OpalescentGold: I do not own One Piece.
Cera
There is a reason the Ope Ope no Mi is considered to be the Ultimate Devil Fruit by pirates and marines alike: the Perennial Youth Surgery. Said to be able to grant an individual eternal youth at the dubious cost of the user's life, it is a power sought after by many.
But few ever consider what it is to live forever, now do they?
I.
The young girl at the frail age of twelve languishes on her sickbed, prophesied grimly by their learned people to be her deathbed. Her small hands grip weakly on the rough sheets, sweat-soaked auburn hair splayed carelessly over clammy honey skin. Her mother, Idris, sits by her side, worry having aged her lined face by another decade at least, mouth pinched and eyes tight.
Her child, born three months too early and ill from the start, seems to have finally reached the length of her endurance, having fallen prey to some unknown disease a week past and not roused since then. The poor single mother has consulted numerous soothsayers and healers and seers, and no one has yet to present pleasant news to her. She will die, they tell her, soon if not in hours.
Still, Idris refuses to give up. Someone must be capable of helping her darling girl. She needs only to find this inexplicable person.
And not long after, she realizes she has known the miracle worker all along.
The door clicks open and an elder hobbles in with the help of a wooden cane, perceptive eyes sweeping the room. Idris quickly arises from the bed and helps her grandfather to a seat, hoping against hope that he has the answer for her. Wise Rhona is the hermit who lives in a pitiful cabin at the edge of the village, rarely seen and even rarer willing to talk.
He did terrible things, the gossips whisper among themselves. He did wonderful things. He was the greatest healer the village has ever known before the loss of his daughter turned him into a recluse.
Idris has never truly known her grandfather, having been raised by her father since the death of her mother at age five, but this one time, just this once, she mentally urges him to come through for her. Her child is young and pretty and has her whole life ahead of her, if only she would live.
"That is her?" Rhona asks, gazing at the girl dreaming restless dreams. "My little great-granddaughter?"
"Yes." Idris twists her hands uneasily, heart pounding against her chest as if trapped. "You can help her?" She cannot help the thread of desperation in her voice. "Grandpa Rhona?"
"...I can," he says after a pause that terrifies his granddaughter. "I can, but there will be a price."
She is familiar with the phrase, her family having dabbled in all sorts of magic for generations. It is their motto: For all that happens, for all that you wish, there is a price, one that must be paid.
"What is it?" Idris squares her shoulders, brushing back her chestnut hair. Whatever it may be, she will pay it, for her daughter, for her dead husband.
"She will live," Rhona proclaims. "However, I will die. And when she reaches maturity, she will not age, will not die."
For a moment, she is speechless. "Forever?"
"Forever." His face is grim. "Are you certain, Idris? Forever is a long time to live."
"But she will live." This point, Idris will not budge on.
"Yes," Rhona says firmly.
She nods, takes a deep breath. "Grandpa...you would give your life for her?" He is the oldest in the village, one of the most well-respected despite his eccentricities.
"I am old, Idris." He takes her hand with his gnarled one, meets her eyes squarely, the years never having taken away the raw sense of power that has clung to him. "My times has come. My great-granddaughter...no, it is her time to live."
Idris closes her eyes briefly, but when they are open once more, the whiskey colored eyes that she has bequeathed to her daughter are filled with resolve. "I wish for my daughter to live."
Rhona nods and raises his hand, a small blue whirl appearing beneath his palm. "Room."
II.
The child is fifteen before she finally approaches the topic that Idris has dreaded for three years.
"Mama," she says quietly. "It is true what they all say? Was I the one who killed Great-Grandpa?" The rumors have been rampant, the gossipers not even pretending to have a sliver of subtlety.
Idris sighs and places the shirt she was repairing down. "No, my daughter. You didn't kill Grandpa Rhona." The weight of death is nothing she would wish upon her child for the rest of her long, long life.
"Then what happened?" the redhead demands quietly, all frustrated confusion and guilty conscience.
The older woman has known this would be coming, but she cannot help but feel slightly panicked. She stifles it and says, "What do you know about devil fruits, child?"
The teenage blinks slowly, frowning mildly. "They're mystical fruits that are supposed to grant those that consume them strange and obscure powers. I thought they were just a myth though."
Idris shakes her head. "They're not myths, sweetheart. Simply very, very rare. Your great-grandpa ate one when he was young, around your age."
