Child of the Sea
A One Piece Short Story
Summary: Portgas D. Ace has always questioned why he was alive. He hated how people stared at him as if they knew he was the son of the devil. How did he even find his peace at Marineford when he was in constant turmoil over whether or not he should have been born? Was suicide really an option?
Warning: Rated T for the occasional language, heavy themes, and anime spoilers.
I'm sick of all these people watching, gaunt faces with hollow eyes that seem to never stop rolling; filmstrips spewing out the back of their head to create a movie from how much they were staring. Everything I did, from where I sleep to where I eat, seemed to be the affair of the world.
I just want it all to end.
I've thought about how to go about it. I've orchestrated so many scenarios that my head seemed to bleed from the inside, but still my thoughts come to a full circle, back to the beginning.
Stop crying. I promise I won't die.
Back to the drawing board.
It's hard to say I wanted to die. I'm not sure any path I could have chosen, whether it was suicide or not, was bad enough to accompany me. I can still recall the sneers and plastered drunkenness of random strangers in those bars, harking and raving about the devil having a son. Can a demon even have a son? And with an angel at that?
No one seem to know; because when I would ask their eyes would glaze with a vacant sense of empathy as they just stared. I hate it when people's eyes lingered to long on me. The inner turmoil was more than I can take, being unable to read their eyes and only left to imagine what they were thinking. There are very few people who I accept staring at me.
One: Sabo. But I don't want to imagine dead eyes lingering on me, wanting desperately to see but containing no spirit to see with. I just don't think about Sabo anymore. When I do I think of dead things, and the dead things spiral into what hell may look like, and where my true home was. I don't like to think of home either.
Two: My crew. I was their captain, so looking up to me was only natural right? And besides, they didn't know. None of them knew. Not since I strictly introduced myself as Portgas, and they never asked a question. They all consumed the simple, baby food explanation I spoon-fed them about how I was orphaned as a child and I don't remember my parents. Sometimes, it was just easier to lie than swallow the pill of truth because I was afraid of gagging on it.
I like glaring more than staring. With glaring, you can tell exactly what your opponent was feeling. That was what I sensed when the fishman before me took up his stance and clenched his jaw, some Shichibukai by the name of Jimbei that tried to stand in my way. Glaring was better because when I was consumed in flames, I could see the glint in their eyes like a hard spark of stones against each other.
But sometimes, glaring wasn't better. You never knew what they knew; and as our fight wore on, so did the tracks in my mind. Perhaps he knew somehow, being tied like a pretty bow to the Navy and to the old man who was one of the few people that knew.
Maybe this Jimbei was glaring because he knew who my father was, saw the devil beneath the flames.
I think it's ironic that I ate nothing short of the Mera Mera no Mi. The kid of the devil, manipulating fire? It was a good laugh; and it was all I could think of as five days passed, and I felt my legs give and the power to fight flee with its tails between its legs. We were in a dead lock, the devil's fire versus a fishman's water, and we both could do nothing but sink to the ground in a heap.
At least he no longer looked at me with those eyes.
It wasn't long after that that someone else was, the feeling of a perpetual stare spearing my head so abruptly that I can't help but jerk up. I could name you all the Shichibukai, all the admirals, and all the Yonkos. There was only one head I wanted though; and it was perched on the shoulders before me.
"Gurarara… you've got spirit kid. I'd hate to see you die here." He rumbled, low and prolonged, staring as I struggled to my feet. Surely, he knew. Surely, they all knew, all the people that stood behind him; the pineapple blond with a soft grin, the pompadour styled man with lopsided smirk. They were mocking me.
They knew who I was.
My only alternative was to attack; so in a roar of flames I charged, because I wanted those eyes to disappear, to vanish in hell's fire as a demon craved to do; but before I could even see the familiar glint in his eyes, everything went dark, and I felt myself spiraling into a deep, deep abyss.
I hate it when people stare.
Sometimes, I imagine what hell looks like, ruled by the human that's biologically my father. I toss and turn over the idea of where my mother went, whether she was restored to heaven or that monster drug her down with him. I didn't want to imagine the hell fire and brimstone books always painted with my pretty, pale mother amongst it all.
Sometimes, I imagine what people roam down there. I know there's a book describing the levels of hell as circles, different types of sins committing people to different eternal punishments. What will they do when the prodigal son of the devil returns?
Celebrate his death like it was a miraculous thing?
The idea jolted me awake, drove needlepoints deep beneath my skin. The idea of even hell celebrating my death set uneasily with me as the room snapped into the focus. Only, I shouldn't be in a room.
Does hell look like a house?
