left him with these words, and the poor man barely slept a wink til the sun rose.

When she asked him how he felt in the morning, he complained of feeling quite poorly and begged her for any remedy she might have.

‘I'll try everything possible,' she assured him. She didn't want him to die, but she was determined to prove he was more foolish than the other man. 'I will get some dried herbs and make you a drink, but I am very much afraid that you might not make it despite my best efforts.'

For a few days, the man lay in bed, and whenever his wife entered the room and looked him over, tending to him all the while telling him how close to death he looked. At last, in the evening, she burst into tears, and when he inquired what the matter was, she sobbed out, 'Oh, my poor, poor husband, are you really dead? I must go and order your coffin.'

Now, when the man heard this, a cold shiver ran through his body, and all at once he knew that he was as well as he had ever been in his life.

‘Oh, no, no!’ he cried, ‘I feel quite recovered! Indeed, I think I shall go out to work.

‘You will do no such thing,' replied his wife. 'Just keep quiet, for before the sun rises, you will be a dead man.'

The man was very frightened at her words, and lay still while the undertaker came and measured him for his coffin; and his wife gave orders to the gravedigger about his grave. That evening, the coffin was sent home, and in the morning, the woman dressed him and called to the undertaker's men to fasten down the lid and carry him to the grave, where all their friends were waiting for them. Just as the body was being placed in the ground, the other woman's husband came running up, dressed, as far as anyone could see, in no clothes at all. Everybody burst into shouts of laughter at the sight of him, and the men laid down the coffin and laughed too, till their sides nearly split. The dead man was so astonished at this behavior that he sat up, pushing off the lid of his coffin.

‘I should laugh as loudly as any of you, if I were not a dead man.’

When they saw the deceased man sit up in the coffin, the other people suddenly stopped laughing for a moment.

‘Were you really not dead after all?’ asked they. ‘And if not, why did you let yourself be buried?’

At this, the wives both confessed that they had each wished to prove that her husband was stupider than the other. But the villagers declared that they could not decide which was the most foolish—the man who allowed himself to be persuaded that he was wearing fine clothes when he was dressed in nothing, or the man who let himself be buried when he was alive and well.

So the women quarreled just as much as they did before, and no one ever knew whose husband was the most foolish...”

Arlong let out a loud chortle at that. Stories were a pretty good way to pass the time, especially when you had no money for anything else. Was it any wonder people loved to gossip so much? He dimly remembered going to the market with his mother and her sitting and talking with other women. That hadn't changed much as he went to the markets in Fishman Island, and on the surface. His men also enjoyed sharing stories of what happened on patrol or one of their trading or conquering expeditions.

He looked to his side, seeing a faint but amused smile on Yolande's face as she nursed her cup of sake. The sharkman hooked an arm around her and pulled her into his lap, his hand sliding down to her ass as he held her close. Even as he listened to Caten's next story, which involved a mean-spirited monkey and a hard-working crab – the crab emerged victorious in the end – he idly touched his siren. A thumb sliding along the side of her tit. A gentle squeeze of her ass. Rubbing his knuckle carefully under her chin. She slumped against him, and he smirked to himself. There we go. She just needed to be reminded who could make her feel good.

Arlong was tempted to whisper lewd things into her ear, but remained silent as he listened to the stories, savoring the feel of her warm body in his embrace as he listened to stories that were old and new.

As fishmen dispersed and Shioyaki led Yurie away, Arlong rose from his seat, carrying Yolande. She'd fallen asleep in his lap. A soft groan escaped her as he set her down on the bed and removed her sandals, and for a few moments, he was tempted to rouse her, but he stopped himself as he saw the moonlight filtering on her, capturing her peaceful, buzzed sleep.

What the hell. At least tonight he wouldn’t be alone. He took off his shirt and sandals before sliding onto the bed, hooking an arm around her and keeping her close as he drifted off.

...Little Arlong flinched as he heard the laughter coming from the shadows. He scrambled to his feet, looking around frantically as he tried to figure out how best to hide or defend himself. For a frantic moment, he wondered if he should have stayed at the Ark.

“You are wise to be cautious,” he heard a voice say, and saw a grizzled old fishman emerge from what could barely be called a room in one of the hovels that cluttered around alley. Despite the scarring and age, Arlong was able to easily identify him as a shark type. He moved stiffly due to old wounds. That someone should live to be this old in the Fishman District was almost a wonder, because there were always those who were all too eager to prey upon the unprotected weak.

Arlong picked up an empty bottle from the ground and held it firmly around its neck, eyeing the old sharkman warily. He’d heard of predators…and not the kind who ate meat.

“Pretty quick thinking. But you're still quite small, aren't you?" the old fishman rumbled. Arlong bristled at that, flexing his toes and fingers for a moment as he considered his options, instinctively aware that he could be ambushed from behind… and there wasn't much he could do about it. But what else could he do? He wouldn't allow himself to be sold into slavery or to be assaulted by someone who preyed on children.

“Shehehe. You know that… and you’re still willing to fight.”

The little sharkboy let out a low growl.

“For many, this would be a very unlucky day for them indeed. But sometimes fate works in strange ways.”

Arlong narrowed his eyes, maintaining his grip on the bottle. The old sharkman took another step closer. There was a glint of gold around his arm. He’d seen better days, but at his side hung a sword that looked to be in decent repair.

“You are too small to fend for yourself. But you have fight in you. I can protect you and teach you until you’re strong enough. In exchange, you serve me.”

Arlong glanced at the wiry sharkman before him, considering his options. “You don’t fuck children, do you?” the sharkboy asked bluntly.

“Clever boy. No, my taste does not run to boys. But see, I am very old…”

No shit, Arlong thought to himself, though this time he was smart enough to bite his tongue.

“...and I have no children of my own. So I find myself without someone to pass down my legacy.”

Well. Arlong had never known his grandparents. Any extended family had drifted away years ago. He had no one, and this old sharkman had no one, either. There was no denying that he needed protection… and well, he’d just run away if this old sharkman was lying about not liking children.

“Who are you?” Arlong demanded.

“Ajkul.”

