Chapter Text
You woke up with vomit in your mouth.
“Shit,” you muttered, wiping spittle from your lips as you pushed yourself onto one elbow. Nelly, who’d been tucked at your side, lifted her head and bayed. “Yeah, sorry.”
You stumbled out of the stable into the biting chill of early dawn and followed the glint of metal to the water pump. As phantom fingers closed around your throat, you rinsed your mouth and spat in the grass. Gross.
Your head spun. With a heavy thump, you fell onto the grass and scrubbed your face with a muttered curse. There were indents on your cheeks in the pattern of hay, and your skin was oily and slick with sweat. Even grosser. The thought that you should ask your mom for home remedies darted through your mind. Then you felt stupid.
Ass-crack of dawn, and you were throwing a fit over a dream—or a nightmare, however much the distinction mattered. Already, the nonsensical images were fading away, bizarre slashes of scarlet and gray and blue like ink. But there had been a mealy crack ringing out as brightly as a New Year’s bell, and a splash of clarity, almost satisfaction, like the first time your dad took you to the stable and showed you how to butcher a lamb.
Easy does it, he’d said, smoothing over the lamb’s ears, and it had laid there so pretty and still as he slit its throat and bled it from top to bottom. Stupidly, you’d asked if it had hurt. Not if you do it right.
Bone like brittle candy, you thought, and spat again, harder.
Trotting footsteps. Something butted against your side, and you lifted your head to see Nelly staring at you forlornly. She bayed and nudged your arm. With a helpless laugh, you lifted it and let her nuzzle into your lap. She was soft and warm, just small enough to fit beneath your arm, and she flicked her tail against your thigh as you scratched her head right between her milk-white ears and her dappled nose.
Nelly, you remembered, had been the runt of the litter, too weak to be bred and too small to be slaughtered. The first lamb you’d ever help birth, and you’d marveled at how quickly she’d wobbled onto four hooves, still slick in a film of fluids. Your dad didn’t believe she’d last the night and your brother called her ugly, but your mother helped you clean her off and feed her milk while her mom heaved for breath, blood pooling beneath her belly.
You swallowed and buried your face in Nelly’s soft neck. Her chest rose and fell in quick, fluttering breaths. “Thanks,” you said into her coat.
She bleated softly.
You didn’t know how long you sat there, Nelly curled in your lap and your butt growing colder and wetter by the morning dew, but it was long enough that the darkness broke into a burnt orange, casting long shadows across the slumbering island. Nelly laid her chin on your thigh, smothering as much as you beneath her soft coat as she could.
You took a deep breath in and let the cold air hiss out through your teeth. Then you climbed to your feet and brushed grass and dirt from your pants. Your legs tingled with numbness.
“It’s gonna get better,” you told the dawn, tugging Nelly’s ear gently so she’d follow you back to the stable.
The dawn didn’t respond.
Winter on the island had softened somewhat in the wake of the Navy’s latest barrage of naval regulations, which allowed for easier passage of neutral parties—sailors, independent businesses, and the occasional party cruise—between islands without a million forms and treatises (or so the herbalist’s Grand Line contacts claimed). But your village was small enough that commercial ships only stopped bimonthly with essentials, and your modest savings as a livestock farmer didn’t exactly scream “disposable income.”
So you spent the summer months prepping. By the end of autumn, you’d stockpiled the cellar with enough dried meats to feed a village. Wano spices were already a rare commodity, but you hoarded them now, drying racks and racks of peppercorns, chili peppers, seeds to be jarred and stored until you needed them. You traded a goat for four hens, which you kept in a henhouse that the carpenter had built in exchange for your help clearing the woods behind his shop. Fleece from the sheep went to the only weaver in the village with a mechanical loom, who paid you back in soft woolen shirts and pants.
You finished tying the bundle of sausage to the cellar ceiling and clambered down the ladder, eying your work carefully. Not too shabby for your first time using bull intestines instead of pig. Made your hands all slippery and oily, ugh, but cattle was sturdier than pork, and they stuffed more meat by volume.
“Excuse me, Musashi. May I ask if you own a mill file?”
You did not scream. You did, however, kick the ladder over in a spasm of movement that pulled a muscle in your back.
“What are you doing here?” you said once you finished muttering a list of curses that would make your brother blush with pride.
Vista blinked at you, looming at the entrance to the cellar. He was broader than the door was wide, but he managed to squeeze himself down the steps by virtue of sheer grit and determination. Now he stood next to a shelf of pickled radishes, practically folded in half to avoid scraping the ceiling with his massive plume of curls.
“I was searching for you,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “You weren’t in your bedroom.”
“…I sleep in the stable,” you said, massaging your back with a wince. “More importantly, you should be resting.”
Vista dipped his head and just barely managed to not knock over a jar of fermented chili paste with his shoulder. “I will,” he promised. “I only wished to inquire about your sharpening tools.”
“For your swords?”
“My rapiers, yes.”
You stared at him. He stared back, doing a remarkable impression of a waiting dog despite scraping the ceiling with his shoulders.
“Go inside,” you said finally. “I’ll grab them for you.”
As he demurred and inched back up the stairs, you pressed a hand to your chest and forced your racing heart to slow. Stupid. Vista didn’t sound anything like your brother—or your dad, for that matter. You’d just been alone for so long that you’d forgotten what having another voice on the farm was like.
Four weeks, and Vista still managed to surprise you by popping up everywhere he wasn’t supposed to. You’d seen the bones of his ribcages that night; had nearly held his seas-damned heart in your hands. He shouldn’t even be conscious, let alone mobile and ambulating on his own this early into his recovery.
But apparently pirates didn’t care about petty things like inpatient care and rehabilitation. So yesterday you’d nearly given yourself a third-degree burn when Vista had reached over your head to help you grab a bowl in the high cabinets you’d been pawing at. The day before that, you’d dropped a pail of milk on Button Two (and it wasn’t even her milk) because he’d somehow terrified the goats and sheep into a swarm that crashed into the stable in a stampede of panicked bleats and thudding hooves. Vista was a kind, insistently polite intrusion, and you wanted to hit your head against a wall every time he ducked into a room and said your name in that disarmingly courteous voice.
At least he learned to say “pardon” and “excuse me.” You didn’t know how many more pulled muscles you could spare.
