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No Parking On The Battleground
the parchment curls up in places
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Nami remembers every chart she's ever drawn.
She has made hundreds and hundreds - thousands and thousands - of land-and-sea charts over the past eight years, and she salvaged nothing from Arlong Park. There was nothing there worth saving and she wouldn't have, even if there had been. Those charts had never been hers. She put her blood and ink, her entire life, into them, but they weren't her charts. The way she sees it, she has eight years worth of lost time to make up for, and she delights in drawing out each crisp line again, because this time she wants to.
She smiles while she works, now - honestly smiles - because she isn't locked in a room by herself, and not allowed to leave for anything until she finishes what she's been put in there to do. She doesn't go without food or drink, or sleep, or bathroom breaks. She doesn't draw until her fingers bleed, and she doesn't get beaten for making mistakes because she doesn't make mistakes and if she does, she takes a new sheet of parchment out of the stack and begins again.
These charts are perfect.
They aren't stained with blood and the tears she swore she'd never let fall again, but couldn't hold back. They're smudged by her wrists while she works, and by Luffy's arm if he leans across the table to talk to her, or Usopp's thumbs if he picks it up to see what she's doing. They're creased from Zoro's rough fingers when he silently passes them back to her. And if she's working in the galley while Sanji's cooking on an exceptionally hot day, the parchment curls up in places against the heat and humidity.
They're folded and creased and wrinkled and some of the edges are torn. The stains are from sweat, not always hers; they're from orange juice; and tea; mustard and other condiments; she knows there are a handful of grease stains on a handful of charts from Luffy's inconsiderate, grubby fingers; there are watermarks; and ink blots when her pen has disagreed with her; and dozens or hundreds of other things because asking for peace and stillness on this ship is like asking for rain in the desert and accidents happen.
It doesn't matter. They're hers, and they're perfect.
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(A/n) Word-a-day prompt was CARTOGRAPHY
-BobTAC