Arlong’s eyelids fluttered open as he stared at the ceiling in his cabin. The old sharkman had been dead for almost three decades. His mother had warned him about humans, but it was Ajkul who taught him everything he knew about humans – at that age, at least. Ajkul would take his young charge to where humans entered the Fishman District, telling him to observe them. That led to various lessons, lessons which Arlong was better able to utilize as he got bigger and stronger.

There was no way that Ajkul could be called ‘fatherly’, but there was no denying the benefit his guidance had on a lost sharkboy. And that sharkboy had grown into a fearsome pirate captain. He wasn’t sure how his long-dead mother would feel about her son becoming a pirate, but he took care of his nakama.

As for his father? Good fucking riddance. By the time Shyarly was dumped on him, Arlong had gained a reputation for himself as the leader of one of the gangs that held their own in the Fishman District. There was no denying that Shyarly was better off with him than at the Ark where their father had tried to dump his firstborn child, but Arlong was still resentful of the piece of shit who'd abandoned not one but two children, if not more.

Arlong glanced to his side, where Yolande slept with her back to him, curled up in a fetal position. He reached out to run his fingers along her hair; she hadn't cut it since coming aboard and he liked how long it was starting to get, just past the middle of her back.

He heard a quiet gasp as she jolted awake, but did not stop stroking her hair. After a bit, his fingers trailed along the side of her neck and shoulder, tracing her gills lightly. He could feel her tension, like she was waiting for him to say something.

“Is something the matter? Do you have any objections or thoughts you wish to share?” he asked, his tone quiet but full of authority.

“No.”

“… no? Are you certain?” he whispered lowly.

“I grieve,” she replied simply. He let out a short hum at that, squeezing her shoulder.

“I suppose disposing of grief is harder than accepting my authority,” he observed. “Mourning for your nakama is only natural. But remember, I share your pain. So do the rest of the crew.”

A soft sigh and nod was her response. His hand slid down her shoulder so he could wrap it around her arm as he spooned up to her. “Speaking of nakama… recent events have captured our attention for a while, but I think these same events have reaffirmed how important our nakama are, hm?”

She turned her head so she could look up at her, and he could see the crease between her brows as she pondered his statement. He smirked at that.

“You still need to decide where you want your tattoo.”

He could feel the flex in her arm as she balled her hands in fists, keeping them tucked under her chin. He tutted at her. “You’re past due for it, little siren.”

He could see a protest forming, but she swallowed it and looked away. Good, she was obeying the captain. He said nothing more and let her go back to sleep, though he continued to hold onto her.

o0o0o0o

“Are there any extra treats my birthday girl would like tonight?" Shioyaki asked flirtatiously as he walked with Yurie along the deck. Most of the fishmen had gone off to bed or otherwise, with a few up on night duty. The moon hung low over the ocean. She paused at the railing. He came up behind her and wrapped an arm around her middle.

“Well, yes. Looking at how pretty the moon looks puts me in the mood for…" She placed her hands on his arm, squeezing it. He felt the familiar stir of desire and wrapped his arm around her more tightly. "… a swim."

“A swim?” Shioyaki asked with mild surprise.

“Not what you were hoping to hear, huh?” she asked lightly.

“Well, a swim isn’t what I’m thinking of when I’m holding you like this…” To emphasize his point, he pressed his lips to her temple, wrapping his other arm around her and ensconcing her firmly in his embrace. She let out a small giggle and pressed back against him – oh, the tease – before she extricated herself from his grip.

“Well, there just might be time for that after the swim…” she drawled before tugging off her shirt and shorts, stepping out of them and leaving them with her sandals. She stood before him in her underwear before she dove into the water.

“Well, we fishmen do have superior strength, so I'm sure I'll have plenty of energy left after our swim," he shot back when her head emerged from the water. He tugged off his clothes and was quick to chase after her, slicing through the water as he closed in on her.

The moonlight filtered through the water, making Yurie look like a siren as she twisted and undulated about. Damn, but that really was a sexy sight.

o0o0o0o

The story Caten tells is based on 'Who was the foolishest", a story featured in Andrew Lang's Fairy Books (the Brown Fairy Book, to be precise) and was a nice break from all the princes and princesses that peppered the series of fairy tales. The referenced tale about the monkey and crab can also be found in the collection. The entire collection, as well as its individual stories, can be found/downloaded for free from Project Gutenberg among other places, or read online on various sites.

II

Out of curiosity, I decided to look up in what order the Fearsome Five make their appearances in the series. Bushroot is first, as his episode comes right after the two-part series premiere with Taurus Bulba. Bushroot makes another appearance, amidst a couple of episodes with SHUSH, and then Megavolt is introduced. Quackerjack is the third of the group to make an appearance, and then we see all 5 in the next episode. Later on, we do see how Quackerjack, Megavolt, and Liquidator all got started in more episodes.

Also, Duckburg is set in the fictional state of Calisota, according to the Disney Wiki, and St. Canard is close enough to presumably be in the same state as well. It’s not hugely relevant to this story, but it gave me a point of reference to work with.

o0o0o0o

Rhoda could tell that Reginald didn’t want to let her go. But she was able to convince him to let her go back home, because disappearing after what happened with Drs. Gary and Larson would only arouse suspicions. She had a couple more meetings with Dean Turnbill and the cops, but as she could honestly – and convincingly – say she had no involvement in what happened, she was taken off the list of suspects.

It felt surreal being on campus or at her apartment after these days spent with Reginald in his forest lair. The sound of traffic coming from outside was borderline irritating, but she told herself that she was in shock over what happened, and she just needed to unwind and wait for the semester to come to an end. She would be out of here soon enough. She just needed to make her decision and sign the contract that Duckburg University recently offered her. Or she should wait to hear back from her friend at SHUSH.

If it wasn't for Reginald, this decision would be a lot easier. She knew she should go and explore her options and get the fuck out of St. Canard one way or the other, and that included getting away from Reginald. It was clear in her time with him that the metamorphosis had affected Reginald beyond the physical level, who knew whether his mental state might deteriorate to the point where he was a very real danger to others? It was admittedly difficult to pair that with the man who'd been so solicitous of her when she was a guest in his lair.

o0o0o0o

Sometimes Bushroot wished he hadn’t let her leave his lair. There was the chance she could go to the cops… but she said she wouldn’t, and he trusted her. He’d reassured her he would never hurt her. After all, she was incomparable to Gary and Larson!