After massaging the soreness out of your lower back, you kicked the ladder to one side and meandered to the back of the cellar where you’d shoved most of your brother’s stuff after he left. Your eyebrow twitched as you stared at the mess piled against the wall: an old fishing pole, a collection of ice-chipping tools, a basket of wool collecting moths, even the over-sized loom your brother had used for all of three weeks before finding the sword.
You should probably toss them. You needed to toss them. You were definitely, one hundred percent going to toss them—
You didn’t toss them.
Instead, you kicked them aside and grabbed the long bundle propped against the wall. You’d deal with the mess later; clean it up all nice so that you could gloat to your brother when he came back.
As you reached the bottom of the steps, a loud thud echoed through the air. You paused.
“Vista?” you called, squinting at the cellar door. No response.
You dropped the whetstone and sprinted up the stairs.
“I apologize,” Vista said for the fiftieth time in a row. If a man twice your size with the broadness to match could look like a kicked puppy, Vista sure was succeeding, sitting with his back to the headboard in your mother’s bed. “I seem to have over-exerted myself.”
You grunted, wringing out another boiled washcloth and dabbing at the new stitches bisecting his torso. Up, down, flip to a clean section. Up, down, repeat. A nearly hypnotic pattern, if only for how many times you’d had to do it for your mother.
Vista’s body was a knot of muscle and scar tissue, some old, some pink and raw, but the most obvious one was the angry red chasm of pulsing muscle and flaking skin bisecting his torso. The wound had been healing, but his attempt at swordplay this morning had torn open half his stitches and caused it to gape open, blood drooling down his stomach. He wouldn’t be able to bend over for a few weeks—or maybe he would, considering how fast he’d healed the first time.
Again: pirates were weird.
“I told you to rest. You didn’t listen to me,” you said sullenly. And apologies didn’t make beris fall out of the sky, especially when someone was stupid enough to raise his swords after you explicitly told him not to.
Vista coughed. “If it makes you feel any better, I also don’t listen to my ship’s medic.”
You wanted to wring his neck, but that’d aggravate his wounds and force you to redo his stitches for a third time. So you dropped the stained washcloth into the basin with the other dirty towels and reached for the jar of dawndew pulp on the nightstand.
“Breathe in,” you said, and laughed when he choked, hand flying to his nose. “That’s what you get!”
“That’s foul,” he coughed, pinching his nose. “You’re foul.”
“You deserve it,” you said. “Lift your arm.”
He did, keeping a careful hand over his face. Drama queen. It wasn’t that bad.
You smeared the pungent poultice around the wound, then grabbed the roll of bandages and gestured. Obediently, he pinned one end beneath his arm, and you wound the other end around and around his torso until the foul scent disappeared beneath fresh cloth.
“There. That should hold for the day,” you said once you’d packed the dawndew away. “I’ll check tomorrow morning to see if it’s leaking pus.” Which was beyond your skillset, but hopefully you would never cross that particular bridge.
“Thank you, Musashi,” Vista said, finally removing his hand from his nose. “Really.”
Your cheeks began to burn, and you busied yourself with shoving the wound care supplies back into the first-aid kit so he wouldn’t catch your embarrassment. “You’re my guest. It’s the least I could do.”
“Still.” Vista gingerly swung his feet over the edge of the bed and lifted a hand as if to prod his chest. A hint of amusement slipped into his voice. “How long before I’m allowed to exercise again, Doctor Musashi?”
You slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch!”
Vista blinked. Then, inexplicably, he began to smile. “My apologies. I was simply admiring your handiwork.”
You snorted, tucking the bandages on top of the ointment. “That’s not what you’d say if you were a seamstress.”
“Not the stitches,” he murmured.
Your fingers twitched on the pair of medical scissors. The wound had been deep but clean. Clinical, even. Take a picture and it could probably go into a medical textbook, the same way you’d butcher a pig for its parts. But Vista wasn’t livestock, and you were far from the best butcher on the island.
As Vista gingerly pulled his shirt over his bandages, you slid the scissors back into place and closed the first-aid kit. “I have a gift for you,” you said.
“Oh?”
You lugged the basin of dirty washcloths into the bathroom and tucked the first-aid kit back into the cabinet. Then you carried the green bundle into the bedroom and dumped it onto the bed. “You wanted to sharpen your swords, right?” you asked, peeling away the ratty fabric. “This was my brother’s old whetstone. You can use it.”
Delight flooded Vista’s expression, followed by a strange sort of sadness as he touched the whetstone. His eyes were soft as he said, “Was?”
“He’s not dead,” you said, miffed by the assumption. You sat at the foot of the bed and noted how the mattress creaked beneath your weight. “He just went to the Grand Line and left a bunch of crap behind.”
Vista’s eyes got sadder. You switched tactics. “He’s fine. He’s a better swordsman than I’ll ever be.”
“I can't imagine that.”
“That a village bumpkin like him got into the Grand Line?”
“That he’s stronger than you,” he murmured.
You shrugged, picking at your nails. You remembered being seven and listening to your brother declare his newest obsession with swords, thinking that he’d forget about Tomo and the dojo in a month. Imagine your shock when he turned sixteen and set off for some grandstanding ambition to become the best murderer on the Four Seas. “He’s my older brother. He’s always been stronger.”
A soft sigh escaped Vista’s lips. “That is, I suppose,” he said, “the nature of siblings.”
Pick, pick. Dead skin fell onto the mattress. You’d scrubbed your nails raw before treating Vista’s wound, but there was something fascinating about the pink flesh, dry and flaking.
“Musashi,” Vista said. You looked up. “You should join my crew.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d asked. All those weeks ago, your response had been to laugh and laugh until you fell off your stool. You didn’t laugh this time.
You, a pirate? Sure, a couple of idiots before your brother had been lured away by the Navy with promises of discipline and glory, still others by the sailor’s guild. But pirates were a different beast. Even peace-mains like Vista had a bizarre fever in their voices whenever they spoke about that unending horizon, not greed or desire or impatience but wanderlust, both rarer and more terrifying than them all.
You didn’t get it. You doubted you ever would.
“I’m bad with boats,” you said.
“The Moby Dick is a ship,” Vista corrected.
“If you say so.”