Aware of wide eyes set firmly on her, the brunette goes on, "The powers he gained from the devil fruit he ate gave him great and alarming powers that enabled him to perform incredible feats. Alas, the death of my mother, your grandmother, devastated him, and Grandpa Rhona retreated from the outside world to find peace in solitude."
"But then he heard from you that I was sick," the girl predicts softly.
"Yes. And he performed an operation on you that healed you." Idris pauses for a moment before barreling on. "But there was a price."
"It killed him," her child says, so intelligent, so aware. "What was asked of me?" The scales must be balanced, the weight maintained on both sides.
The mother's sigh is heavy, too heavy. "You will never die, my child. After reaching maturity, you will never age either."
The auburn-haired teenager takes a long time to think on this, lips pursing. "Never?"
"Never." It is frankly, for Idris, a very frightening concept.
"I will live forever?" The child looks disturbed, her brow creasing.
"Yes. Though I believe that you can be killed." Idris doesn't even want to think about that. No mother ever should.
Her daughter nods absently and wanders off, probably to think this new crisis over. The brunette sighs once more and picks up the shirt she must repair.
Idris dearly hopes her beloved child will be alright.
III.
Twenty years after that talk, the now-woman is content to turn down proposals left and right while she tends to an aging Idris.
"Why do you do this to yourself, my child?" Idris asks one day, abruptly erupting into a coughing fit.
Her daughter sits at her bedside, as Idris once did, and pats her bat until the brunette can breathe again. "Because it would not be fair," she says evenly.
"How so?"
"I stopped aging not long ago, so no one's noticed yet. But I would not curse upon a decent man a wife who would stay young while he aged," the redhead says, handing her mother a glass of water. "Nor on any children."
Idris closes her eyes and her shoulders droop. "I wish you would not talk like so, child. You should not wander this world alone. A family would do you well."
The ageless woman says nothing of the power that grows daily in her chest, a magic passed down their family, and instead says, "Don't worry about me, Mother. Focus on getting well."
The brunette chuckles weakly and shakes her head. "You know better," she scolds. "It is my time to go. But grant me a wish, would you, my daughter?"
"What is it?" she asks, sounding terrified of the answer.
"I wish that you will live a beautiful and spirited life after I am gone," Idris says, fixing her blurred gaze on her precious daughter.
Her child's hand tightens upon her own, and there is heartbreak in the whiskey eyes that echo the mother's, but the redhead nods firmly. "So it shall be."
Idris smiles and dies.
The child stands in front of her mother's grave a week past and lays a bouquet of lilies on her gravestone. She bows her head in respect and murmurs a sincere prayer for Idris to find peace in heaven.
Two months later, the ageless woman is on a ship sailing away from her island before she can witness her entire village fall into ruin before her eyes.
IV.
Seconds turn into minutes.
Minutes turn into hours.
Hours turn into days.
Days turn into weeks.
Weeks turn into months.
Months turn into years.
Years turn into decades.
Decades turn into centuries.
Centuries turn into millenniums.
Forever is a long time indeed.
V.
"Hello," Gol. D Roger says in a deep, cheerful voice to the ageless woman on an island in Paradise. "Who are you?"
She smiles warmly, whiskey eyes heavy-lidded. "I don't know. But call me Cera."
Roger throws back his head and laughs uproariously. "Come then, party with us!"
Cera ends up carousing with the Roger Pirates for two whole day and nights, ending up with a hangover each morning.
When it is all over and the pirates are ready to leave, Roger holds out a hand to her. "I like you, Cera," he proclaims loudly with a grin that could light up the world. "Join my crew!"
She doesn't hesitate and grabs his hand before it can slip away. "Of course," Cera says and smiles back.
Roger
The illustrious Pirate King, Gold Roger, Captain of the Roger Pirates, and owner of the renowned treasure, "One Piece." Gol. D Roger had many names and many titles, but there are few who knew him, truly knew him.
What else is a legend after all?
I.
Roger knows from the start that the woman called Cera is older than she appears.
Even as his nakama flirt with her in a drunken haze, the Captain has looked into ochre eyes and measured the depth there. No woman in her twenties has the experience that Cera boasts, the raw painful understanding of life and death.
She is capable, he sees while partying. The intoxicated men who try to touch her are effortlessly avoided with a deft step to the side and a gentle push that lands them flat on their asses in the sand. The auburn-haired woman does not lack for money and can carry on a conversation with his smart First Mate.
