Okay, I am so, so sorry for not getting this out earlier. I feel like I let you down in a way, but in my defense I never set a specific date for when I would have these out, and this is why.
Don't do summer college - there is way too much work condensed into five weeks.
Anyway, here's a new chapter. Enjoy!
Thatch had never liked flies.
They got into everything - every sealed barrel, every bag of rice, every shelf of meat - and ruined it. The meat would soil because the flies laid eggs on it. The fruits and vegetables would rot because flies fed on them. Everything that wasn't ruined on contact became an incubator for the myriad of diseases the flies carried with them, all of which were transferred into the food that the flies landed on, ate from, or bred on. Flies were a cook's worst nightmare.
As Thatch walked up the main slope of Avalton, the Whitebeard Pirates' chosen island to memorialize their deceased friends and allies, he couldn't help but contemplate the existence of flies.
He had heard from somewhere that every creature had a purpose in the world to make it better, but for the life of him Thatch could not find anything good about that insect. All it did was grow and infest and contaminate. They were attracted to the rotten things while being rotten themselves. 'No,' Thatch thought, 'nothing good comes when there are flies involved.'
It was a long walk up the slope, as the whole island was basically its own hill. The peak, though, was completely flat, almost like a plateau. The scenery was gorgeous - anyone would agree - and you could see the ocean from anywhere on the island. It wasn't small by any means; no, that was just the way the island was shaped. It was made for sailors, and that was why Edward Newgate chose this island as the place where all of his sons could roam free in the next life.
What a grim prospect to think about for a father. Almost as bad as flies.
As Thatch neared the top of the island, and his destination, his train of thought about that horrible insect vanished. After all, it wasn't appropriate to think about such petty things among those who no longer can.
It was sad, the size of the graveyard. Edward Newgate had been a pirate for a long time, and when you are a captain for as long as he had been, you tend to lose some crew members along the way. With the size of the crew being as large as it is, though, you tend to lose a lot more than normal. Even if you are a Yonko, and your crew has monstrous strength to match.
Thatch's demeanor was somber as he walked past all of his fallen brothers. Every stone, sword, spear, or monument in the ground was one more brother that he couldn't save. He knew he was being harsh on himself - one person can't possibly be everywhere at once, and most of them had died long before he was picked up by Oyaji - but he still felt sorrow and guilt at the sight of it.
Eventually, Thatch made it to the Commander section.
There were only three monuments here. One was for the Fourth Division Commander before him, one was for the first person to take command of the Twelfth Division. One was for Tyde.
Thatch stopped in front of the latter. When he was first here for the funeral, he hadn't payed much attention to the stone itself; he was too busy blaming himself for the man's death. Marco had to send him back to the ship - if he had stayed any longer, he would have been emotionally crushed by the entire event.
It was a shame, though. The craftsmen on the ship had put a lot of effort and detail into making it - one could almost see Tyde's personality in the stonework. The marble was still clean, too; it had only been two months since he had died.
'Two months…'
That was a long time to go without talking to your family. He should fix that.
Thatch sat down in front of the marker, legs crossed and hands fidgeting. It was hard to start a conversation with someone you had failed. How do you address a person when you had watched as their life bled out in front of you? It was hard, and Thatch was finding that the words just wouldn't come, that they got stuck in his throat far before ever leaving his mouth, and everything he could say wouldn't be adequate for what he wanted Tyde to know.
He wanted him to know that he was sorry.
He wanted him to know that he regretted not turning around sooner.
He wanted him to know that he didn't see who had killed him.
He wanted him to know that he would remember every second of their time together.
He wanted him to know that he was loved.
Thatch wanted to find the words to convey these feelings to his late best friend, but he just… couldn't. For once, it was hard to talk to his brother.
Still, though, he was his brother. He needed to say something - Tyde deserved more than his silence.
"Hey, bro," Thatch began, "It's been a while. I'm sorry I haven't gotten here sooner. Marco made me take a vacation to work off some of the stress that I've been feeling. Well, it wasn't a vacation at first. I ended up going to North Blue for…"
Thatch talked for hours. He told Tyde the stories of his solo travels over the past five weeks - he told him about Naoto and how much the brat reminded him of Tyde. He told him about how he broke his swords, and then made his own new ones after Kadoka had yelled at him. He told Tyde about the islands he landed on, the people living there, and the unique cultures of each village he went through. Thatch talked about anything and everything he could think of. Eventually, though, he ran out of things to say, and sat in silence once more in front of the memorial, contemplating whether or not he should mention what he had been thinking about.
It felt like taboo, to discuss the circumstances of one's death in front of the deceased. Especially when the topic covered possible betrayal.
Yes, Thatch would have to ask - not that he was expecting an answer, but still, it was the intent that mattered. First things first, though. He had done enough stalling at this point; he had an apology to make.
"Tyde…" the chef began, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. If I had been there a second sooner… If I had turned around an instant earlier…"
All the emotions Thatch had kept bottled up inside for the longest amount of time suddenly came loose. He was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and grief and pain and regret and shame.