He shifted. The creaking grew louder. You stared at the bedframe, wondering if it was finally surrendering to his weight. Wouldn’t be the first time you broke something of your mother’s. “You seem reticent.”
“Do I,” you muttered, curling your fingers into a ball.
But Vista was no longer listening. “This island doesn’t need to be your beginning and end, Musashi. You could be stronger. Better.”
“Sounds lonely.”
Vista laughed, incredulous. All the pirates you’d ever known were mean-faced and sneering, and Vista shared their damning greed in the wolfish slash of his grin. “Not with a crew. Not with a family,” he said in the breath, as if they couldn’t bear to be spoken separately.
“No,” you said, too quickly. Your jaw clenched, and you looked back down, scrubbing your sweaty hands against your thighs. Half-moon divots covered the flesh of your palms. “No, sorry. I don’t want to join your crew.”
Vista’s face flickered into a frown. Then he caught himself. “I… can’t say I understand. Do you really harbor no ambitions? Nothing at all?” His gaze settled on the side of your head, an oddly gentle feeling. “Musashi, what exactly are you afraid of?”
“I’m happy here,” you said. “I don’t know what else you want from me.”
With a quiet, nearly inaudible sigh, Vista dipped his head. He fluttered his fingers across the whetstone before folding the blanket over it, a painstakingly tender gesture that made your chest tighten. “I see,” he said, though he definitely did not. “Thank you, Musashi, but I’m afraid this whetstone won’t work.”
You cleared your throat awkwardly, mouth gritty. “You asked for sharpening tools.”
“There are different tools for different blades. A whetstone is fit for a single-edged blade. Not rapiers, which only require sharpening from around the halfway point. They’re also prone to burrs, so one must take care not to nick the blade on accident.” Vista must’ve recognized the dumbfounded look on your face because he laughed, brighter than the last. “Am I boring you?”
“No, I just,” you said, and then quietly, “I didn’t know.”
Vista smiled. “That’s alright,” he assured you. “You can still learn.”
The next morning, you snapped a branch off the tree in the backyard and fashioned a walking stick for Vista. The poor thing was barely taller than his hip, but it worked well enough for a five-minute project you’d completed between cleaning the stable and refilling the water troughs.
After releasing the sheep and goats to graze in the field, you returned to the house and went upstairs to change Vista’s bandages. You couldn’t even muster any surprise when you peeled away the old bandages, revealing a wound that was puckered and half-closed like it was a few months old instead of weeks. Vista wrinkled his nose but otherwise sat demurely as you reapplied the dawndew poultice and rewrapped his chest.
He rejected the walking stick, though. Said it’d interfere with his footwork, whatever that meant.
Once he’d dressed himself, you gestured. He obliged, a little confused. Only half paying attention, you wrangled his hair into a ponytail and tied it off with one of your mom’s old ribbons: yellow, to match the pair of jewels embedded in his ears.
“There,” you said. “Looks nice.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
You were halfway down the stairs when your mistake hit you. By then, it was too late to take it back. So you swallowed your mortification and settled Vista down at the kitchen table, then started rummaging through the ice box for the eggs you’d traded for a block of goat’s cheese last week.
Vista lasted two minutes before you heard shuffling and footsteps. “Do you need help?”
“I need you to sit down,” you said, eying the top cabinet with a scowl. Usually you’d just climb on the counter, pride be damned, but Vista was watching and you couldn’t sacrifice your dignity as a host like that.
You barely had time to blink before Vista reached over and grabbed the jar of nori flakes from the top shelf with a freakishly long arm. “This one?”
“Oh. Yeah, thanks.”
“Your wish is my command,” Vista said. He sounded amused, damn him. “Anything else, captain?”
“Shut up.” You paused. “Can you grab the miso?”
Breakfast was usually oats and whatever you didn’t manage to sell at the last weekend market. Since Vista’s arrival, though, you’d been pulling out all the stops, mostly due to his insistence on helping in the kitchen. His chopping skills were even more formidable than his swordplay, and he made a mean poached egg.
“My friend is a cook, so I have experience participating in his food experiments,” Vista said, flipping a tamagoyaki perfectly in the air. Oil sizzled and popped. “Consider me your sous chef.”
You tasted the miso soup and frowned. “Can my sous chef please hand me the green onions?”
He did. You sprinkled them into the pot and tasted it again. Not quite the same as the way your mother used to make it, but manageable. You ladled out two bowls and brought it to the kitchen table to join the spread of pickled radish, rice, and delicately fried fish.
“I’m going into the village today to drop off deliveries and grab groceries. You should come with me,” you said once you’d stuffed yourself full. “We’ll stop by the swordsmith and get what you need.”
Vista dabbed his mouth delicately with a napkin. He’d practically licked his plates clean, which was both an ego boost and a terrifying reminder of your dwindling food storage. You doubted he was even full. He’d stopped eating as soon as you set down your chopsticks with a speed that implied polite etiquette rather than satiety. “That sounds wonderful. I’m excited to see your village again.”
You grimaced. “It’s just a lot of grass and trees.” And ocean, you supposed, but Vista was a pirate, so that’d be like showing water to a fish.
“There’s wonder everywhere for those willing to witness,” Vista said.
Again: weirdo. But you supposed that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Nelly didn’t like to be left behind, but she still folded her ears back and hissed whenever she saw Vista, and you didn’t want to give him a dislocated knee on top of his pre-existing injuries. So you scratched her beneath the chin and promised to bring her carrots.
She, in turn, butted your thigh harder than usual, probably trying to ram you out of the way so she could get Vista. You sighed and led her back to the field, shutting the fence behind her with a stern warning not to harass the other nannies. She tossed her head and flicked her tail, as if to say, Of course! You snickered and went to the cellar to grab your wagon.
The two of you started down the path towards the village just as the sun climbed to its peak, warming Vista’s complexion. He kept glancing towards the ocean, dark curls glowing gold in the light. His twin rapiers were hilted on either side of his hips, and you couldn’t help but think that he looked right with them there, that there had been an unsettling emptiness when he’d gone barehanded. “You have a beautiful view of the sunrise,” he remarked.
You followed his gaze to the edge of the water where foamy waves met long stretches of sand. You played there all the time as a kid, but now the only thing you could remember was the awful grit of saltwater in your mouth. “We do.”