No one was in the room with me; so I quickly cast the covers off and leapt off the bed spread, walking with a quicken step to the door and wretched it open. The sudden and bright clang of the sun against my dark accustomed vision left it ringing in bright light for a few moments; but I smelt the seawater before I saw the boat, the sea driving far into the distance. My head shot up.
Oh. Looks like hell is a Yonko's ship.
I already felt eyes on me, but from where I couldn't deduce; and no matter how many times I turned, I knew it wasn't my crew. I didn't even know where my crew was. Just like that, the cannon sounded within me and destroyed another vessel, sunk another ship with someone I cared about aboard. Just when I was growing accustomed to accepting other people around me, I lost them all the same.
I thought about jumping, when I approached the railing, the insistent 'do it' thrumming in my head as I swallowed. The tides looked peaceful today, reproachful of any of my kind. I bobbled to the deck then, clutching my head and caging it between my knees so I didn't have to think about how I wasn't even good enough to drown—when I heard the thumps and knew the person who was staring at me was finally making themselves known.
"Hey."
My eyes first instinct was to flex into their glare when I raised my head to the sight of the pompadour man I saw at the Yonko's side before. He seemed at ease and relaxed.
Like he enjoyed playing with the devil.
"The name's Thatch," He rattled on, and I half convinced myself to light his butt on fire so he would just stop… looking at me in a friendly inclination. "I'm the Commander of the Fourth Division and your new chef," He chuckles lightly, "I think we should be friends since you're joining us now."
I heard myself say shut up before I even felt my mouth move. Didn't they know how these things work? You don't befriend a demon, and you most definitely do no play with fire; but he maybe he doesn't know.
Maybe none of them knew.
I clenched my fists when I imagine that smug old man, picturing his expression on my father's cocky face. Had he been like that? Just kidnapped random people in an attempt to assimilate them into the crew? This strength of this Yonko, Whitebeard, was said to rival his strength. Was it because of the D. or… because they are one in the same? The idea boiled me; the idea that there was more devils like him. Like me.
I was still aware that the strange man's eyes, Thatch, had never left me; it was like a bug that burrowed deep beneath the skin, and you were always perpetual aware of its presence. I wanted to itch at the idea, but I felt myself relax a little at the thought that he didn't know my origin.
"I bet you don't remember what happened after you got knocked out." The man seemed to like prattling on, but distracted, I find myself searching for another pair of eyes that have become locked on me. Is this what they call Observation Haki?
I was taken a little aback when my eyes clashed with those of the ocean contained in small eggs. The man didn't even evade my gaze, didn't play it off as he hadn't been staring. He was stationed a ways behind Thatch, with his back facing us, but his head tilted over one shoulder and his soft eyes resting like cushions on me. I didn't like it, the warmth that was present that was neither scolding hot nor frozen over.
I returned the stare, whatever the hell Thatch was saying bleeped from my mind. Sometimes, I stare at people until they turn away, until they force themselves to stop looking; but that man didn't. He wasn't satisfied with the hatred I was displaying.
After a couple of minutes, it became apparent to Thatch a little too late that I wasn't even remotely interested in what he said; so when he crossed his legs and followed my gaze, he let out a whistle.
"Man. Getting eyed by the First Commander on the first day~ You're pretty lucky." Thatch gave a wave to the man that returned it with a nod, briefly disconnecting our gazes.
For some reason, I felt like I was sent adrift.
"That's Marco by the way," Thatch explains, and just like that, the First Division Commander's arms ruptured into azures and golds as he launched himself into the air, the wind detecting the flames as wings as it catapulted him into the sky, the flames enrapturing his entire body and my stare as he transformed into a bird.
I wasn't sure if I liked Marco or not. One thing was for sure; I didn't like the Yonko. So like my calling allots me to do, I decided to take him out because that's what demons are for right? To answer the bloodthirsty rage that they produce; and whether or not this got me killed was hardly on my radar of caring.
As long as Marco never looked at me like he gave a shit, I'd be fine.
Losing Thatch was easier said then done. Either the guy had the gaze of a winged hawk, or he just never stopped staring at me; but either way, I began to grow used to his eyes whenever they landed on me because I didn't feel quite so threatened by him—but honestly, the man was acting like he wanted to get burned alive. Eventually though, when it nearly bed time and not even the devil would be up at such an ungodly hour, I knew Thatch was finally gone and I could breathe a sigh of relief.
Sometimes, I imagine if demons hunt other demons; if they are territorial kind of creatures with an alpha complex. Maybe that explains why the old man happened to show up immediately after my standstill fight with Jimbei.
That means he knows; and when he stares at me, he's judging me.