Still, the subtle air of alienation that surrounds Cera is concerning, and Roger cheerfully invites her to join his crew when it is time to leave. The lovely smile she gifts him with and the speed with which she accepts proves his spontaneous decision true.
To Roger's amusement, it does not take long for half of the younger men to develop crushes on her, notable mentions going to Shanks and Buggy, who stalk her with pathetic subtlety in their free time.
Cera, bless her heart, pretends not to notice.
II.
His newest nakama likes to paint, Roger finds out an island later. He did not know before, but upon walking up onto the deck where Cera has propped a newly bought canvas on a stand and is in the middle of painting a seascape, what looks to be half of the crew surrounding her, no one can not realize.
Roger leans over Crocus' shoulder and grins at the clear blue sky Cera has brushed on. "Add some clouds," he thunders cheerfully. "It's a good day today!"
Cera laughs and dabbles her brush into the white on her palette. "Aye aye, Captain," she says and swirls her brush in small wandering circles in the blue, nice and easy.
"Oooh!" Shanks grins brightly, fighting for space against Buggy. "That looks great, Cera-chan!"
"Yeah! It looks flashily awesome!" Buggy jabs his elbow into his friend's side and gets his foot stomped on.
"You two! Cut it out!" Rayleigh roars upon passing by. "And the rest of you! Get back to work!"
"Yes, Rayleigh-san," is the grumbled response as the abject men scatter.
Roger stays in place though, humming thoughtfully as Cera calmly begins forming the waves. "Give them some oomph!" he orders merrily. "Grand Line waves are never as tame as that!"
"What if these aren't in the Grand Line?" she points out lightly. "Maybe they're in East Blue."
He snorts, shaking his head. "Pah! What would be the fun in that?!"
Cera laughs freely and paints a massive tsunami. Roger is quite satisfied with how the work turns out.
III.
Cera can effortlessly hold her own in battle, though she seems to prefer to avoid conflict whenever possible. Roger really does not care so long as his crewmate is not injured.
After the battle with 'Golden Lion' Shiki has ended with victory in his hands, Cera ends up leaning against the balustrade beside him during the colossal party the crew has thrown to celebrate their win, a glass of palm wine in her hands.
"Luck was on my side this time, ehh, Cera?!" Roger throws back his mug of rum with a roaring laugh. "That storm was a great coincidence for us!" It had wiped out half of the enemy ships.
But Cera shakes her head with a small smile. "There is no coincidence in this world, Roger. There is only hitsuzen," she says, sipping at her drink.
Roger pauses to gaze at her thoughtfully. She has never called him "Captain" outside of the classic answer to commands, and he has never pushed her to. They are more like friends than superior and subordinate, which is fine for him. There is wisdom, knowledge in his nakama that he is not foolish enough to disregard recklessly.
But there is power in her words now. "Do you truly believe that, Cera?" he asks curiously, not at all the type of man to judge another on their beliefs.
"I do," she says, knocking back her glass.
He nods in acceptance and invites her to a playful dance.
IV.
"You know, don't you, Cera?" Roger asks as they near the end of the Grand Line, turning to the redhead who has become a dear friend. "That I'm dying?"
Cera stares out into the churning waves with somber eyes, the rest of their crewmates too far away to hear their conversation. "I've always known, Roger."
He wraps an arm around her shoulders and drags her close with a buoyant grin. "Don't be sad, Cera. I don't want you to be sad when I go."
"I know." There is the slightest break in her voice, a heartache so deep and true Roger knows that nothing and nobody can absolutely fulfill such a need, only keep her up and going for the time being.
"I would offer you a wish," Cera tells him quietly. "But you don't desire anything you will not accomplish with your own two hands before your time is up."
Roger laughs, so open and hearty. "Well, of course! What else is living life for?!"
Cera manages a soft, poignant smile. "What, indeed...?"
V.
When the time came, the Grand Line conquered, the title of the Pirate King his, Cera stays with him until there is only the three of them left.
"Leave me on a West Blue island," she says to Roger, forlorn resignation tainting her silvery voice. "A nice, pretty one."
The Captain nods and does not ask if he knows of the beautiful strawberry blonde he left on a particular island in that part of the Blues. When they dock, Cera says her goodbyes to Rayleigh first.
Then, she turns to him.
Before the woman who could be his little sister in another life can say a word, Roger traps her in a tight hug. "Remember now, Cera," he whispers in her ear. "I want you to be happy."
