A drabble I thought of when I was listening to "Requiem for a Soldier" by Katherine Jenkins. Rated for language. Set after the death of Ace.

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Tears are rolling so fast down your face, you don't know where they begin and where they end. Suddenly your body collapses, sending you to the ground, but that doesn't slow down the tears. And you swear you'll be left alone in your time of mourning. For a while, no one is there. You're thankful that they granted you that time.

But the sobbing and weeping and thoughts gather together in your mind, pooling and making your head dizzy and fuzzy. There's no way to stop it. It's foolish to even try, so you don't. Frantically, your nails grate along the dirt, your mouth open in a silent cry to help, your eyes wide with rivers running down your face. Nothing like this has ever happened to you. First, Sabo. Now him. Now the only man alive who really understands the way you think and the way you act. Sure, you have your crew, but they're nothing compared to him.

Anger and sorrow are piled together with you. You want that marine dead. You want your brother back. But there's no way you can do that. It's impossible. In the condition you're in, you can't even breathe properly, much less kill someone. So the most you can do, that's still logical, is to lay in the dirt and weep openly. But then the thoughts trail to another place. To an explanation. To something that would fucking tell you why the hell this happened.

This is old man's war. You generation didn't start this. It was your father, his father. The fathers of this generation. And he had to die for it. Just because the blood of Gol D. Roger flows through his veins doesn't give them the right to execute him. That was the damn reason he didn't carry the name. No one had to know about it. Rouge had no connections with that man, and if the government had just kept their pig-ass noses in their own business, this wouldn't have happened. They wouldn't have taken him from you.

But he's dead, and there's nothing you can do about it. The blood is always impossible to wash off. Sure, it looks like it's gone, but it's not. It'll never be gone. You rub your hands in the dirt frantically, trying to wash the blood off. Why did he have to be so arrogant? The marine said one thing about Whitebeard, and he went off. You could have taken him then and dragged him away. Taken him to your ship. But you didn't. You couldn't. Then the marine turned his attention elsewhere. To you. You weren't prepared, so you sat there, gawking up at him as the molten punch was coming for you. You flinched, and it hit.

Him.

As you think of it now, the tears flow faster, harder. You pound your fists to the ground angrily, relentlessly. The screams flow past your lips, the tears flowing generously.

Someone grabs you up; you don't know who they are, but you cling to them helplessly and cry. You feel an uncanny warmth from this person. A warmth you only felt when you were with…

Your eyes snap open, and no one is there. Your breathing is uneven. Someone was there. You swear.

"Be strong."

Frantically, you snap your head around in various directions, trying to find him. That voice. You knew it anywhere. The tears keep falling when you realize you can't find him.

"I can't," you whisper, almost inaudibly.

"Yes, you can."

Angrily, you fist at your hair and scream at the sky. Someone comes behind you, their steps heavy. You know who it is, so you don't dare look at him. The words flow past your lips, telling yourself that you're foolish for believing you could be the pirate king.

"I'm… WEAK!"

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