I can't have that.
I find his room easily. It wasn't that hard, and the times I actually listened to Thatch I did hear him briefly mention the location of the Captain's quarters; so stealthily I snuck in, and if it wasn't for the moon light winking through the window, I'd have to light a flame to see the man.
He was sleeping deeply, so deeply that I could almost feel his snores rattling my chest. It's hard to believe this 'great' man compared to my father on a level playing field; that someone who was fixing to die could be anything less than human.
I had to admit though, it was better when he was sleeping. I didn't have to find myself in a trial with his eyes as judge and jury, and the verdict being whatever his arms swing. So I didn't hesitate with my attack—but before I could land it, his eyes shot open and I found his fist at my chest and my back ripping through the wall like it was a sheet of cloth. It hurt, and I was coughing, but I wasn't prepared to back down.
That was until a spark of blue and gold flames leaped onto the deck and blocked my entry back into the room. When the fire dissolved, there was the man from before, Marco, with the same gaze that shook me right to the core.
It was the stare of understanding, of knowledge—sympathy. I knew where I first saw that gaze, whose eyes first held it when I breathed the fire words, "My father is Gol D. Roger."
Sabo.
I know already the man before me was nothing like Sabo. His mellow gaze spoke of structured responses and a calm demeanor. Sabo was rash, but he was also smart; but neither one of us learned to pick our fights very well.
But the idea of those dead eyes being revived, waking up in a different body only to look at me, the son of the devil, in the same way made me choke on my breath. No one should look at me like that—yet here he was, doing it.
For once, I didn't feel like a devil's kid.
I felt like an angel's son.
Sometimes, I imagine if my mother was proud of me or not. I'm not sure if she was proud of me then, the way I collapsed afterwards, how I let that gaze compromise my structure. It was hard to imagine anyone being proud of me but my father for taking after him, but then I imagined Sabo and Luffy and it didn't seem like such a large cross to bear.
I still didn't like the idea of Whitebeard.
I tried to avoid Marco after that, but he always found his way to my side. I shouldn't feel like this, a sudden and soothing happiness about being somewhere where I'm accepted. I don't deserve it. I filled my days with as many murder attempts on the old man's life as I could, and whether I was foiled by the man himself, Thatch, or Marco, the result was usually the same—I ended up in the ocean.
One time was different than the others. The moment my back hit the water, and I felt everything sap from my joints like I was hooked to a vacuum tube and all the stuff that was me was pulled out in one breath, I became aware of someone staring at me; but there was nothing but blue around me, toiling gently, wrapping it's arms around my waist to pull me with abandoned to the bottom of the ocean. Not even the muscles in my throat reacted to my command, let alone allowed me to turn to my head; so I descended in perpetual slowness with my breath leaking quickly from my mouth. All I could do was gaze at the stain glass surface and wonder, who was staring at me? Was it hell beckoning me in?
For a few moments, a face materialized—no. Faces. Lots of them, tons of them, but they weren't staring with a glazed look. They were watching me, like a father would look at his children as he watched them play to make sure they were never in distress.
I saw Sabo. Luffy. My crew. Makino. Dadan and the other bandits. The old man. Thatch. Marco.
It hurt to breathe now, but one sudden, abrupt thought began drowning with the rest: I don't think I want to die.
Not this time. Not this time.
Like the other times, I was saved not long after. Usually it was Thatch; sometimes Vista, the Fifth Division Commander. Always though when I was pulled up and left coughing on the deck, someone was there to remind me to knock it off, that we were nakama now.
Nakama. That word was harder to swallow than the salt water.
That night Marco explained to me about being Whitebeard's son, about why the called him Pops; and for a short while, I yearned for what they had. Reality was cruel though. Soon after it set in like an ugly infection. I can never have what they have.
I'm the son of the devil.
When I went to talk to Whitebeard, I was reminded why I hate staring. He was watching me closely with blank eyes, with no expression for me to interpret as good or bad. He was just sitting there, waiting, probably expecting something entirely different than the words I was prepared to deliver. I had said it thousands of times in my head, but only a couple times to another human being. It still burned the same as it did the first time.
"Gol D. Roger is my father."
Silence was just the sound's version of staring—an out. When silence filled the room, I felt like earth had fallen straight to the pits of hell, and I was staring the king devil right in the mouth. I didn't like it; I hated it even.
I was unprepared when he spoke.
"So? When you said you had something important to talk about, I thought it was bigger than this," He said, guzzling down his alcohol. The words left me stunned, too stunned in fact to feel even a spark of anger ignite.
"Aren't you going to kick me out?"