Her smile is wobbly and sorrowful, her returning hug desperate. "I will miss you, Roger," Cera says and they are the last words he ever hears from her.
He takes it with him when he surrenders to the Marines.
"You want my treasure? You can have it! I left everything I gathered together in one place. Now you'll just have to find it!" Roger yells to the crowd triumphantly as the blades come down.
Rayleigh
First Mate of the Roger Pirates, 'Dark King' Silvers Rayleigh is a living myth, a carrier of the grand Pirate King's will. He is tremendously powerful, extremely skilled, acutely intelligent.
Is he not the man who was left behind?
I.
Rayleigh pays little attention to Cera at first. She is only another random woman on this island, and he has many responsibilities to uphold that his Captain is happy to forget about, the annoyingly carefree man. He wonders what it says about him that he will follow no other.
However, events quickly escalate and she rapidly becomes a curious individual.
"Hey, pretty girl." Seagull giggles, lurching forward disjointedly. "How bout we have some fun?"
"No thank you," a clear, feminine voice says plainly.
"Aww, come on," Seagull insists drunkenly. "Come here!"
There is a distinct scuffle and then someone hits the sand with a groan.
Rayleigh spins around with a scowl, dark eyes searching for the confrontation. His idiotic crewmate will pay if he laid a hand on an unwilling woman - they may be pirates, but there are lines that Rayleigh will never permit them to cross.
It is partially because Roger agrees wholeheartedly with those rules that Rayleigh chose to follow him in the first place.
But, to his surprise, the blond finds a dainty redhead standing tranquilly above Seagull, the pirate face down in the sand and not looking like he will get up any time soon. As Rayleigh watches, she bends down and rolls the man over, probably so he won't accidentally suffocate in his sleep.
The Dark King privately thinks to himself that this lady is far more forgiving than most others he has met.
Snapping himself out of his shock, Rayleigh makes his way to the scene, keeping his body language carefully non-hostile. It's apparent the redhead is proficient in hand to hand combat and quite willing to defend herself with it.
"Miss," he says as he approaches to avoid giving her another scare.
She looks up, ochre eyes swiftly pinning him down despite the fast approaching night. "Hello."
"I'm Silvers Rayleigh," he introduces. "I apologize for my crewmate's rash actions; he shouldn't have drank so much and I should have kept a better eye on things."
"It's alright," the woman says steadily. "There was no harm committed."
But only because she was strong enough to take Seagull down before anything could happen, Rayleigh knows. "Still, I'm sorry. Would there be anything we could do to make things up to you?"
The redhead considers him for a moment, so still, so poised that it is evident she is no ordinary woman. "Would you tell me stories of your time out at sea?" she requests at last.
He relaxes slightly, the request a familiar one. "Sure," he responds, bending down and throwing Seagull over his shoulder. "If you wouldn't mind moving around a bit - I need to keep an eye on things."
"It would be no problem," she says placidly, following in his footsteps as he heads for the center festivities to dump off his unconscious crewmate.
"What is your name?" he asks inquisitively.
"Cera," the redhead says. "Call me Cera."
II.
Rayleigh is not surprised when Roger aimlessly invites Cera to join the crew - his Captain tends to do that to anyone he finds interesting.
The First Mate does not object to the decision when she accepts: the redhead is a good fighter, very smart, and knows all sorts of interesting little tidbits, from what he has gathered from their previous conversation. She will be a beneficiary addition to the crew.
Thankfully, though the apprentices on board are annoyingly infatuated and often get off task, Cera is not a troublesome crewmate, well able to take care of herself and diligent of her duties. Her penchant for art is an interesting daily spectacle, but also one that Rayleigh eventually learns in a tell-tale sign of her mood.
The day she decides to paint a gloomy, depressing night scene of a barren cliff is the day that everyone unanimously decides to give her some space.
Cera is also highly knowledgeable, to the point it is almost outright disturbing.
"Be careful here," she would say casually as she passed by. "There are sharp rocks underneath."
Or, "The sake here in very nice. We should stock up."
"There will be a storm soon." The sky is perfectly clear, but darkens up in two hours time.
And then, there are her wanderings. At times, Cera disappears upon their arrival on an island and does not reappear until it is time to set sail. Roger is never concerned when this occurs, and eventually, Rayleigh learns not to be as well.
Cera always comes back.