And when Darkwing Duck came around to investigate… ooh boy! But the nice thing about being the first mutant plant-duck in existence was… well, nobody knew he existed. The old Doctor Reginald Bushroot, sure. But he was gone. There was no reversing this.

So he worked on his research, as well as adapting further to his new abilities. It was easy to lose track of time like that, especially when he was exploring his connection with nature. And if he committed a few crimes along the way…

Well. The old Bushroot would have quailed at the thought of stealing. He’d played by the rules, applied for various grants, and so on. He could never seem to catch a break though, and Gary and Larson had not been the only jerks he’d been forced to deal with. But he’d borne it all… and look what happened. He looked down at his hands.

He had power now… a power greater than any he’d ever imagine he could have. And yes… it did make stealing easier. He knew he should feel bad about it. On occasion, he did, so he tried to be selective in his targets.

The world wasn’t black and white like he’d once thought. There were shades of gray and… well, green. He didn’t share any of this with Rhoda, of course. She had enough on her plate with trying to decide what to do when the semester was over. He’d encouraged her to vent to him like she’d done in the past, and listened solicitously as she weighed her options.

How tempting it was to just keep her here...

o0o0o0o

Rhoda made her decision. She was not unmindful of Reginald's feelings for her, but she needed to think of herself. It was a chance to grow – albeit in a more figurative sense, so she took the offer to work at Duckburg University. Hopefully, there wouldn't be anyone like Gary or Larson, but the scientists from DU that interviewed her seemed a friendly enough lot.

She looked down at the sweet nectar that had been offered to her for a drink. It was far better than any soft drink she’d ever tasted, she had to admit as she took a sip, letting the sweetness slide down her tongue.

“You’re leaving,” Bushroot said flatly.

“Corny as it sounds… it's not you, it's me. You know I was already exploring options outside of St. Canard before this happened." She wondered if she should have done this over the phone or by e-mail instead. He stared at her for several moments before turning away.

“Ah. You know what I want. But…” He wrung his leafy hands together, “I can’t force you to stay here. That’d be wrong,” he said, almost sounding like he was trying to convince himself. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding as she looked around, aware of the greenery that surrounded them.

o0o0o0o

The campus at Duckburg was impressive, and sometimes the history department might be lucky enough to study one of the artifacts that Scrooge McDuck brought back from his various adventures around the globe.

She still talked to Reginald, but it was easy to focus on her new life here with Reginald at a distance, safely ensconced in his forest lair. She made new friends at her job. There was one professor who, unfortunately, did remind her of Drs. Gary and Larson, but he saved his amorous advances for one of her other coworkers.

However, the dynamics here were different in a way she could appreciate. There was no nepotism, so Dr. Irma Willow was free to openly rebuff Dr. Jason Cahill, and Rhoda enjoyed the show, taking a few notes for herself. Her coworker did have some fantastic zingers.

On occasion, Rhoda did wonder how Reginald might have done in an environment like this, where the management was fairer, and bullying was not tolerated.

“Rhoda, you come from St. Canard, right?” Irma asked casually one morning as they were getting some coffee from the breakroom. Rhoda nodded in confirmation as she added some sweetener to her mug.

“Looks like it’s a good thing you transferred here, the city’s been getting hit by various criminals. Darkwing Duck sure has his work cut out for him, huh?” her companion asked as she casually paged through the newspaper. The front page was splashed with news about the upcoming annual celebration of the founding of Duckburg, which included a fair. Irma had invited her to come along, and it was something she was excited to attend. St. Canard did not warrant a mention until page 4. Rhoda let out a wry chuckle as her eyes scanned the page and photos. Megavolt, Quackerjack… Bushroot.

She felt light-headed for a moment as she registered his name. Her mind raced with all sorts of thoughts. If she’d stayed with Reginald, would he have considered working with other criminals? She remembered the last time she was with him, how it was obvious he didn’t want her to go. Hell, he’d even said it out loud – at least he was honest with her. Her eyes scanned the page again as she felt Irma’s hand on her shoulder.

“You okay?” the other woman asked.

“Yeah, it’s just… a lot to take in. I mean, it’s not as if St. Canard was crime-free, but a villain is… different than a mugger.” Duckburg had its own villains, but many of them were lured in by the treasures Scrooge McDuck collected and hoarded. And granted, Mr. McDuck did deal with many of these villains himself. St. Canard was without a wealthy adventurer to call its own.

Irma let out a small laugh. “Yeah, there’s that, but at least there’s Darkwing Duck…”

Rhoda remembered when she met the crimefighter. He came across as a bit pompous and theatrical about his abilities and work… but considering that he put a real damper on the plans of more than one evildoer, she would cut him slack.

What about Reginald? Did he deserve slack, too? The logical part of her mind argued against that. Darkwing Duck fought crime, for goodness' sake! These villains brought nothing but chaos and misery, and deserved to face the consequences for the actions – no, the crimes they chose to commit. Megavolt wanted to fuck around with the power grid. Quackerjack’s toys hurt people. The Liquidator held the drinking water of the city hostage.

She believed Reginald when he said he hadn’t intended to kill Gary and Larson when all he wanted to do was defend himself. But stealing… that was a choice he made.

… And she’d made her own choice by not telling the cops about Reginald. She let out a wry chuckle at that, shaking her head as she leaned her head against her hand, staring at the newspaper.

o0o0o0o

XXIV

o0o0o0o

Arlong hadn't expected Toma to call out Yolande – and was displeased by being put on the spot – but he was relieved that his siren had offered him the proper deference as master and captain. Nonetheless, he could not help but wonder if that was a show, considering how she'd lulled Aiuchi into complacency before his fishmen took over that pathetic human's ship.

“Do I truly have no reason to use the chain again?” Arlong asked lowly after he closed the cabin door behind him. She stilled and slowly turned back to him, shoulders back, the perfect image of offended dignity, her hands folded in front of her as she raised an eyebrow.

He grinned at that, and she looked away. “We both know what a clever little squid you are… and how you can put on an act like needed. But perhaps I was wrong in accusing you of such in this case. After all, you know better than to lie to me, hmm?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Arlong slowly circled around her. She looked out of place on a pirate ship, but damn, the somber kimono suited her.

He reached into his pocket, drawing out a folded stack of cash. “And for your hard work in caring for your nakama and offering your support, here’s your cut.”