“I can see why you don’t wish to leave it behind.”
Your retort caught in your throat. The island was a floating rock in the middle of an unforgiving ocean that contained all your worldly possessions. There was nothing special about that. But you couldn't imagine leaving to join some pirate’s crew on the sea—not without your parents’ gravestone, not knowing that Arashi might return at any point and see an empty house, devoid of animals and your mom and you.
“Sorry,” you muttered. The wagon went thump, thump, thump against the stone path as you dragged it along. “I still have things to do.”
He squeezed your shoulder. “It’s alright. The offer is still in the air if you ever change your mind. Pops and my brothers would love to meet you.”
“I appreciate that,” you said, and was surprised to find it was the truth.
The market was already in full swing by the time the two of you reached the village proper. Before you reached the main road, you yanked Vista’s shirt. “Don’t talk,” you advised.
Vista cocked his head. “May I ask why?”
“You’re an outsider, and you look like you know how to fight. That usually means mercenary or pirate, and neither of them are particularly popular around these parts.” You also didn’t know how much of the village he’d managed to see on that first day, but you couldn’t imagine it being a great first impression. For all of the ill-fitting clothes you’d scavenged from your dad’s closet and the disarmingly yellow ribbon in his hair, he was still unmistakeably foreign.
Vista touched the hilts of his rapiers thoughtfully. Eventually, he nodded. “Understood. I’ll leave the talking to you.”
You released his shirt and tugged your wagon forward. As usual, there was a brief lull in conversation as people registered your presence before the noise swelled to full volume, an attempt at normalcy that never worked—though the ruckus seemed louder today, gossip mill running twice-fold to compensate for the additional presence of Vista behind you. You kept your gaze fixed in front of you, ignoring the wisps of your name you caught floating past. One step at a time.
“Excuse me,” you said, stopping before the stand of baked goods. People milled around you, dropping off berris in the vendor’s basket and ducking away with their food before you could make eye contact. “You ordered cured pork?”
The vendor rushed to her feet. Her eyes flicked briefly to Vista, then back to you, holding your gaze with a steadfast confidence she didn’t feel. There were gray streaks in the hair tucked beneath her hairnet. “Musashi! Yes, I did. Two bundles of cured pork.”
You rummaged through your wagon. “Here you go,” you said, handing her the brown package wrapped with twine. “Batch from last month. Hope you like it.”
“Thank you. Please, take your pick,” she said, accepting it with a feeble smile. She kept glancing at Vista, a vague consternation tightening her aged features. “How are the animals? Pneumonia’s been going around.”
“Better now. Eri’s dad helped,” you said, picking out a glazed bun that kind of resembled Nelly. After a moment, you grabbed another one with cat ears. “Can we get a napkin?”
She stuffed everything in a paper bag and handed it to you with a wink. “Enjoy,” she called as you led Vista away to a side-street where you could eat without being stared at. Only when you opened the bag did you realize she’d squeezed in an extra sweet bun.
“That was kind of her,” Vista commented, leaning against the wall.
“Yup,” you said, giving him the cat. You remembered her baking little buns with leftover dough and sneaking it to you and your brother when she still had a full head of blond hair. Even now, she asked for your help with small errands, things that could be paid back with an extra loaf or two. “Now stop talking.”
He hummed as he took a bite. Sugar smeared his mouth, which he licked away with a shit-eating grin. “Mm,” he said, nodding over-exaggeratedly. “Mm-mm, mm, mm-mm-mm.”
You kicked his shin.
You finished the next couple of orders along the same street. A few stopped you and asked for help clearing out a field, or hauling bushels of rice, or hunting a pesky vermin harassing their warehouses. You agreed to most of them, only bartering for a new set of woolen blankets from the weaver. It was going to get colder, and you hated sleeping with cold feet.
The last stop was the fruit seller (one of many) who’d married a villager and settled next to Eri’s shop a few years ago. Immediately, he frowned when he spotted you approaching. Oh, boy.
The wagon bumped against the back of your calves as you stopped before his stand. You steeled yourself and plastered on a smile that felt as fake as it probably looked. “Excuse me. You ordered three links of sweet pork sausage, four links of spicy pork sausage, and a pound of beef jerky, right?”
“Yes,” he said tersely.
“Okay. Give me a second.” You sifted through your wagon. One, two, three… Where the hell did you put the last link of sausage?
“Who’s that?” the fruit seller said suddenly. “Some sort of intimidation tactic?”
You heard Vista shift, though he remained thankfully silent. “He’s my guest,” you said, shoving aside blocks of cheese and twine-wrapped packages of cured meat. Crap, did you miscount this morning? You were usually good about inventory. One, two…
“Could’ve fooled me.” A brief, blissful silence. “You’re wasting my time. Do you have the rest of my order or not?”
Three, and… A-ha! Four and counting. You held up your prize triumphantly and piled everything onto the counter. “Here you go. That should be everything.”
“Wait,” the fruit seller said, and scrambled behind the crates and crates of plump fruit to grab something from the floor. He straightened and placed a balance on the counter. Jerky went on one side, while a brick of sandstone went on the other. The balance wobbled and tilted every so slightly. His lip twisted. “This is several stones below weight,” he said pointedly. “Even for you, Musashi, this is under-handed.”
“What do you mean,” Vista said suddenly, voice rumbling in a way you’d never heard before, “even for you?”
“Vista, relax,” you said. To the fruit seller: “Sorry. Just give me half of what we bargained for. Consider it compensation for my error.”
The fruit seller wasn’t looking at you, though. “Errors are accidental,” he told Vista. “Musashi is a very intentional person.”
“Yup,” you said, pulling out your wallet. “Can I pick some duckberries?”
“You should be careful,” the man said. “You never know what a murderer’s thinking.”
Vista took a step forward, and it was only a step, but the fruit seller flinched back like Vista had drawn his sword. You barged in front of him and slammed a fistful of beris down with your best smile. “I’ll take a bundle of carrots too,” you said, and added, “Please,” when his face remained pale.
The fruit seller took the beris so fast the edge of the paper sliced your finger open. “Like really does call to like,” he said, indignant and self-assured. “I don’t know why we put up with you. Furiko was the only good thing about your family.”