"You like her, don't you?" Cera leans against the balustrade with a knowing smile, spreading her arms along the rail.
Rayleigh's sidelong glance is suspicious and rightly so, with the ribbing the crew has been giving him. "What?"
"That pirate we met," she elaborates. "Shakuyaku. She likes to be called Shakky, I believe."
He shifts a bit. "She was...intriguing," Rayleigh admits reluctantly. And very beautiful.
Cera laughs and look up at the darkening sky, a storm on the horizon. "Don't worry. You'll meet her again."
There is such absolutely certainty in her words that he cannot question her.
III.
"Cera?" Rayleigh peers dubiously at the redhead splayed on the floor of the crow nest. "What are you doing?"
"Rayleigh," she greets without pulling her gaze from the clear night sky. "Is it your turn to take watch?"
"Yeah." He gazes at her for a long moment, taking in the too distant look in her eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Cera says as he sits down and props himself up against the post. "Everything's fine."
Rayleigh does not push, but examines the stars above. "Know any constellations?"
"All of them," she says to his surprise.
"All of them?" he repeats skeptically.
Cera raises a hand and points at a particularly bright star. "That one's called Leo, but some people also call it..."
Rayleigh realizes sometime near dawn that, yes, she knows all of them, including the various different names and stories natives attach to each particular one.
IV.
"Look after Cera, won't you, partner?" Roger says to him the day after she leaves them.
"She's strong," Rayleigh replies. "She'll be alright."
The Pirate King shakes his head slightly. "You know that's not what I mean."
Rayleigh grimaces. Cera has been with them for two years and in that time, she has not changed in the least. It could be a coincidence, but he does not think so.
According to the woman herself, there are no coincidences in this world after all.
Cera holds too much enlightenment in those eyes, a sense of age that should be impossible for someone who looks as young as she does. Occasionally, she slips up and acts as if she is ninety and has seen the entirety of the world.
A woman untouched by time would not be the strangest phenomenon they have ever witnessed; devil fruits are queer things, capable of astounding acts.
"I don't want her to be too alone after I leave," Roger says, a hint of worry on his face.
The First Mate sighs deeply. "I'll see what I can do," he promises.
Roger grins and claps Rayleigh hard on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you! Now, come on, let's go drink our hearts out!"
V.
More than two decades later, Rayleigh steps onto the stage of the Human Auction House after felling a Celestial Dragon to face the curious stares of three Supernova Captains.
And a very familiar redhead.
"Hello, Rayleigh." She laughs.
He smiles. "Hello, Cera."
"Do you have a wish for me?"
"I do."
Rouge
The lover of the Pirate King, the mother of Fire Fist, the woman who loved her son so much she was willing to cheerfully damn herself to hell so her baby would survive the searching Marines.
How did she manage that?
I.
Portgas D. Rouge is worried, dreadfully so. It has been six months since the death of her lover, Pirate King, Gol D. Roger, and the marines have been scouring the West Blue for his rumored unborn son for weeks. They are quickly approaching Baterilla, her home island, and she is determined to keep the child in her womb safe.
But how?
Sighing to herself, the strawberry blonde glances longingly out the window of her mansion. While she seldom ever mingled with the other people of her island, preferring to keep her distance, Rouge used to go for long walks out along the coast, simply enjoying the sea. Her love of the crashing waves had been an interest shared by Roger, but now, it is far too dangerous to her baby for her to be so visible.
She misses her lover so very, very much.
Rouge's thoughts are distracting, but even then, she can hardly overlook the extremely wrong element of the view from her window. On the cliffs right behind her house sits a young woman in a folding stool whom Rouge is certain was not there two minutes go. Strangely enough, she appears to be holding a palette in one hand, a brush in the other, attention focused on the partially-filled in canvas in front of her.
The pregnant woman pauses, unconsciously placing a hand on her stomach protectively. Her old maid and butler, her only remaining companions in her lonely house, know of her shaky state and they surely would not have called anyone but the midwife here at troublesome signs, much less an unknown painter while nothing is wrong.
As she watches, the painter dabs her brush into some paint and brushes long sweeps of deep blue onto the bottom of her canvas. The sea, Rouge thinks, she is painting the sea. The outlook from her cliffs is incredible, well worth painting
And for some reason, to the young mother-to-be, it makes it alright for her to open the back door and step outside to join the mysterious stranger who loves the sea as much as her lover once did.