She stared at the wad of Beli for a couple of moments before reaching for it and sliding it into her sleeve. “Thank you.”

“Why do you still look so sad?" Arlong asked as he reached out to lift her chin. "It's over."

She tried to turn away from him, but he tightened his grip just enough.

“I am your captain. I take care of my crew. That includes you.”

She let out a slow, shaky breath. “Losing my new friends reminded me of losing old friends,” she managed to choke out. He held his grip for a moment as he studied her features before he let go, and she quickly turned away.

He wasn't much for talking out grief… but he had a remedy for it. Reaching into one of his cabinets, he pulled out a jug of the peach liquor that Yolande and Caten had made a while ago. When these two women worked together, they could make an art out of brewing liquor. It was sweeter than he normally liked, but it packed one hell of a buzz. He popped the cork and took a swig before offering it to her.

She grabbed it and took several long swings with an almost angry expression on his face.

“There we go. Let that wash away your sorrows. Tomorrow’s a new day.” He slid off his coat and shirt, his muscles flexing under the lamplight. He reached for the jug, taking several gulps before passing it back to her and climbing onto the bed after kicking his sandals off, letting out a slow sigh as the buzz kicked in.

His eyelids fluttered open after a while to see her standing at the window, staring out. “Come to bed, sweet siren,” he murmured. She pulled off her kimono and obi, setting them aside before joining him in bed, clad in a plain under-robe. He hooked his arm around her, inhaling the faint scent of soap and her musk. For a couple of moments, he thought about seducing her. That’d be a nice way to get their minds off the grief and emotional turmoil. And he wouldn’t mind some warmth…

His hand lifted to stroke her hair as he growled softly into her ear. “I know a good way we can add to the buzz we already have going…” he offered, his hand sliding down to her hip. She shifted so that she was now on her back, giving him easier access to her body. His hand slid along her breasts, stomach, and lap, feeling the lean curves he was now familiar with, under the thin layer of her robe. His cocks stirred at the thought of her warm body, the tight slickness, the flex of her lower stomach and inner thighs. His hand tugged at the tie that held her robe closed, seeing how the lamplight flickered across her skin.

He was so lost in happiness and relief that he did not immediately recognize that she was not present. After lifting himself up so he could loosen his shorts, he saw that her face was turned to the darkness. He tutted at her, running his finger along her jaw.

She looked up at him, and he stilled as he saw the blank stare.

“Is something the matter, captain?” she asked quietly. He reached out to squeeze a tit, rubbing the nipple with his thumb. She simply lay there, pliant but unresponsive.

“I’m tired, too.” He tucked himself back in his shorts before turning down the lamp.

o0o0o0o

When she stirred to consciousness – with a bit of a hangover, to boot – she kept her eyes closed as she listened to Arlong move around. She opened her eyes just enough to see him in front of the mirror, preening himself for a bit as he straightened the gold chains around his neck.

Why did this bastard have to be such a piece of eye candy? She remained still, letting him believe she was asleep. He glanced in her direction, and she had to remind herself to keep her breathing even before he left the cabin. After a few minutes, she dragged herself out of bed, muttering to herself as she felt her head throb when she turned too quickly.

There was no evidence of the chain, to her relief. But she would remain aware that he would use it again if he thought he needed to. The breakfast bell had not rung yet, so she quickly got dressed and headed over to the kitchen.

o0o0o0o

Hachi was so relieved to see Yolande enter the kitchen that he almost swept her up in his arms. He left Yurie in charge of breakfast prep before he ushered her into the pantry. “I wanted to talk to you last night, but Arlong took you away and…”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Really. Wrung-out mentally, but other than that…”

“Nyu? … Did anything happen?”

She slowly shook her head. "I'm not chained up anymore, am I? I didn't think I'd be let out so soon, although I wish it could have been for a… happier reason." She let out a sigh as she rubbed her eyes. "I almost can't believe what happened here. I wish it were all just some really shitty dream."

“Heh. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t kill anyone.”

She raised an eyebrow with curiosity.

“I know it doesn’t cancel out anything Arlong or the others did, but I just let humans run away from me and the ones I was in charge of, I kept the fishmen on looting. I remembered what you said about passive-aggressively dealing with Arlong…” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

She let out a sharp giggle at that before leaning against his chest. He took the cue and wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t know where I’d be without you,” she murmured as she buried her face against his chest.

“You were brave to stand up to him.”

“It did no good.”

He let out a short hum. “No. You were right. There was something wrong… just not in the way any of us expected. If you get a feeling like that again…”

She let out a small huff. “You saw what happened last night. I agreed to obey the captain.”

“Still… I think Arlong would listen… as long as you don’t get in front of him like you did before,” he offered helpfully.

“Yeah, I suppose freaking out in front of the crew did me no favors.”

Hachi couldn’t help but wince a little as he remembered how anxious she’d been. He might even say she was spooked. It’d confused him and a few of the other fishmen, but after everything that happened, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a siren’s gift. Some of the stories said that sirens had unique gifts, and one didn’t even need to be a siren to have such gifts. Like Arlong’s sister.

“I think after recent events, the crew is more willing to… pretend it didn’t happen.”

“That’s what Arlong does,” she muttered. “Wants to pretend like nothing happened. Doesn’t apologize.”

“Can’t even remember the last time he did so,” Hachi admitted. She huffed softly at that.

“Anyway, I'm not hungry, so I'm skipping breakfast, but I'd like hot water for tea."

“You sure?” he asked. She looked quite wan. “I’ll make whatever you want,” he offered, trying to entice her.

“Maybe later. Right now I just want to have tea and find a quiet place to read.”

“You’ve earned it,” Hachi said as he filled a teapot for her.

o0o0o0o

Kuroobi had watched her check the supplies from Pmort earlier. She’d sniffed some of the items. Ran her finger along others. Even tasted a few things. She’d used no equipment as far as he could see… but Arlong didn’t question her when she said that none of the food was poisoned.

“I have questions," the ray fishman said without preamble as he came to the upper deck, seeing Yolande in one of the patio chairs, Rekiin curled up in her lap, his head resting on her chest. Kuroobi tilted his head in mild surprise.