You stuffed the duckberries and carrots into your canvas bag and tossed it into your wagon. You didn’t know what kind of face Vista was making to scare the fruit seller into backing away so far, but you didn’t care to check. “Thanks for your patronage,” you said, remembering just in time to bow shallowly.
“That was,” Vista said.
“Mean?” you said, sitting on a boulder on the side of the road and sucking your thumb forlornly. You never understood why paper cuts hurt more than knife wounds.
“Cruel,” Vista said, brow furrowing. His fists were balled at his side, and he looked like he wanted to whirl around and throw himself at the fruit seller, reputation be damned. Scary image, but you knew Vista would never draw his swords against a civilian.
You checked your thumb. Still bleeding, but whatever. “It’s fine,” you said, shaking out your hand. “I’m used to it.”
“Used to it? Musashi, you’re a child. No one should treat you like that, regardless of your past mistakes.”
You shrugged. “It used to be worse.”
“What? How?”
“No one would buy from me at all.” And your mother had cried and cried, apologizing for her weakness, apologizing for your brother’s absence, and you could only hold her and vow to yourself that you’d never be the cause of her tears again. Now, at least, some of the villagers could look you in the eye. So it wasn’t all that bad. “They’ve always held a grudge. I think they were jealous of my dad.”
Vista’s frown deepened. “You should be furious.”
“What’s the point in that?” you asked.
“Catharsis? Justice?”
You snorted. As if a pirate knew anything about Justice. Lashing out had never done you any good—not since that time you’d destroyed the fisherman’s stand in a fit of frustration and looked up to see fear, not anger or indulgence or exasperation at a child’s tantrum.
“Musashi,” Vista said, and you startled when he kneeled before you, imploring you with dark eyes. His hand hovered over yours, not quite touching. “Help me understand. Why do they call you a murderer?”
“Because I am,” you said. “I killed five people a few years ago.” You stopped, then amended, “Five pirates. I don’t think they’ve ever forgiven me for it.”
Melancholy softened his scowl. He nodded slowly. “I see. That is very brave of you.”
“It wasn’t,” you said. When you closed your eyes, you could see their faces imprinted on your eyelids, slack and drooping as they fell to the earth for the last time.
“I assume you were defending your island,” Vista said. “Would that not be courage personified?”
You looked away. The street you’d fled to was empty, but you could still hear the market in the distance, the murmur of conversation and the tut-tut of wheels on stone. “But they didn’t have to die. I could’ve— I don’t know, knocked them out, and my brother would’ve chased them off. But I wasn’t good enough.”
“Those pirates wouldn’t have been merciful to your family.”
“‘Course not,” you said. “But they didn’t deserve to die.”
His hands enveloped yours and squeezed. “No one chooses to die, but such is the path they pursued. If the outcome of their choice was death, so be it.”
Spoken like a true swordsman.
You stared at the back of his hands, calloused and scarred and covered in a thin layer of dark coarse hair. “When you’re bad with a knife, you can’t butcher an animal. They’ll struggle and bite, so the knife won’t go all the way through. But if you’re good, they won’t even know they’re dead. It’s painless. It’s mercy.” Static crackled in your ears. “What I did to the pirates wasn’t mercy.”
It had been a slaughter. Eri didn’t get it, but her parents did. Feral animals were meant to be fenced off. Sure, you could reach over and feed it bits of dinner so it would learn to stop biting your fingers, but you would never invite it into your home or call it your friend, even if they killed other pests terrorizing the far, not unless you wanted to be mauled in your sleep. That’s why the villagers still traded with you even though most of them wanted you gone—one evil for another.
Even if his hands were just as bloody as yours, your brother had been tamed and muzzled by the dojo. You had no such affiliations, no one to vouch for your domestication.
So you get why the villagers were afraid of you. You were too, sometimes.
The grooves deepened between Vista’s sharp eyes. He released your hands and sat back on his haunches and very carefully did not touch his swords. “Perhaps not mercy. Regardless, you should be honored that you’ve defended your village against further harm.”
“Yeah, sure,” you said. “A real fucking honor.”
And you would never, ever forgive yourself for it.
Your brother’s friend was sitting on the front steps of the forge, carving wood with a tiny knife. When he spotted the two of you approaching, he rose to his feet with an excited wave. “Hey! Long time no see.”
“Shiro,” Vista said, dipping his head. Social propriety chased away his most obvious displeasure, though the faint furrow between his brows remained. He also kept giving you strange, forlorn glances when he thought you weren’t looking, and it was making your skin itch. “A pleasure.”
You leaned over. Obligingly, Vista bent down enough to let you whisper into his ear, “You know him?”
He made a noncommittal noise. He was still upset, if not at the fruit seller, then you. “We’re acquainted.”
Oh, right. Before your fight, you’d directed Vista towards the dojo. Shiro had likely been one of his victims.
“I’m sorry,” you said seriously. Startled, Vista laughed.
As you got closer, Shiro spread his arms as if waiting for a hug. His yukata was a cheerful yellow, though the hems were stained with dirt and who knows what else. With his oil-slick black hair tied in a low ponytail, he looked just like Tomo. “I knew that wasn’t the last I’d see of you! Musashi’s a softie at heart,” he crooned, slapping Vista’s elbow. He had to crane his neck real far to meet Vista’s gaze. “How was it?”
For the first time since your exchange with the fruit seller, Vista’s lips eased into a smile. He inclined his head and made an aborted motion as if to tip a non-existent hat. “As educational as you’d claimed.”
“Didn’t you beat him up?” you asked Vista, who coughed into his hand.
“Gently,” he murmured, suddenly abashed.
“Never knew Grand Liners could hit so hard,” Shiro said, grinning. He patted your shoulder roughly, then pressed his half-finished carving into your hand. “Arashi’s got his work cut out for him, huh?”
You brushed off your shoulder and put the tiny carved goat into your pocket, suppressing an instinctive swell of irritation. “Whatever. Shouldn’t you be at the dojo?”
“Nah. It’s the dojo’s day off, so I’m helping out the old man with a project.” Shiro whirled upon Vista with aneurysm-inducing cheerfulness. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. Shimotsuki Koshiro, Musashi’s babysitter.”
“Excuse me,” you said. “Babysitter?”
“Or brother-in-law.”
“Brother-in-law?” you said, even more incredulous. “In what world?”