I wanted that, but I didn't want that. I wanted to belong, but I didn't want to belong. I wanted to be worth something.
I couldn't be worth something.
When I looked into his eyes, when I met his stare with my own, I began tipping to one side more than the other. Even if it was just one toe over the line, it was still further across it then I have ever been my entire life.
Maybe I do deserve to live.
"Doesn't matter who your father is. Everyone's a child of the sea," The old man chuckled.
A child of the sea—not of the devil. Not a devil's child. An angel's kid.
Soon after I was lavishing in a feast because of my promotion to Second Division Commander. The words that haunted me for a long time were stored away like books. Thatch would pat me on the back and grin at me all the same, and Marco continued to watch me with the same understanding gaze.
But always at a library, you can check out a book again; and I find myself checking the same one out and keeping it a little longer passed due.
Some people have a myth that you can tell if you are cursed by the devil or are a demon yourself by the circumstances that happen around you, whether they are always bad or always good. When I found Thatch murdered on the deck as I was going up to take the watch I was late for, I began to question myself. Mysterious and painful things seemed to happen around me all the time—so when I blacked out and crashed onto the deck, awaking other members of the crew, I was back to the drawing board.
Back to being the devil's kid.
I didn't wake up for Thatch's funeral. When I did wake up, he was already sent to the bottom of the ocean in a grandeur celebration of his life. I felt the fire I always compared to hell burn inside me, screaming "revenge, revenge!" like I'm sure it did for any other demon.
I didn't even look at Marco or Pops when I hopped in Striker to follow my impulses; but still I felt their gazes and wanted to rip myself from them. The moment I could, I stomped and flames erupted and I was long gone before I could look back.
I didn't deserve their love. I didn't deserve their compassion.
Searching for Teach felt like redemption. I had to redeem myself in my own mind; to prove I was worthy of a nakama and family and love. I had to prove to myself that these hands could do something good instead of burning everything they touched. But it was hard, convincing myself every day that the people weren't staring at me because they were frightened of the devil's son; they were just scared of a pirate.
Meeting with Luffy again after three years was a wakeup call, a reminder. By the time we parted ways I had his feeble, whimpering cry drilled into my head, "Ace, please don't die!"
Whether or not I felt redeemed, that I felt wanted or accepted, it didn't matter. As long as I didn't die, I wouldn't be completely like my father. As long as I didn't die and kept my promise, I would still have a little of my mother in me. It was the only thing I could hold onto.
I found Teach, but I didn't find peace. All I found was the painful knowledge that I had lost and I was going to be dragged to the death I finally resolved to avoid.
"Please… don't tell my little brother."
As long as Luffy didn't know, I would be okay. I could live with that.
But then the whole world knew—they knew everything.
"'Fire Fist Ace' Captured!" was the headline Teach flashed at me with a hardy laugh. It didn't feel like too long after those words were printed that more words I didn't want anyone to hear were spoken.
"His father is… Gol D. Roger!"
They knew. They all knew. So when they stared at me, they stared at me with knowing eyes. They saw the outline of the devil at my back, saw the hell in my flames. It hurt to even breathe on that platform, feeling the glare of the world boring into me, judging me. I had to bow to avoid it all, but their gazes wouldn't disappear. They were there, all around me, and it felt just like being shot—over and over and over again.
Demon child. Demon child. Demon child.
There was nothing I could handle that wouldn't get charred. I couldn't take care of two younger brothers—I lost one and successfully lied to the other. I couldn't have a crew of my own or friends or even a father. I was the child that someone claimed until the kid does something wrong and the person feigns to not know them.
That's why I was shocked when the entire Whitebeard fleet was mobilized. For me. For the devil's child.
Or the angel's kid?
No. Pops was staring at me, and I was staring at him. He was shouting orders, while looking at me with the tenderness and care I only felt from certain people all my life.
The child of the sea. I was Pops' son.
When Luffy arrived, I cried. I cried because I was feeling such an overwhelming sense of love. Someone like me didn't deserve it, didn't deserve a single bit of it, yet here they were, giving it all they had in order to rescue me. Why would someone try so hard to save someone who didn't deserve it? They wouldn't.
They would rescue someone worth it though.
I hate it when people watch me, when they stare; looking at something they have imagined they see, like a devil in human skin. Imaginations tend to do crazy things; I should know because mine always had. I forgot in those last moments that the world was watching me, that they all knew who I was.
Portgas D. "Fire Fist" Ace. Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates.
Older brother of Sabo and Luffy.
Son of Edward Newgate.
Ace is my absolute favorite character and I've been wanting to write about him for a long time.
-Soul Spirit-