“The last few days have been rough on us…” Yolande offered neutrally. She glanced down, giving Rekiin a gentle pat on his head as he nestled further into her embrace. “Unless you think this is unbecoming of a pirate,” she added dryly.

He shook his head, moving on with his questions. “Finding the poison, inspecting the food… Observation Haki?”

“I suppose.”

“How does it work?”

“It's about… seeing what's not there. Or what shouldn't be there. Like with the poison. It also helps me to avoid inferior products on the market."

Observation Haki could help one see if someone was lying in wait. Or how many people were around, or nearby. Hone it enough and it could almost make you prescient in battle. He'd been trying to develop his own Haki, challenging his students to hide from him, on the surface or in the water, and encouraged them to do so. Some would never develop it, but he hoped to bring out the potential of at least some of his students as well as himself.

“Did Arlong know about this?” he asked. Yolande nodded. Considering how quickly Arlong snapped to action over the gin, that made sense.

“And your Conqueror’s Haki…”

She let out a short laugh. “Really? You saw how Arlong knocked me out.”

“Because you never developed your Haki for battle. You focused it all in your work… and somehow, you’re able to increase the potency of whatever you produce.”

Her expression went blank for a fleeting moment before she blinked, and she looked away. He smirked at that. It'd taken a while to figure out, but he'd noticed a pattern. He was no chemist, but he had some basic knowledge of it beforehand, and managed to pick up a thing or two from her. Hachi could never figure out how to make his sauces like Yolande's own, even though she freely shared her recipes with him. The destruction wreaked on Marzu by her explosives was beyond what he'd expected, given his experience with gunpowder and other incendiaries. And now, she'd managed to whip up an antidote in a matter of hours, holed up in her workshop.

So it was easier for her to exert her will over the contents of a container than over a person.

“You saved my nakama." It was a sobering thought. What if she hadn't been part of the crew? Then the Arlong Pirates would have been dealt an inglorious and devastating blow by humans. "How do you do it?"

She looked back at him. "I… push." She waved her hand in a vague gesture. "Most of the time, I don't do it when I'm working. It takes a lot of energy and focus to do that, so I save it for… special occasions."

She’d looked pretty worn after producing the explosives Arlong used to attack Marzu, Kuroobi recalled. Before he could say anything further, the bell chimed, signaling supper. Yolande nudged Rekiin off her lap.

Rekiin joined his side, and Kuroobi glanced at Yolande.

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered as she curled up in the chair.

o0o0o0o

Shioyaki was silent as he looked over what remained of the people of Pmort. He'd had no issue with plowing down any human who tried to attack him, but what was left now was mainly children and teenagers, some women, and the elderly or disabled. There weren't a lot of men left.

He sat on a stump, sword and musket at his sides, basking in the sun, looking like a guard that one could easily sneak past. His eyes were half-lidded, but Shioyaki had been working on using his other senses and going beyond them. Sometimes he was certain he could sense others without the five traditional senses, but it was like seeing something out of the corner of your eye, and then having it disappear when you turned toward it.

His eyelids lowered a bit more as he listened to the murmur of humans nearby, hearing someone say they were thirsty. Footsteps slid through the grass or crunched on coarse dirt. The faint scent of smoke and sweat and sea, depending on which way the breeze blew. He started to silently count the humans, reaching beyond the physical limitations of his senses.

Shioyaki's head snapped up, and he blinked irritably when he saw Toma towering over a woman and her child, his fist shaking in the air.

“I’m not your fucking slave,” Toma snarled. “I will not fetch you a damn thing!”

Shioyaki rose to his feet. "Hey. You're right, you're not her slave." He looked at the woman, remembering she was the village elder's daughter. "You can fetch a bucket from the well. Leave the kid." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the well. She seemed loath to part from her son, but after a moment, rose to her feet and rushed over to the well, sending the bucket down and hauling it back up. The other fishmen said nothing, and Toma scowled faintly as the woman scurried back to her son, avoiding eye contact with the fishmen.

Several other villagers approached the woman, and they shared the water from the bucket. Shioyaki sat back down. This was fucking boring, but everyone had to do shifts, and with a handful of the fishmen still indisposed from the poisoning attempt, there was more work to go around. When other villagers asked for water, he allowed one to venture forth with the bucket even as Toma glared at him.

“Let them suffer,” the oscar fishman huffed.

“You didn’t want to fetch water. And no fishman is fetching it for them,” the salmon fishman pointed out calmly. He knew that Toma was responsible for a generous portion of Pmort’s death toll, but it seemed like the blood he’d already shed was not enough for him. “So let’s relax.”

“Bah,' Toma muttered. He was determined to have his fun, one way or the other. "Well, I suppose if we're going to sell them, we should let them keep hydrated," he said, crossing his arms. Aghast looks descended upon the faces of many of the humans. Shioyaki pressed his lips together. The humans would either be allowed to live and be left here, or Arlong might decide to let Toma have one more bloodbath.

“Monkeys don’t sell for very much, but there’s no reason we can’t squeeze a little more profit out of this pathetic shithole of an island.”

Either way, Toma was going to fuck around for a bit. This time, Shioyaki tried harder to shut out the sounds around him. He was not sure what he found more grating, Toma’s voice or his taunts.

o0o0o0o

Caten sat at the side of the infirmary bed, holding Ishidai’s head in her lap as she ran her fingers through his hair. For a bit of time, it had looked like he wouldn’t make it after drinking all that gin, but thank the Seas, he pulled through.

He was still weak, though, and was one of the fishmen who remained in the infirmary. She wasn't a nurse, but she knew Ishidai welcomed her attention and care, and she helped Hachi in the kitchen to make food and tea for Ishidai and his infirm companions. She'd also tell stories so that Ishidai and the others had something to listen to, sharing tales that were familiar to those who had come from the Fishman District, like the little fishboy who knew how to keep a secret, the mermaid who went off on an adventure to rescue her fishman lover, or the colony of catfish.

A few of the able-bodied fishmen would stop by the infirmary to listen to her stories as well.

o0o0o0o

Chew looked up from his desk as he heard a knock on the door to his office. Yolande entered, and he looked at her expectantly.

“I was hoping I might be able to go to the island. I want to learn more about the poison the villagers gave us and study the local vegetation. Of course, I know I will need a… companion."