Eyes curving, he reached over to scrub your hair. You ducked out of the way just in time. He looked peeved, then mischievous. “In the world where our brothers are on a world-trotting journey to discover themselves, of course!”
Oh, seas. You did not want that image of Tomo and your brother in your head. “I’m good, thanks.”
Shiro only laughed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he told Vista, holding out his hand.
Vista shook it, too amused for your liking. “Vista of the Flower Swords. Musashi never mentioned you were related.”
“We’re not,” you said.
“Musashi tends to leave out the important bits,” Shiro said at the same time.
Vista blinked. “My apologies. You seemed close.”
“He’s a friend of my brother,” you said, which was a nice way of saying he used to trip me through doorways and make fun of my eyes before he grew enough of a spine to stop kissing my brother’s ass all the time. “Shiro, where’s your dad?”
“Inside.”
“I need a favor.”
“Oh? That’s rare.” Shiro’s black eyes gleamed. “What kind of favor?”
You jutted a finger at Vista. “He needs his swords sharpened.”
“Rapiers,” Vista corrected, laying his hands on their hilts.
“Yeah, that.”
Shiro smiled, sharper than the last. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said, sweeping a hand towards the forge. “Come on in! I’ll show you the way.”
“So,” the swordsmith said. “You’re the newest challenger.”
Vista inclined his head respectfully. “I was, sir.”
The swordsmith grunted. He was small on a good day, but he looked even shorter sitting in his old rocking chair, pipe in hand and drowning in a dark gray yukata. You eyed his long, knobbly fingers, wondering if his red joints were blisters or arthritis. “And?”
“I lost,” Vista admitted. Wonder glittered in his eyes as he peered at the wall of swords. The swordsmith had added more to the collection since you last saw it, some with intricate pommels, some with dancing waves. You didn’t know enough about swords to appreciate their beauty, but Vista was damn near salivating.
At least his bad mood had dissipated. You smiled at his back.
The swordsmith nodded, rocking back and forth in an oddly hypnotic pattern. “I’d expected as much.”
“Sir,” you said, dipping your head awkwardly when the swordsmith turned those unerringly dark eyes upon you. “We need your help. Vista wants to do maintenance on his rapiers, but—”
“—Aoiyuhi no Yoake was an ōdachi,” the swordsmith finished. He took a long inhale of his pipe, letting smoke stream from his mouth and nostrils. “Arashi wouldn’t have had the right tools.”
“Yeah,” you admitted. “And I’ve never had that issue with Button, so...”
Behind you, leaning against the wall, Shiro snickered. “Typical Musashi.”
You were not going to punch him in front of the swordsmith. You were not.
Vista touched your shoulder. “May I?”
You removed Button from your hip and gave it to him. He unsheathed it, examining its edge. “Button is a… tantō, correct? Of Wano-make,” he said, directing the question towards the swordsmith.
The swordsmith grunted. “That’s right.”
“He’s single-edged,” Vista said, running his finger along the flat end of the blade. His eyebrows climbed. “And terribly dull. How long has he been like this?”
“Er,” you said. “Forever? I don’t know.” It still cut fine, so you’d never went further than cleans between uses and a simple polish when it got dirty.
A grimace flickered across Vista’s mouth before he coughed. “Is that so,” he said. His fingers twitched around Button’s hilt as you took it back, and you were pretty sure if he were two shades less polite he’d be running away with Button in hand, propriety and pride be damned. A little embarrassed, you tucked Button back into its sheathe.
Shiro rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. “Musashi doesn’t do swords,” he said, latching an arm over your shoulders. You resisted the urge to jam your elbow into his side.
“The little lord doesn’t, but you should,” the swordsmith said. He pinched his pipe between his teeth and hobbled to his feet. “Give me your blades. I'll handle it.”
Vista hesitated, hands settling on the hilts of his rapiers. “I’d prefer to limit external influence on them,” he said apologetically.
“Ouch,” Shiro muttered into your ear.
“Get off of me,” you replied. He snickered but didn’t move.
The swordsmith’s expression went flat and unimpressed. He tapped ash from his pipe and set it on a nearby table. “Wait here,” he said.
He disappeared into the back of the forge. Moments later, he reappeared with a pure-white sword. Shiro’s arm suddenly disappeared from your shoulders, and you caught shock drifting across his face. “You can’t be serious. You’re showing him? ”
The swordsmith’s glance was brief but sharp. Shiro sputtered, jaw clicking shut.
There was nothing small about the swordsmith as he unsheathed the sword. “This,” he said as the blade tore through the air, “is Wado Ichimonji.”
Vista’s breath hitched audibly. You touched your ears with a wince. Was that what a good blade was supposed to sound like? Like— like shear glass, gliding through the air like water?
“She’s beautiful,” Vista said breathlessly. He stumbled forward, only to halt a few steps away from the swordsmith, hesitation tightening his shoulders. For the first time, he looked like a cowed student before their master, head bowed and hands held carefully at his sides. “Sir, may I…?”
The swordsmith smiled and resheathed the sword. “Go ahead. She bites, though.”
With trembling hands, Vista reached forward and grasped the hilt of the white blade. You waited, but he did nothing but stand there, painfully still.
Beside you, Shiro tensed.
Finally, Vista released a tight sigh, longing and regret in one. “Marvelous. Simply marvelous,” he said, turning the sword on its side and offering it back to the swordsmith with a respectful bow. “My compliments. I would be honored if you could hone my blades.”
The swordsmith eyed him, black eyes narrowing. He didn’t move to take it. “Where did you say you were from?”
“Ah,” Vista said, raising his head slightly, “I’m one of Whitebeard’s, sir.”
You jolted. Shiro let out an incredulous whistle. Even you knew who Whitebeard was. But Vista hadn’t told you that. Did that you mean you invited a Whitebeard pirate into your dad’s house? No, wait, did you nearly kill and then spend a month trying to treat a Whitebeard pirate??
The swordsmith nodded curtly. “Hm. You’re not half-bad yourself.”
“Is it that impressive?” you blurted out, still reeling from the revelation that Vista was a Whitebeard pirate (holy shit) and that at one point, he’d wanted you to join them (holy shit!). “It’s just a sword, isn’t it?”
Shiro scoffed. “Musashi, please.”
