Legacies, an one piece fanfic

There were legends of many things in that world. Legends of ancient weapons built to destroy the world, legends of giants living in the sky, of a conspiracy of twenty kings who took over the world and of men who could crack the sky in half without even batting an eye.

The most virulent of these legends were of those who travelled the entire world, end to end, shore to shore, went to islands in the sky, on the ocean floor, and everywhere in between.

There was a teller of tales who lived on a humble island in East Blue, in a town that never believed him when he spoke. He was the son of a pirate, and proud to be such. You won't find any information on him after he left home, not until ages later when he emerges as Captain of the fist unit of the most powerful pirates on the oceans, with a staggering eight thousand followers that stand behind him, listening to the tales of his travels and are more loyal to him than anything else.

History will note, with a touch of irony, that those who listened to his epics woven together from mere imagination, years later, would see the tales actually become reality. He would actually see a giant goldfish, go to the island of warrior giants and become their patron saint, and even set foot on the beaches of the Isle of Snipers. He would come to be a warrior of the sea- not feared, but respected deeply, from the bottom of the heart, and admired for his strength and courage.

On an island in West Blue that still bears scars of ravaging fire and the less noticeable but equally damaging emotional loss, a tree was planted. It is a breed that must be nurtured and cared for constantly in it's youth, and grows to be a towering, looming canopy of brightest green if it is loved. It was planted in the 1500s, by the hand of a woman who was the only survivor of the razing suffered by island and settlers alike.

It is a library, bearing the largest history athenaeum there ever was, is or will be the world over. It bears books on how to learn dead languages, on glyphs and lost centuries, and the truth of years long thought to have been lost to time and supression. The scholars there will look fondly on the crest of the library, a flower superimposed on a clover, and speak kindly and reverently of their founder, a brave woman who never gave up hope of finding the truth, of knowing all history and steering the world away from repeating it.

It is a well known fact that Island Whales are native to West Blue. No marine biologist will be able to tell you why, then, there is a pod that communes every year at the Twin Capes, leaps over the froth of ocean, awes the newcomers to the waters with their incredible size and beauty. The keeper of the lighthouse will say yeah, they do this every year. He'll say that there's no danger in crossing Reverse Mountain, somehow the whales always manage to dodge the ships as they pass. And every time one does, if they've all gathered, they will sing, a cetacean gathering to welcome you to the Grand Line.

They will raise their heads above the water, big and small, and start to wail out a tune that, while deafeningly loud, is pure bliss to the ears of those who listen. It's an old tune, from centuries ago; a pirate tune that any seafarer worth his salt knows the words to. The song is lilting and strong at the same time, uplifting but strangely sad all at once. And once it ends, you get the feeling you just witnessed a miracle on the unknowable ocean, an inherited will that has persevered through the ages, as untouched and beautiful as the day it was written.

There is a library on the snowy island of doctors in the Grand Line, in the castle atop the tallest plateau that covers her every wall and stairwell with books, said to be left by a legendary doctor who lived ages ago, the fabled Pancaea of the Sakura Kingdom. Look in the books and you will find every disease, every ailment outlined, and cures for every one of them. Some are deadly, others are merely irritating, nagging bugs, but one only need follow the directions of treatment to see their loved one come back from the brink of death to live and laugh with them again.

You may wonder, upon looking at the vast blankets of white that cover the island year-round, why it is called the Sakura Kingdom. None of the trees bloom; they are all evergreens, hardy trees that can withstand the climate, you say. No Sakura tree can bloom here.

The king, living in his humble abode among the townspeople will nod sagely as he offers you a bowl of chestnut rice and tell you you're right, there are no flowering trees in the Kingdom. But he will ask you to stay around until spring comes, so you can see for yourself why the island is named such. If you do stay, then you will see, against all logic and law of nature, pink snow fall around the drumtops and light up the sky like the northern aurora, and you'll feel the knots and worry in your breast fade away, unravel like silken thread, and make room for a genuine swell of hope.

There is a city most peculiar on the Grand Line, one that may or may not have once been anchored to land at some time in the past, a city of canals and towering fountains of water that make the namesake painfully obvious. it is a city of shipbuilders, even to this day, and produces the best-made vessels the world over, from galleons to sailboards.

It is said that a pervert once lived there, one with blue spiked hair and forearms the size of two-by-fours who terrorized the city one day by running naked through the streets. It is due to this that there is a fairly strange tradition of the eve of the Aqua Laguna that leads the men of the city to dye their hair blue, spike it with the toughest hair gel they can find, and streak the main promemades yelling 'Supeeeeeer' at the tops of their lungs. It can be quite traumatizing to the average toursist, but the townspeople will only look on and laugh as the more savvy visitors hide their smiling faces behind flashing cameras.

There is a family owned dojo in Wa no Kuni, the fabled land of the samurai of old, that teaches an almost lost art. The founder lived centuries ago, but students, instructors and even the townspeople remember his name, revere it and fear it, as the best swordsman there ever was. They will say he was a killer, a bloodthirsty criminal looking for the strongest fighter he could find, just to taste blood and kill. They will say that was why he died young, because he never stopped fighting.