The fishman smiled a little at that. “The quality of your work does speak for itself. I’ve been cooped up the last few days here… I’ll go with you.” After his time in the infirmary and recuperating, Chew welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs.

He saw a flicker of surprise, and then pleasure and relief on her face. “I wouldn’t mind the company of a handsome gentleman like yourself… especially since you think I’m a pretty girl.”

He chuckled softly at that. “It’s nice to see you in better spirits,” he said.

The fishman trailed behind Yolande, basking in the sun and enjoying the fresh air, welcoming the feel of being on solid land despite his aquatic heritage. He watched idly as she picked through the local vegetation, her fingers trailing along the plants, sometimes pulling out leaves or roots for further inspection. She also picked over the gardens that sat behind the houses, murmuring to herself on occasion.

Suddenly, he heard her gasp before she quickly collected herself, turning away from a corpse that had not been visible until they turned around a corner of one of the flipped-over houses.

“Should have known,” she muttered to herself. The day-old corpse had flies buzzing around it. Chew looked further down the space into the village proper, seeing a few more dead bodies. Arlong had not given the survivors leave to bury their dead.

“Tss,” Chew offered neutrally. “Do you want to go east? There’s still some forest… oh wait. There’s likely to be more bodies down that way.”

“I’ve seen enough death. But I still want to know how they made the poison…”

“Could ask Wang. Arlong’s kept him alive for questioning.”

“The village elder, right? … Well, that would save me the trouble of reverse-engineering the poison all by myself.”

The clearing in the middle of the town was partially shaded by a tree, and most of the humans were sitting under it to shield themselves from the midday sun. Several fishmen stood watch.

“Wang!” Chew yelled, and several of the humans flinched. The old man stepped forward. The fishman stared down at the former leader of the village with a cool, imperious glare. “Answer whatever questions my nakama has,” he commanded.

“How was the poison made?” Yolande asked without preamble. Chew crossed his arms, watching.

“Ahhh, I am sorry I can’t help you. Our pharmacist was… disposed of.”

Yolande let out a small huff, and Chew stepped forward, grabbing Wang by his cuff. “If he’s dead, it’s because he was foolish enough to raise arms against us!” he snarled, his full lips twisting into a scowl. Although in the Conomi Islands, the humans were generally quick enough to comply with Arlong’s demands, there were inevitably a few who thought they could lie and try to pull one over their overlords. “Do you think we’re stupid?” he snarled. There was no way the village elder wouldn’t know at least something, especially since the poisoned rum had come from the cellar of his house.

“Not at all. But I am only the elder, my skills lie in administration, negotiation, mediation…”

Chew’s grip tightened, and he was gratified to see Wang wince, but the old man was stubborn in denying any knowledge of the poison.

“Wait,” Yolande murmured. She tapped her chin thoughtfully before glancing at Chew and beckoning him to bend down so she could converse with him, whispering into his ear and asking a few questions. He answered in kind.

“Will you tell me if I feed your grandson?” she asked. Chew was gratified to see a flicker of emotion in Wang’s face before he quickly masked it. Chew knew for a fact that none of the humans had eaten for the last couple of days.

“Tell her, or we’ll drag the kid away and sell him,” Toma called out. “One of my friends died because of you, so believe me I’m only too fucking happy to do it, or I’ll just break the little shit’s legs!”

Chew fixed Wang with a cool glare, and the old man stared back. “What’s to stop you from hurting him, anyway?” he muttered.

Yolande barked out a short laugh. “Look who’s talking. You think to comment on us honoring an agreement, hm? You’re lucky I’m more honorable than you, though. I can have food brought from the ship. Our cook makes the best takoyaki, but he’s good at a lot of things. He can make several different kinds of noodles… and all sorts of tasty dumplings, rolls, gyoza… Fried or steamed to perfection…” She let out a happy sigh. Taking his cue, Chew grinned.

“He's going to have the grill on tonight, isn't he, since some of our brothers are fishing right now? And with that ginger sauce of yours… I just had lunch, but I'm already hungry thinking about it…" He patted his stomach with his free hand.

“You want your poor little grandson to go hungry?" Yolande asked. Chew couldn't quite tell if her tone was sarcastic or genuine. Toma was about to say something, but Chew silenced him with a wave of his hand. The sandy-haired boy sat next to his mother under the tree as the two of them stared at the old man.

Wang twisted his neck, looking at the boy and his mother. Neither of them said anything, but it was obvious from their expressions what they hoped Wang would answer with. “… Very well.”

o0o0o0o

Arlong smirked to himself as Yolande followed him that evening, a basket under one of her arms. “I wouldn’t have bothered,” he muttered, but she shrugged.

“By honoring my agreement, I am showing them how superior we are to them… and by letting me do so, you further prove that point,” she replied calmly. It was hard to object to that, and the humans looked up as the mighty captain of the Arlong Pirates approached them.

“As I promised,’ Yolande offered as Arlong let her step forward, putting the basket at the edge of the clearing under the watchful eye of the fishmen that stood around.

Yolande had verified the accuracy of the recipe Wang gave her. There were berries that grew on the island, fairly harmless on their own, though they could cause stomach upset for more sensitive people. It was a fermentation process with a couple of ingredients added to the process that changed the crushed-up berries from something that might irritate the stomach to something with a much more devastating effect on the body.

There was enough in the basket to feed more than just one brat. 'I don't like seeing a child be hungry,' Yolande had said, and Hachi helped to put together a generously apportioned assortment of rice balls and grilled fish.

“You must be thirsty,” Arlong said with mock solicitude as he looked at Wang. He pulled a bottle from his pocket while Wang’s daughter went over to pick up the basket, returning to her son. Some of his nakama thought that the children and their mothers should be spared, as they’d surrendered. However, Wang would be used as an example.

The old man stared at the bottle, and the grim resignation on his face showed that he had deduced its contents. “Not in front of the children, please,” he said.

Arlong offered him a wide, cruel smirk. “It’s only been a few years since you shared this drink, hmm? So many of these children would have been around…”

“We never let them watch or be nearby,” Wang said, desperation creeping in his tone.

“Is that shame?” Arlong sneered. “You don’t want that little brat of yours seeing his dear old grandfather have seizures, or vomit up blood after you did the same to people you fucking scammed!” he snarled.