The woman looks up at the sound of the door closing, her unbound auburn hair falling in waves to her lower back. She is not so old, in her early twenties with twinkling brown eyes and a lovely smile that sets the rest of Rouge's concerns to rest.
"Hello, Rouge," she says, as if they are old friends. "Which color shall I add some more of: blue or green?"
"Green," Rouge answers after a careful examination of the canvas. "Since it looks like you already know who I am, who are you?"
"Call me Cera," the redhead says with a warm laugh. "That dress of yours, it really does conceal your pregnancy well."
Rouge stiffens slightly, but does not panic. "Yes," she agrees steadily. The high-waisted dresses are long and loose, the corset she wears underneath hiding the baby bump. "Will you report me to the Marines?" She would wager quite a lot that Cera knows who the father of her child is.
"No." Cera paints fluffy white clouds in her bright blue sky, cheerful and happy. "I have no duty to the Marines." There is a wealth of history behind those words, but Rouge is not interested in that.
"Then why are you here?" she asks mildly, positive that there is a reason this atypical woman has chosen this place to paint the sea.
"Do you have a wish, Rouge?" Cera returns in an apparent non sequitur.
The strawberry blonde thinks of the child growing in her body, the whispers on the air of pregnant women and young children being slaughtered, and says, "Yes."
"There will be a price," Cera warns, swirling her brush to create the look of white spray on top of the vivacious waves.
"Save my child," Rouge says, "and I will do anything."
Cera goes very still and turns to face Rouge fully, her pale violet dress so long it drags on the ground, not that she seems to notice. "'Anything' is a very hefty price to promise, Rouge," she says solemnly, smile fading.
"I know." In a bargain like this, it would let Cera demand anything from Rouge, everything if she so chose. But - "I don't care. Please."
The power that radiates from the young woman is subtle but potent, a thing closest to perhaps the sea today, calm and still but with such violent depths.
Cera nods and places her hand gently on Rouge's stomach. "Your wish shall be granted," she intones softly and it is a promise.
II.
From that day onward, Cera stays with Rouge, as if their arrangement had included a home for the other woman as well. Her servants are confused, rightly so maybe, but they accept Cera's presence without too many questions, secure in the knowledge that she will keep the mistress' child safe.
Cera, Rouge comes to understand, is a very strange woman, if she had not guessed so already. She spends much of her time painting, some works taking more than two weeks to complete and others an hour. The strawberry blonde sees the redhead most often at breakfast and dinner, Cera infrequently enjoying lunch, though she adamantly insists that Rouge eat healthily to sustain herself and the baby.
As with before, Cera always seems to know more than should be expected. Her kindness is not false, nor her understated warmth and graciousness, but at times, it is as if her head is truly in the clouds, her whiskey eyes attuned to some distant happenings beyond the horizon. She is peaceful deep inside, and yet restless in a manner that Rouge finds utterly confounding.
But that is all mostly to the side, for Cera keeps her word. Two days after effectively moving in, she hands Rouge a bracelet at breakfast. "Cera...?" she asks questioningly, examining the gift closely. It is composed of rounded jade and rose quartz beads strung together with strong gold thread.
"Wear it," Cera tells her casually, eating her scrambled eggs. "Keep it on your person always. It will keep others from noticing you are with child and protect your baby from the negative effects of hiding your pregnancy."
Rouge doesn't know how on earth a bracelet could perform such tasks, but she nods anyway and trusts in her words. "Thank you," she says, slipping the bracelet on and that is the last they talk of it.
III.
Fifteen months into the pregnancy, extended from Rouge's sheer will and Cera's cryptic help, Vice-Admiral Garp arrives on Baterilla. Rouge worries her lower lip with her teeth harshly. The Marines have already combed through her island, killing several women, and their children, and the men when they tried to protect their families.
Having been reserved from the start, Rouge has managed to stay out of the spotlight, and indeed, it is as if the marines' eyes have slid off of her by some magical force, so fast had they dismissed her as a potentially pregnant woman, but Cera does not elaborate and Rouge does not push. Garp, she knows, was Roger's rival, one that now poses a very real threat.
"Relax, Rouge," Cera soothes, curled up in a couch and sketching on a drawing pad. "Garp isn't out to get you."
Rouge isn't so sure, but there is simply something so very definite in her friend's voice that she relaxes slightly nonetheless. "Perhaps it's just a coincidence he is here then?" she proposes, though she is skeptical.