Stop being so conceited, bro. The world doesn't revolve around you.
"But it's my fault! I was right there, I was right next to you, and I didn't do anything to stop it from happening. I didn't even catch the guy's face…" Thatch bit out, trying to keep the emotions in. Trying and failing, because he could taste salt in his mouth and feel a chill on his cheeks where the wind swept up against the wet skin.
It wasn't your job to babysit me. We're both Commanders - we have men to look after. They were your responsibility, not me.
"Still, though, I could have done something!" Thatch was getting frustrated. Tears were leaking from his eyes, and no matter what he said, he knew that Tyde would never blame him. He wasn't being blamed, and he hated it. It made him feel confused.
Maybe you could have, maybe not. Either way, I have a feeling that the same thing would have happened in the end.
Thatch's heart was tearing apart inside of him. It hurt - it hurt so bad and nothing he could do or say would stop it. "I feel so weak. I couldn't save you…"
So what are you going to do about it?
That brought Thatch out of his emotions very quickly. He only had one line of thoughts running through his head at the moment. 'What can I do about it?'
He couldn't stop Tyde from being killed. He didn't even see the bastard's face so he could avenge his brother. 'I can't do anything…'
Thatch's voice was barely above a whisper at this point. "Brother, forgive me. I couldn't…"
I'm not going to forgive you, Thatch.
Ah, there it was. That was the moment Thatch had been waiting for - the one he had been needing. All of the guilt and shame and regret he had been feeling were finally validated. As much as he was satisfied, though, he felt his heart breaking into a million tiny pieces. It hurt to hear his own brother say that to him. As much as he knew he deserved it, it hurt to finally hear the words.
It's not your fault.
Wait, what?
Why should I forgive you if you haven't done anything wrong?
If he hadn't wronged his brother, though, then why did he feel like this? Why was his soul overwhelmed by regret and shame and grief and sadness and guilt? He deserved to be blamed. He deserved to be held responsible for what happened that day, so why did those words make him so damn happy?
Let it go, Thatch. It wasn't your fault, and it never will be.
He couldn't stop it any more. At that moment, the Fourth Division Commander cried harder than he had ever cried before in his life. Once he started, he couldn't bring himself to stop. This wasn't like earlier, either, when the tears had been slowly leaking out of his eyes. No, those were tears that had escaped through the barrier he had erected to keep his emotions in.
Now, though, that barrier was gone, and the tears started to flood out. Every tear he cried now carried something inside it - something indescribable, that carried away all of the pain and grief he had been holding inside him since the moment his brother died. Every tear that made its way down his face washed away just a little portion of the large black stain on his soul that was made of despair and shame and regret. After all, unhappiness can't stick in a person's soul when it's slick with tears.*
He sat there for a long time, just letting the salt on his face cleanse his emotions. He had never gotten the chance to actually grieve his brother's death before - he had never given himself the chance. Now, though, he finally let himself mourn, and it did more good for him than anything else ever could have.
The sun was beautiful as it set that day. It was kind of symbolic to him as he sat there, almost as if the world was saying, "It's over now, you can rest."
Thatch leaned back against the large stone, sighing deeply. He felt relieved, as if some great weight that had gone unnoticed on his shoulders was finally lifted off and thrown into the far distance, never to return again. He felt… good. Content. It had been a while since he felt this way, and he liked it.
It wasn't that the Commander no longer mourned his brother. No, this type of contentment only came with acceptance of what had happened, and knowing that he can do better in the future.
There was just one thing keeping this moment from being any better.
Thatch knew he wasn't sure about whether or not his suspicions had proof to back them up. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he believed in them completely in the first place. He was sure about one thing, though - he had to make a decision about it, and he had to make it consciously to himself.
He had to be sure that there was a traitor in his family before he could do anything about them.
This was not a decision easily made for him. For the Whitebeards, one of the few things that every single person had in common was unshakeable faith in their crewmates, commanders, and captain - in their family. Ever since he had joined up with them - ever since he was accepted as a brother to all of them and a son to Whitebeard himself - he had never once doubted where his family's intentions lay.
They fought for each other. They protected each other, and those who couldn't do it themselves. They never denied help to each other, and always rallied together when one of their family was hurt. They never left one of their own behind, and sacrifices weren't things to make lightly.
The thought alone that one of his brothers or sisters was able to push away all of those emotions - all of the love that they felt for each other - and murder someone they called their family not one minute before was almost inconceivable. Even more so was that that same person - if betrayal did occur - was able to conceal themselves behind false emotions so well after the deed was done that no one would suspect a thing of them.
It was horrifying, and it scared Thatch so much that he didn't want to believe it.
He knew, though, there was an extremely large possibility that that was what happened. In the case that the odds were right, then he needed to do something about it.