“You know, we have a kid on the ship,” Yolande said in a calm, almost emotionless voice. Arlong stopped and stared at her. “He’s about the same age as your grandson. He asked for gin because he saw his nakama drinking it. Our captain, in his wisdom, said no.”

“Ahh…” Wang said with a small sigh. “Your son?”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “No. One could say he’s the son of the crew… see, his mother was killed by slavers. Human slavers. They killed his mother in front of him. Every one of us on the crew has been hurt by humans… often grievously so.”

“Oh dear,” Wang muttered.

“So you can see, these fishmen have more than enough reason to dislike humans. But they came here peacefully and conducted fair business with you. You had to go and provoke them, didn't you. Oh, you're so fucked." Despite the calm, almost emotionless tone of her voice, there was no denying the weight in her words. Arlong offered Wang and his family – or what remained of it – a predatory grin.

“Set an example for your grandson and the other young ones here.” For a moment, he recalled Bellemere as he held out the bottle. “After all, I’m sure you want the young ones on this island to have a better future, don’t you? And that includes not repeating their elders’ mistakes.”

The old man looked back to his daughter and grandson, before looking at the other townsfolk. Arlong wondered if Wang might attempt a final act of defiance or desperation. “You will let them live?”

“I am a man of my word… unlike you,” Arlong replied with an impatient growl. The old man sighed and squared his shoulders before taking the bottle from the sharkman’s hand. Arlong held the bottle in such a way that Wang could easily grab it without touching him since the bottle was relatively small in his large hand. Wang uncorked the bottle, staring down its neck for a moment before drinking it.

“Children, watch," Arlong commanded coldly. "Remember the mercy that was offered to you today. Your elders might have made mistakes, but I, the great Captain Arlong, in my magnanimity, offer you this undeserved kindness despite the grave insults against my crew and race. I trust that you will use your lives… and freedom… in more productive ways.”

“Thank you, Captain Arlong,” Wang’s daughter said – practically choking on these words – as she hugged her son close to her. The boy had a rice cake in his hands, but his attention was on the old man who swayed for a couple of moments before collapsing to the ground.

o0o0o0o

Regardless of whatever personal growth Arlong might experience, Arlong’s still Arlong, and Arlong’s going to Arlong. Because he’s Arlong, that’s why.

Gesewald

Yeah, yeah, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf… hardly anything new, especially for those of us who love the villain/heroine trope. But I thought I'd take a whack at it, and did my best to bring forth a creative and fun retelling of an old tale.

I was going to call this story 'Little Red Hoodie', but the title is already in use by several other works, so I had to rack my brain for a good working title. Some people might be familiar with the word Schwarzwald – the Black Forest in Germany – or Tieferwald in Austria. There are a few other walds in Europe, but Gesewald is my invention. I do mention a few well-known locations in this story, but the other locales are of my own creation.

I claim no ownership of the original Little Red Riding Hood tale or any of the other fairy tales referenced, but Gesewald and its story/universe are my creation and property.

I hope you enjoy this story. I wrote it with my fellow monsterfuckers and bad-boy lovers out there in mind 3

o0o0o0o

It had just rained, so the smell of freshness mixed with decay in the air as Carmine Clarebough rolled down the road in her grandmother's pickup truck, the windows rolled down so that she and her companion could enjoy the mild autumn air. The drive to Gesewald was quiet, with Albert reading something on his smartphone, which suited her quite well as she preferred a quiet trip. In the back were several boxes and crates with products that were not available in a small town like Gesewald.

It'd been an adjustment, getting used to the quietness of Gesewald after she came here to live with her grandmother. There was no public transportation, and not one single business in the town was open past nine or ten, with the exception of one bar-slash-bowling alley, but even that closed at midnight. If one wanted to order a ride, the nearest drivers usually had to drive over from the city.

Nonetheless, she'd gotten into the rhythm and the peace. After years of trying to please her father and stepmother, worrying over grades, extracurriculars, social events, and networking, Gesewald was a shock to her system, but it was something she'd needed, even if she wasn't conscious of it at that time. The now-familiar lights of the Gesewald gas station came into view as she navigated the final curve of the road.

Nestled near it was a small motel, several houses, and a convenience store that doubled as a cafe with a painted wooden sign that said 'Welcome to Gesewald' in English and German. She drove on to the fork in the road, taking another curve that led her through an especially dense thicket of forest before opening onto the town proper.

She'd gone from living much of her life in a city with over a million people to living in a town that had less than two thousand. The truck slowed as it rolled down the street, and Albert hauled several of the boxes out of the back, taking them into his parents' house. Carmine made the rest of the journey herself, heading on to her grandmother's house. It was almost like going back in time; most of the houses looked like they hadn't been upgraded for over a century, but that wasn't a detriment. It gave the town a homey and picturesque feel, almost as if from a painting or magazine, or one of these cheesy Hallmark films her stepmother enjoyed.

She wouldn't call Gesewald cheesy, though. There was nothing manufactured about this place, as she'd come to learn. Pulling up the short driveway to her grandmother's garage, she saw several older women sitting outside on the porch, sipping tea and sharing biscuits, a couple of them wrapped with knit shawls. A breeze wove between the trees, carrying with it a quiet rustle that caused the tinkle of her grandmother's wind chime. Afternoon sunlight angled into the porch to illuminate the table and its contents, steam curling up from the tea cups.

Tell me that isn't right out of some fairy tale, Carmine smiled to herself as her grandmother rose from her seat. Undeterred by age, Rosamund lifted one of the boxes from the truck, heading into the house with it while Carmine handled the last box, setting it down in the foyer.

Before she could ask, her grandmother had a cup poured out for her. "How did things go?" Grandmother asked. Carmine hesitated, and the older woman gave her a sharp gaze.

"Nothing happened. But I think someone was watching me. I'm not sure if I was just feeling really anxious."

A muscle twitched in her grandmother's cheek. "Sometimes anxiety is an instinct warning you. Sometimes it's just anxiety. Over-cautiousness is better than carelessness, though. Especially considering…" She trailed off, and Carmine nodded slowly before she sipped her tea, welcoming the sweetness that came from honey.

o0o0o0o

Rosamund returned to the porch, leaving her granddaughter in the kitchen. Could be nothing, or could be something. There were plenty of other predators out there in the world, just because her granddaughter had escaped one didn't mean she could drop her guard.

