It was not widely known that Smiling Johnson had eaten a Devil Fruit when he had been a grand total of five years old, though, Johnson supposed, that had more to do with the fact that not many knew of him at all to begin with than anything else.

He had been a member of Whitebeard's crew since almost the very beginning, just turned eighteen when he joined and with a whole life of piracy to look forward to under Edward Newgate's leading back. He had not been much younger than Whitebeard, if one was to count age in years instead of experience, but when standing next to such a presence as Whitebeard had been – and still was even in death – calling someone Father and trusting him with your life had not been a hard thing to do.

Even his own mother had told him so, when she had sent Johnson off on his first – and only – adventure on the sea, that he had at least chosen the best Captain he could if he was to become a pirate. The general opinion of the whole family had been that it could have been a whole lot worse, and surprisingly many of them had come to wave him off as they had set sail on Finding Nemo, the earliest predecessor to Moby Dick.

It had not been easy leaving them behind – he had always been close to his family – and while he still sent them letters every month and always got some in return, it wasn't quite enough. Still, he had not regretted going even once. He had become a part of another family – with Brothers and Sisters and Father – and even now, with Whitebeard in the ground and Embers that had died out, he could not imagine leaving.

An old man, he was, with bones that had started aching and a cough that just didn't seem to go away, and he knew that no one would blame him if he called it quits – most had not expected him to live through Marineford to begin with – but he both would and could not.

The Sea had been his home for almost all his life, and the thought of parting was close to unbearable.

And even if he could, the bounty he had on his head was not insignificant, and for all that his birth family loved him he doubted they would appreciate him drawing the Marines' attention to their small island. It was better for everyone if he stayed on the sea.

But before even that, he had a promise to fulfill. A promise to himself and his Captain.

There were not many things his Devil Fruit Power was good for, and a grand total of one of those could be used for battle, but it was not useless. Far from it, in fact, though perhaps not for his profession. Especially not now, as people spread for him as they had done for his Father before him.

They were all his children – especially in death – and they all knew.

Johnson had become the Smiling Johnson when he had been twenty, the first and only time Whitebeard had allowed him to help repair anything related to the ship. His moniker had nothing to do with his power – in fact, Johnson had found very little to smile about that day, mortified as he had been to have forgotten what he could do – but rather everything to do with the wide grin that had split his Father's face as he realized that he was stuck to the chair unable to move.

They been forced to throw that one away, the crew all laughing together as they watched it sink like the rock it had become into the dark depths of the sea.

It was quite ironic, all things considered, that a Devil Fruit User was able to create the one thing that would draw all his strength from him.

The place they had chosen for their Father and Brother was a small island in the New World, empty of everything but grass and flowers and two newly brought rocks waiting for him in its center.

The tools he had for cutting and carving rock was a heavy weight on his old limbs, and Johnson couldn't help but wish that it was a dream. A nightmare he could wake from with Whitebeard smiling at him from his throne and a ship filled with people smiling with him.

Only Johnson was smiling now, and that was only because his Father had asked it of him.

He had fought in countless of battles, both lost and won, and his body had scars aplenty to give weight to his words. One could rarely remain unscarred when a pirate, Smiling Johnson had learned a scant month after the start of his career, when a spear had caught him in his tight and left a star in its wake, scrunched up skin and bandages for a week.

Whitebeard had laughed, slapped Johnson on his back, and then proceeded to throw off his jacket and showed him his own; a slash from a sword stretching almost all the way from side to side across his massive back. They had gotten drunk that night, and the rest of the crew with them, and had come out of it closer than they had been before.

Many good things could come from scars, but standing in front of two graves with a new ache in his shoulder it was very hard to remember. He doubted he would live long enough for this particular wound to have time to cauterize, and could not feel sorrow for that.

The world was an empty place without Whitebeard, and he didn't particularly care for it.

Smiling Johnson passed away in his sleep two weeks after the Burial, a smile on his face and a body made of stone.

He was remembered in death.