“What,” you said, flushing. You were trying to learn.
Vista smiled at you. It was a gentle expression, almost indulgent in its honesty. Nothing like the rumors of the monsters from the New World, world-cleavers and mountain-shapers.
“No, it’s alright. I’m glad you’re curious.” He glanced at the swordsmith, a silent question. The swordsmith inclined his head, and Vista turned back to you. “All blades—rapiers, tantōs, polearms—are evaluated into certain grades based on their craftsmanship and sharpness. The difference between grades even one tier apart is the chasm between a hobbyist who dabbles in watercolor and a mythical painter who illustrates the stars.” He drew the white sword again, a sharp whistle that rang in your ears. “Wado Ichimonji is what we call a ‘great-grade’ blade, among the strongest and most prized weapons across the Four Seas. I doubt there is a single blade within a thousand leagues that may match her talents. A skilled wielder of a graded blade is said to be able to split the sky in half.”
Vista caught the incredulousness on your face. He laughed, a little breathless. “Sir, may I—”
“We have practice dummies in the back,” the swordsmith said.
“Much obliged.”
So the three of you were herded to the empty clearing behind the forge with a bunch of the dojo’s wooden practice dummies, though they were all in some sort of disrepair. You spotted a pile of ones sliced in half and frowned. Stupid Arashi.
“Admittedly, I am not an expert on the art of katanas,” Vista demurred, taking position before a row of four dummies. “But I will do my best, and Shimotsuki-dono is welcome to critique as he sees fit.”
The swordsmith shrugged. There was a faint smile on his lips behind that omnipresent pipe. “Do your worst.”
Vista seemed to brace himself. He swung, and the blade sang as it sliced through the air. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, as if realizing they’d been cut, the top half of the dummies slid off and landed on the ground with a thump.
Shiro whistled lowly.
“Sharp,” you remarked.
“Sharp,” Vista agreed, holding the sword up reverently.
A hand tugged on your hair. Shiro was grinning at you, doing an awful job of hiding the irritation and jealousy in his pointed smile. “See,” he said in an exaggerated whisper, “that’s what happens when you actually take care of your blade.”
That was it.
You shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back, surprise widening his eyes. “Shut up,” you said, stepping forward and unsheathing Button. The swordsmith chuckled beneath his breath. You ignored him.
“Musashi?” Vista said as you hopped next to him. Apprehension colored his voice, and he took a half-step back.
“Move,” you said, waving Button impatiently at him.
He did. You eyed the four dummies and took a deep breath. Imagined your brother, ten, drowning in your dad’s yukata, wreathed by a halo of cut grass. Then you slashed down.
The dummies didn’t move. Behind them, a line of trees rustled as they toppled over, sliced cleanly in half. Vista’s smile was filled with wonder. “Musashi,” he said, trailing off.
Shiro was frowning. Good.
“Hobbyist,” you echoed, sheathing Button with a flick of your wrist.
Which was of course when Eri burst into the forge, red-faced and panting.
“Is Musashi here?” she said breathlessly, searching the clearing.
“Eri?” you said, and she whirled upon you, lunging past Shiro and Vista like a woman possessed. You grabbed her elbows before she could collapse onto her knees. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Realization struck you like a splash of ice-water. “Is it pirates?”
Her head bowed, and she heaved for breath. You shot a glance at Shiro over her shoulder, who rolled his eyes and disappeared into the forge.
“Vista,” you said, and was surprised by the evenness of your own voice, “did you—”
“No pirates,” Eri said. You tore yourself away from the startled hurt on Vista’s expression and focused on the feverish brightness of Eri’s eyes, more violet than brown today. “Just… Just let me catch my…”
A knot unwound in your chest, and you nodded, coaxing her into the chair Shiro proffered. Her face was flushed as she sank down, either from embarrassment or concern. “Sorry for scaring you,” she muttered, wiping a line of sweat from her forehead.
“It’s fine.”
You were rather glad for it, in fact. Two pairs of eyes burned the back of your neck, and you’d rather pretend to be busy by talking to Eri than acknowledge your mistake. Humiliation was the least of it. You’d been too eager, too smug about knocking Shiro down a peg, and to be fair it has been a powder keg exploding after a long, long, day. But your dad had had plenty of long days. Your mom had suffered more long days in her life than you’d eaten grains of rice. Your face grew warm.
You pressed two fingers against her throat, checking her fluttering pulse. Fast, but you could chalk that up to exertion. She was sweating buckets, but (with all kindness) Eri never went outside, so this was pretty normal for her.
“Do you need water? Something to nibble on?” you asked, pulling back.
“A paper bag to breathe into?” said Shiro, and you couldn’t help but shoot him a glare.
“Shut up, Shiro,” Eri snapped, drawing herself up. Shiro shrugged. “Good afternoon, Shimotsuki-sama. And—” She faltered. A strange hardness creeped into her voice as she focused on Vista. “A guest, I presume?”
“He’s mine,” you said quietly, which was— weird to admit, but he was your guest and you’d treat him as such until he left. “Vista, this Kotetsu Eri. She’s an apprentice herbalist. Eri, Vista. He’s a pirate.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Eri,” Vista said politely.
Eri’s lips thinned. One of her hands reached up and gripped the straps of your overalls. “So you’re the reason why Musashi’s been buying ointment and dawndew from us,” she said flatly. “Was the fight worth it?”
Vista smiled. “Oh, yes. Very much so.”
You frowned at him. He raised his hands in surrender.
Eri yanked you towards her. “Musashi,” she said into your ear, pulling an envelope from her kimono and pressing it into your hand, and there was something maddeningly hopeful in her voice, “my dad’s friend just returned from Loguetown. I think—”
Before you could stop yourself, you snatched the envelope from her hand. Your name was written in blocky, straight-laced text, the same handwriting that covered half of the things piled in the back of the cellar.
In the background, you heard Eri murmur to Shiro, clearly not wanting Vista to overhear. Not that it mattered. You once dropped a plate in the kitchen and Vista appeared at the door a few seconds later with straw in his hair.
Footsteps, and suddenly Shiro was right there, tearing the envelope apart with a cluck of his tongue. “Wonder what Kojiro wants now,” he mused. “More money? Food? Another graded sword to use and discard as he wishes?”