Cera looks up to throw her an amused glance, her smile knowing in the strangest way. "There is no such thing as coincidence in this world, Rouge," she says.
Before the strawberry blonde can respond to the odd statement, there is a hard knock on her front door. She freezes for a long second, heart rate speeding up in terror and hands automatically pressing against her stomach. No, no...
"Come now, Rouge," Cera says, rising to her feet, the sleeveless floral dress she has chosen to wear today fluttering to her feet. "Some faith would be nice." She opens the door before Rouge can protest, greeting the marine standing outside serenely.
"Hello, Garp. Roger entrusted you with the protection of his child, didn't he?"
Rouge goes five shades paler and doesn't even know she is holding her breath before Garp answers.
"Ahh...Cera-san," he says with a wide grin. "I should have known you would be here. Yeah, the sneaky old bastard did."
"Come on in then, child." She laughs, stepping aside. "Rouge's fine."
The familiarity of the exchange is puzzling, as if Cera and Garp have known each other for a long, long time, but Rouge is more preoccupied with breathing a silent sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing.
Garp walks in, halting a beat to eye Cera suspiciously. "Roger didn't force you to do this, did he?"
"No," Cera says easily, returning to her former seat to pick up her charcoal and sketchbook. "I came by myself."
Garp nods as if that makes sense and holds his hand out to Rouge. "Nice to meet cha, I'm Monkey D. Garp."
Rouge is no idiot. This can only help her unborn child and what would it matter to have one more lunatic around? "I am Portgas D. Rouge."
IV.
"Push," Cera says evenly, somehow retaining her composure while Garp paces outside and Rouge's servants panic in vain.
Rouge gasps raggedly, beautiful face taut with pain. After delaying labor for an absurd amount of time to give birth after twenty months, the blonde is close to reaching the end of her own life, the price that Cera had warned her about ever so long ago. But Rouge doesn't regret a single thing...for her precious baby will be safe from harm.
After leaving her body, which now seems exceedingly difficult, her worn-out body nearing collapse.
"Push, Rouge," Cera commands, the first edge of iron authority entering her voice since their initial meeting.
Rouge does her best to obey, urging her baby to leave her body and enter the outside world. Again and again she tries and it is as if this exhausting time will never end, but at last her darling is out and her old, loyal maid catches the large, healthy baby. Cera rapidly takes and swaddles the baby while the maid clamps her umbilical cord.
"It's a boy," Cera announces to Rouge, handling her the bundle of baby and cloth while the newborn begins to cry loudly, proclaiming his displeasure at his current surroundings to the world.
Rouge heaves a deep, shuddering breath, feeling her body start to give out, the world blurring before her eyes. But, she still has a duty to perform and she will not allow herself to die before completing it. "If it's a girl, then Anne, and if it's a boy, Ace," she repeats, tears falling down her cheeks. "That's the name he chose...for this child..."
"Gol D. Ace," she says with a radiant smile, panting heavily. "The name of our child..." The darkness is coming closer now and she knows her time is almost up.
"He will live, Rouge," Cera whispers, sadness a deep vein in her voice. "He will become one of the brightest flames of this world."
Rouge believes her; Cera has never lied to her before. "Watch over him, Cera," she begs. She knows the other woman cannot raise the boy - that is a price too high for Rouge or Garp to pay - but this is a request, not a contract.
"I will." Cera sweeps Ace into her arms as Rouge finally collapses, the bracelet that she has never taken off shattering into so much dust.
"Rouge! Rouge! Hang in there!" The aging maid cries, but Cera knows, deep in her heart, that it is too late.
"Raise him well, child," she orders, placing the baby carefully in the tormented man's arms.
Garp nods gravely, looking down at Ace's innocent face. "I will."
V.
Eighteen years later, the Spade Pirates party in a bar on an island in Paradise in celebration of their Captain, 'Fire Fist' Ace's new bounty, 475 million beli. Between their drinking and singing and cheering, not one of them notices the pretty auburn-haired woman who walks in.
That is, until she slides smoothly into the seat opposite of Ace's.
He glances up with a grin, giving her a smooth once-over. Hot, his somewhat intoxicated brain decides. Though her free flowing green dress isn't quite flattering for her slender curves, her small smile is beautiful and those eyes...
"Portgas D. Ace, you have your mother's freckles," she tells him, and suddenly, his attention isn't on her appearance anymore.