Logically speaking, the situation gave two or three different possibilities as to what had happened that day, none of which involved the enemy killing his brother. If all the enemies were hundreds of yards away being kept occupied by the frontline fighters of the divisions, then there was no way for them to be able to sneak up behind two Commanders and the more experienced members of both divisions, the majority of which were skilled enough with observation haki to have been forewarned of an enemy attack. Thatch knew that haki tended not to detect attacks from those considered nakama by the user, so it made even more sense that that was what happened.
One of the possible situations involved a crewmate throwing a knife at an enemy and completely missing their target. That was almost immediately dismissed, as much as Thatch would have preferred it over the alternatives. There were only about three people on the Moby Dick who specialized in fighting techniques that used knives, and they were all experienced to the point that when they missed, it was by inches, not hundreds of yards. Besides, all three of them were in the First and Third divisions anyway - they weren't involved with, or anywhere near, the battle in the first place.
A third scenario was more likely, yet less believable. Occasionally, when one of the crew saw another struck down, or a person particularly close to them injured, they would go berserk. They would get so battle-crazed that they were no longer aware of who they were attacking. This was also ruled out fairly quickly. In a battle, whenever a person went berserk, it tended to cause a huge, loud commotion that never failed to attract the attention of at least a third of the man's allies. Since Thatch had been observing the fight as a whole, he and Tyde would have noticed immediately if this had occurred, especially so close to the Commanders themselves.
The only reason Thatch thought through these at first was to rule out any possible alternative to what he was dreading as the final - and apparently definite - option as to what had really occurred that day. He hated to even think it was possible, but by ruling out any other possibility, he forced himself to acknowledge it.
One of the people he had called brother or sister had purposefully killed Tyde.
Thatch pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He didn't smoke all that often, but heavens knew he needs one now. His nerves were going all over the place right now. There was a murderer disguised as his brother or sister, and they were on the Moby Dick right now, socializing with the rest of his family. No one else realized it. Hell, no one else would even think for a second that that was the truth, but Thatch knew better now.
As much as he hated it, he was sure now that there was a traitor on the Moby Dick.
Thatch would not rest until he found the bastard and saw that he got the punishment he deserved.
He let out another long breath, watching as the smoke disappeared at the same time as the sun. There was a lot of work ahead of him, and it would be very difficult. The bastard hid himself pretty well up until now, and it was going to be a pain in the ass to flush him out of hiding. It would be even harder than Thatch originally thought, too, because he'd be doing this completely on his own.
No one would believe him if he told them what he knew. Hell, they might even think he went crazy, and actively prevent him from doing anything to find Tyde's murderer. Telling anyone else before he had solid, physical proof would just be a hindrance to his goal.
Still, though, he had a ton of suspects to look through. It would be difficult and unnecessary to interrogate the entire crew - there were over 2000 people in the Whitebeard family. The battle in which Tyde died only involved the first four divisions, as those are the ones stationed on the Moby Dick, and the Moby Dick was the only ship involved in the fight. Of the four divisions present, only the second and fourth were actually in the fight - the first was on fishing duty and the third was keeping the ship running. So, he had it narrowed down to just over 250 people. He could easily remember the which of the members of his division were sent directly to the other ship, so it was more like 170 people. 170 suspects of Tyde's murder. 170 possible traitors on the crew.
Thatch sure had his work cut out for him.
He stood up, flicking out the stub of his cigarette, and turned to take one more look at Tyde's memorial stone. It really was the perfect design for him, and the marble almost glowed in the night sky. He read the inscription on the stone - it was simple, just his name and how long he lived. Tyde wasn't really the type for sentiment anyway; he always thought that sharing sentiment for the dead was for pansies.
Still, though, Thatch couldn't bring himself to leave nothing there except a name and a date. It felt… too little for a man that had such a big personality.
Chuckling to himself, Thatch got out a piece of paper and something to write with - something that wouldn't fade anytime soon. Tyde would be yelling at him for having too many feelings if he were here to do that, but Thatch got the feeling that as they were now the late Second Division Commander wouldn't mind all that much.
He wrote down just a few lines, and left the paper on the ground next to the stone with a rock to keep it from blowing away in the seabreeze. When he stood back up fully, he felt a new determination swell within him.
Nothing would stop him in this quest. This wasn't just about getting revenge for his fallen brother, although that was a large part of it. No, this was about protecting the rest of his family. After all, if the bastard obviously had no qualms about killing family, then there was nothing stopping him from doing it again.
Thatch was on a mission now.
As he started walking away, he couldn't help but think about flies again - about how they contaminate everything they touch and spread disease and filth as if it were there life goal to make the world as rotten as possible. Flies were, for sure, a cook's worst nightmare.
There was a fly infestation on the Moby Dick, and he'd be damned if he let any of his brothers get killed by the diseases that it spread.
To whom it may concern:
This man was a leader
A best friend
And a brother.
May he live in freedom forever.
Sorry that it's so short this time, but it's a transition chapter. We're heading into the main plot now! And other characters will appear! Like Marco and Ace!
Don't forget to leave a review - I love to hear from you guys!
~Psych
beta-read by breather