Your heart thudded in your throat. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but stare at your brother’s handwriting and wait for your vision to clear.
Paper rustled. Like a canary in a mineshaft, Shiro fell silent.
Then he said, “Bastard.”
Fear stayed your hand. Dread moved it.
NOT YET.
“He pisses me off,” Shiro said.
“Mm,” you said, sweeping the broom across the ground. Scattered straw joined the pile in the center of the clearing.
“What a bastard. Who does he think I am, his babysitter?”
“Mm.”
“Musashi,” Shiro snapped. “Say something.”
You lifted your head, vision blurry. Eri had cried and apologized profusely before she left, even though it wasn’t her fault your brother was an idiot. The swordsmith and Vista had ducked into the forge to complete maintenance on his rapiers and Button, so the two of you stayed behind to clean up the splintered remains of the dummies.
“What is there to say?” you said, flat as flint. “Arashi doesn’t care. Neither does Kojiro. They won’t come back until—”
“—until they’re the strongest,” Shiro finished. He threw the tattered remains of his letter to the ground, where the wind tossed it away.
A cold droplet splashed against your nose. Slowly, steadily, rain fell from the gloomy sky, and you lowered your head and blinked water from your lashes. Sweeping was going to be a pain when everything was wet.
Shiro scoffed and folded his arms over the end of his broom, pressing his forehead against them. “You know what the worst part is?” he spat. “I can’t go after him. He left the title of head of the dojo to me, and I can’t even fight him to prove that I deserve the role— Dammit. Dammit!” He glared at nothing. “What now, Musashi? Are you going after your brother and dragging him back while I'm stuck here where everyone knows I’m just a replacement?”
The last word, he whispered hoarsely. The broom was too tall to hold comfortably. You adjusted your grip on the knotted wood and kept going. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I have to protect the village,” you said.
Wood clattered to the ground. You looked up. Shiro’s expression was somewhere between a grin and a snarl, his broom hurled to his feet in a splash of muddy rainwater.
Strange. You liked him better like this, all jagged edges and writhing jealousy.
“Who do you think we are, huh? We may not be as strong as you, but the dojo—”
“That’s not it,” you said, and spat out your suspicions for the first time since Vista arrived. “I think someone put a bounty on me.”
Shiro’s mouth clicked shut. He didn’t ask when because he wasn’t stupid, and correlation wasn’t causation but it sure as hell looked like it when the frequency of pirate attacks on your village ramped up right after you chased off a rich grand line merchant with a penchant for orange. Why else would they target a tiny backwater village in the middle of the Twilight Isles, home to the Hero of the Navy? That bastard had placed a bounty on you, and it must’ve been enough beris that pirates and bounty hunters alike chased you down for it.
You dragged the bristles of the broom across the ground, leaving scrapes of dark mud. Regret didn’t feed stomachs and it sure as hell couldn’t turn back time, but penance had its own rewards. It had to.
“They’ll keep coming even if I leave, but if I stay here, I can protect all of you,” you said. “It’s my bounty, so it’s my responsibility to defend the village.”
Shiro cuffed you over the head hard enough to make you jolt forward. The broom slipped out of your hands and clattered to the ground.
“Hey!” you said, too shocked to be angry.
But Shiro didn’t hit you again. Instead he dragged a hand over his face with a low, strained chuckle. The rain battered his shoulders, plastering his oil-slick hair to his neck. “You’re dumber than Arashi. How did I miss that?” He laughed into his palm, harsher. “You and your ego. You piss me off. Not everything revolves around your big head.”
You bristled. “It does in this case! The whole situation’s my fault. It was me who angered that merchant, me who should have—“
“—let that asshole keep harassing Mister Kotetsu and Eri?” You sputtered. Shiro shook his head. “So this whole time I’ve been losing to a brat who can’t even figure out that one plus one is two.”
Rain bled into your mouth. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know who else exists besides you and that damn goat of yours?” He raised his fingers one by one. “Me. My dad. The dojo. And if you don’t trust them, we’ve got a hundred angry villagers who are dying to pick up a pitchfork and kick ass. So don’t be stupid. It’s not like you’re the only fighter on this island.”
Shiro gripped your shoulders and stared you straight in the eye. “Musashi,” he said, ”go after Arashi.”
“—sashi? Musashi!”
You blinked.
“I think you’ve bullied the garlic enough,” Vista said, amused.
You looked down at the cutting board and winced at the pile of mashed garlic beneath your knife. “Sorry. Spaced out,” you said, sliding a finger along Button’s newly sharpened edge to dislodge bits of destroyed garlic. Puree worked too, you guess.
Vista slid a bowl of paper-thin slices of beef towards you. “Are you alright? You’ve been distant.”
You poured the garlic mush onto the beef slices and dumped in the rest of the mixed spices, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Just a little on edge.”
His gaze seared the back of your neck. “You’re upset.”
“I’m not,” you said sharply, and slammed Button down hard enough to crack the cutting board in half. You stared at it, a frustrated scream pressing against your teeth.
Calloused hands reached over and removed the remaining pieces of the cutting board. As you stood there, hands clenched and teeth gritted, Vista cleaned the counter and nudged you towards the kitchen table. Once the stew was bubbling away cheerfully, Vista took a seat in front of you. His voice was soft with understanding. “You don’t need to explain, but I’d like to know what I can do for you.”
You inhaled. Exhaled, forcing yourself to relax every muscle in your body.
“Vista,” you said, “you’ve been to the Grand Line, right?”
He tilted his head, clearly taken off guard by the abrupt switch in topic. “Of course. I’ve spent most of my life there.”
“Then—” You tripped over your words, but you forged on, afraid that if you’d stopped now you’d never spit them out. “You can take me with you, right?”
The corners of Vista’s mouth began to tilt into a smile. He cleared his throat and straightened, trying not to seem too overeager. “I don’t see why not,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Does this… Does that mean that you’ve changed your mind? You’ll join my crew?”
Before you could stop yourself, you nodded. You still didn’t like boats, and you had no idea why the most fearsome pirates on the Four Seas would want someone like you on their ship, but—
Your brother never paid respect to the new gravestone in the backyard.
“I’m going to find my brother,” you said grimly, “and I’m dragging him back here with me, greatest swordsman or not.”
He owed you as much.