The poor girl had barely left her grandmother's land for the first few months, but loving care and a safe haven ensured Carmine's steady recovery. No one in Gesewald knew the full story, but Rosamund had hinted at just enough that her neighbors gave them a respectable berth. Some of them warmed up to her, and now, over a year later, Carmine had some friends and settled in, getting to the point where she was handling excursions to the city. After all the poor girl had been through, it gave Rosamund no small amount of relief and happiness to see Carmine enjoying her life here.

After her friends left, Rosamund stood on the porch, looking out at the trees hugging the valley. Much of the foliage was already yellow and orange, though some green clung to the beeches and firs that populated the forest. Higher up on the slopes, the deep green of pine stood in defiance of the season.

She turned and went inside, locking the door and sitting in her armchair before picking up her smartphone. There was no message from Albert. Hmm. She thought about her granddaughter's anxiety. It could be just that, or it was a predator that managed to elude the notice of a young man she knew had good sense. No news is good news, she tried to reassure herself as her granddaughter entered the room, her strawberry-blonde hair in a thick braid that draped over her shoulder. So much like her mother's, Rosamund mused.

o0o0o0o

The wolf lifted his head, reading various scents as the breeze brought them to him. He could taste the trace of protective magic in the air. It was well-hidden and well-crafted. A suitable place for his Red to hide.

They'd tried to take her from him. Invoking magic not intended to be wielded by humans. They thought they could hide her and ensure that he never found her. It was only a matter of time, though, for he was the Big Bad Wolf. He had other names as well, whispered in warning and terror to children and adults alike.

They'd made a mockery of his story, turning it into a vapid children's tale where the hunter triumphed over the wolf and saved Little Red Riding Hood and her dear grandmother. Few ever got the happily ever after they envisioned.

The dense forest hugged the town of Gesewald. In another time, the town was known for crafting the finest furniture and containers from wood, and it was no wonder that the forest contained several varieties of wood prized by craftsmen. There was less demand for it now with cheaper factory furniture, but the town maintained its peace, even if it wasn't quite as prosperous as it used to be.

He was a large wolf, dark gray fur thick over rippling muscles as he padded between the trees, his steps ghost-quiet as his golden eyes glinted in the moonlight. Gesewald sat in its valley, swathed in darkness aside from a few street lamps. He knew he could prowl through most of the streets at this time of the night and not be noticed. How easy it would be. He was the Big Bad Wolf, after all. He licked his lips before pausing at the edge of a backyard.

He sniffed the air again, stilling as he felt the magic that did not belong here. The great lengths gone to in the effort to keep him from Red would have been almost amusing if not for the grief it'd caused him. If he wasn't careful, it might cause more grief still. He bit back a soft growl before he disappeared into the shadows.

o0o0o0o

Grandmother wasn't much for most of what could be found on television, but she'd developed a taste for historical dramas and some of the cooking shows. Carmine had bought her grandmother a nice panel television that sat in the living room, bringing these shows to Rosamund in high definition.

Grandmother was old-fashioned in many ways, but she was not above enjoying some creature comforts, especially if she could share them with her granddaughter. She'd helped her grandmother with dinner, and then afterward, they sat on the sofa with tea, making comments on the dishes that the contestants had to come up with while a celebrity chef made biting remarks at them over mistakes they made. After Grandmother bade her good night, Carmine stayed up a while longer to watch a movie that'd just been released onto streaming.

Tomorrow would be a quiet day. There were no trips planned; she'd just help with some chores and then do some reading. She'd probably go for a walk at some point. She rose from her seat, walking around the house, making sure the doors and windows were locked before she turned off the lights. Moonlight filtered in through the kitchen windows, and the floorboards creaked softly when Cerise stepped from the kitchen down the short hall.

The staircase led to the attic of the cottage, which Carmine had turned into a comfortable living space. A deep red comforter was spread across the bed, and she sighed and slid onto it after tugging off her red hooded sweatshirt and her slippers. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness after she turned off her lamp, and she lay there for several moments, thinking of her trip to the city earlier that day.

Some young people might chafe at the idea of a chaperon, but Carmine welcomed Albert's presence as they went about their errands. Despite his relative youth, Albert was more mature than many men older than him. He was the son of the local huntsman, and he'd brought Rosamund venison and rabbit meat several times through the year. Good lad, that, Grandmother had said on more than one occasion. There was no denying that, even if Carmine had taken a bit of time to trust him.

She remembered how anxious she'd felt during her first trip to Blauburg, even with her grandmother at her side. When Carmine thought back, the changes were quite startling. It wasn't as if she wasn't used to being surrounded by such hustle and bustle. She'd spent much of her childhood in such places, with her family. But as the years went by, things just seemed harder to handle.

She had problems sleeping. She often felt claustrophobic, but then when she was out, she felt agoraphobic. Things she'd been able to tolerate as a child grated on her as a teenager. She was put on medication, which made her feel as if she were in a fog, but it did keep other emotions at bay. She functioned, she performed, she succeeded. Until one day, when she decided she didn't want to anymore. It'd been too much for her, and she burned out in her first year at university.

So here she was. The medications were long gone from her system. She still had anxiety sometimes, but she found it much easier to manage here with a cup of tea or some fresh air than back in a gilded cage loaded up on drugs. Sometimes there was a bit of a fog, like she was trying to remember something, and wasn't sure what it could be. She told herself that it was a lingering effect of what she'd been through. She knew enough about mental health to know how some effects could linger for years if not decades. She certainly hoped that wasn't the case, though. She'd worked so hard on getting better, on mending herself as she tried to figure out who she was meant to be.

Carmine closed her eyes, nestling her head against a pillow.

A forest, full of light and bright greens. Here and there, flowers provided cheery bursts of color. Sunlight filtering through the trees. A basket at her side. The twitter of birdsong drifting between the branches. A plume of smoke visible through the trees, signaling an end to her journey.

She'd trodden this path many times before, in her dreams and elsewhere. The leaves could be green, or red, or stripped bare, and she would know nonetheless. This was a safe place, a haven and refuge away from the world.

She heard the soft crunch of a twig breaking, and turned to see a pair of golden eyes amidst thick dark gray fur.

"What brings you here, little Red Hood?" came the gravely rumble.