There are five living generations of his descendants, including his one-hundred and thirty nine year old daughter of the ninth generation who will throttle anyone who dares to speak against his name. She will click her tongue and say that she may have never known the man herself, but her great-great-grandma would always sit her on her knee, point to that old haramaki that lay in a shadowbox at the shrine they dedicated to him and say 'Darlin', they can say what they want about him, they can say he was nothing but a murderer, and a bloodthirsty demon, but they can't deny his loyalty. They can't deny he was the strongest there ever was on sea or land, or that he paid no mind to gender, how he treated everyone equal no matter what they were. They can curse him to their dying breath, but I'm damn proud to be related to a man who gave his life protecting what he loved, and I hope you will be too.'

There is the Blue Swan, the only restaurant on the most coveted patch of ocean in the world, and it has been passed down through the generations of a family whose defining characteristics live on in the current Head Chef. Brave patrons willing to weather the terrible storms that ensconce the ocean- and the occasional brawl in the restaurant itself- say that the trip from the docking station is worth every minute of the two hours it takes to get there. The restaurant has no need for shipments of anything, as it grows all food on it's own decks, in the gardens and orchards out on the grassy deck behind the kitchen; what they can't grow or raise they fish for.

Occasionally, the head chef will deliver food to the table by hand, but she won't tolerate any manhandling- she'll hurl you through a window before you can get anywhere near her. She is a saucy redhead with slight curls at the outer edges of her eyebrows, and a kick that can splinter Adam Wood, and if you venture to ask about the restaurant's history, she will break into a broad, toothy grin, sit down across from you, and launch into a tale of her ancestors, the Cat Burglar and the pirate chef feared as the Black Leg.

History can't seem to decide whether it loves or hates this man. He laughed in the face of death, cared nothing for blood or parentage, all that mattered to him was the bond, and the happy times to be shared together, the sad ones to be weathered. He was the man who saved countries, stopped wars, and then turned around and thumbed his nose in the face of the world's dictators like he hadn't a care in the world. His crew was the smallest to ever sail the seas, and paradoxically, the absolute strongest hands down. He inspired hope in some, envy in many, and utter confusion in all at his perplexingly simple outlook on life, and his lack of fear of mortality.

On an island in the northeastern reaches of East Blue, there is a town with a life and presence just as vibrant as it's name. In the center square, merely a stone's throw from the harbor, there is a fountain straight out in front of the town's favorite bar, and a bronze statue of a boy with a jaunty grin on his face and a straw hat clamped on his head, fist planted at his hip carelessly. Every year on May fifth, there is a festival the likes of which are unrivaled anywhere on ocean or isle, a raucous, week long party with enough meat and gourmet food to feed the world twice over. There are storytellings, swordsmanship demonstrations, history lessons and all manner of festivities to be enjoyed by all.

And if you sit by the statue long enough, you'll feel a warm hand clap down on your shoulder, encouragingly, telling you to go out and chase your dreams and live the life you've always wanted with friends old, new, and yet to be made. But when you turn around, all you'll see is a man who may have been bronze once but has turned green with age and salty air, and you know then that this feeling is nakama.

There is a legend that has lived on for decades, centuries, of a ship that will sail into the furthest reaches of ocean and river, in search of adventure. It is old, weathered, but inspires a taste for excitement and travel in any that see it; it is a ship that will come to you at the moment you've lost all hope, all will to live, and beckon you to the vast, unknown oceans, whispering to you, Come and play. Legend has it that if you answer that call, depart the very night you've seen the sun glide over the ocean, you will be blessed with steadfast comrades and live a charmed life for the rest of your days.

Naysayers will tell you there is no such thing, that there is no hope in the world and dreams are nothing but things you see in your sleep; things that get pulled out of your grasp right as they come within reach. They will take another swig of beer and tell you to stop chasing fantasies, to come back to reality so you don't have as far to fall when your hopes are crushed underfoot, but they have no answer for you when you ask why, then, the legend is known even in the furthest reaches of all the four blues. And when you wonder on this dream ship's name, of the ghosts who sail her, the answer will come to you in history books, in newspapers, in old tales passed down by storytellers the world over-

The Pirate King's Ghost Ship- Thousand Sunny, the ship that will shine for a thousand years.

I'm not entirely sure what brought this on. The idea hit me so suddenly that I jumped right out of the shower and ran straight to the computer, didn't even bother to dry my hair before I started typing.

It may list a bit to the cheesy side, may sound a bit ridiculous, but I'm fecking proud of it, okay D: I've never written anything remotely understandable in second person before. Not sure how it became that, either. I think the one about the Blue Swan hit me first, and Franky's came last since I have trouble getting into his head the most, but I was snickering so hard during that part. The streaking thing was inspired by the quad streakers at WFU in Winston-Salem.

(Incidentally, this is the longest oneshot I've EVER written, methinks, but it's also the one I finished in the shortest amount of time, less than a day. Hmm.)

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