Welcome back!
I hope you don't hate me too much for the long wait… Anyway, enjoy!
To the guest who was/is considering dropping reading until serialization is over—By all means, feel free. I knew before writing this and after, that many people weren't going to follow along well. I wrote The Breaking Point with this intention. You, as the reader, are given a very limited, very biased viewpoint into the world through Nami's eyes. You only know as much as she lets you know, which is very little. If you feel like you can stick it out, I invite you to wait until the end of the story, though, I do warn you, the end is nowhere in sight, as I have currently 30+ chapters drafted, almost 40,000 words, more or less. The serialization of the fanfic will mostly like take another year, at the least, before completing it's cycle. I'm glad you like my style and tone, as a writer, I'm always happy when people enjoy the work I put out. This goes for all my readers(even my silent ones). I don't mind if you want to wait, as most stories are best read as a whole. Thank you for your review, and—
Much Love,
aerstwhyle
Remember that all past events are in italics!
the breaking point
Nami is injured while protecting Law during a skirmish. In the past, a man named Kiefer grows impatient with Nami and her inability to see bad in Law.
nine | fever dream
Things come to her, little by little. A name, a voice, a smile, the smell of tobacco and salt of the sea. Some are good, snapshots of lips on hers, laughs by the bonfire and sparkle of the stars from the deck one late night—while some are bad, flashes of red on red, fire on her skin and blood on her tongue. But they are just that, things, hardly a memory. She has no use for things that lay and clutter in her mind, no where to go, nothing to be.
Or so she says.
Some things hit her hard—the snap of a rubber band somewhere off in the distance, the gentle tinker of jewelry of someone's earrings—and have her crying with no idea why. They hurt her. They just do.
The worst of it is when she is visited by her ever vigilant doctor.
He is tall, and perhaps a little bit thin, and wears but one color; black. His eyes are bright, vivid, luminescent like amber stones, and though his scathing mouth is always fallen into a scowl, the superimposed image of a time past, of a time that must be before, says that it should be a smile there. She found easily in those early days after waking that she couldn't look at him for too long. He hurts her too.
Why?
She doesn't know.
Those little things that come to her are just things, not memories. She has nothing for herself but scraps of the Before. Then. Long ago. Before.
They—two men and a white bear—tell her that she was hurt bad during a battle. They tell her that she was brave, and that she saved their captain. They speak of her to her as though she is already dead. She can't say they're wrong.
She feels like a dead girl walking. Like she shouldn't be here, now. Like her time has already passed her by, what seems so long ago.
She tells no one though.
That's for her to know, no one else.
No one else, what a familiar phrase.
She wonders who she's said that to before.
But that's neither here nor there.
Her ever vigilant doctor has come to see her.
"Nami," he says by way of greeting. The name rings sharp in her ears. Hers, yet not hers. She peers at him from the corner of her eye, face hidden by her downy white covers.
"Are you awake?" he asks. His footsteps approach her bed, and she curls in tighter.
Sometimes, she wishes to never wake from her sleep. If she could, then she would. What is there for her here? What is there to live for? No one would miss her. It would be so easy—
Her doctor puts his hand on her shoulder. She doesn't know how she feels about that. About him.
"Hey," he says, and she supposes that he means to sound gentle, but the tone of voice is so deliberate that he may as well be a drone. He is methodical, mechanical. And though he is rugged at his worst and devastatingly handsome at his best, his face is always cool, calm, placid like still waters at night. It's as though he's afraid of what she might see. Afraid of what she might do.
As though she is an animal.
The thought makes her boil and her head throb.
She's tired of being treated like an animal, like something to caged or paraded, something to be kept, hoarded.
She's just so tired.
Just so tired…
Her doctor yanks the covers away from her, and she yelps, curling her knees up and arms down to cover herself, cowering rather pathetically, not that she would admit it. Belatedly, she realizes that she is still clothed and that the doctor's hands are no where near her body, no where close to pulling her dress up or pushing her face down. The realization calms her a bit, but that calm is short lived.
"Are you done?" he demands with the faintest inklings of irritation. The cold chill of the room seeps into her skin, and she shivers.
"No," she shoots back, giving him the dirtiest glare she can muster. He returns it before slipping back into that unsettling calm. She makes to pulls the covers back, but her doctor holds firm.
"Nami," he says, stern, "you need to get up."
Nami. Nami, Nami, Nami.
She's just so tired. Of all of it.
This time when he tries to touch her, she snaps up and sends her fist into his face. He splutters and staggers back a step, his hand rising up to cradle his quickly reddening cheek.
"Get out!" she screeches, loud enough that her ears sting. When he only looks at her, poorly concealed disdain in those amber eyes of his, she yells again. "I said to get out!"
She doesn't want to look at him—doesn't want to see that blank look on his face. She's sick of him, of this room, of the images that play back over and over again when she closes her eyes. Faces she doesn't know, places she's never been, things she's never done.
A man, smiling as he kneels down to lick her vomit off the floor—
A woman, smiling as a bullet pierces through her forehead—
A boy, smiling as he tells her that he will have her, and only her, no one else—
A child, crying as she slits his throat and watches him die—
And it hurts.
It hurts.
"Where?"
She blinks.
Her doctor takes her hands away from where she has them over her face, the skin of his palms warm against hers.
"Where?" he asks again. "Where does it hurt?"
She looks at him. Really looks at him. Sees the furrow in his brow and the tiredness of his eyes, and to her guilt, sees herself in his frazzled gaze. She pulls her hands from his hold and instead reaches to touch the darkening bruise on his handsome face, wondering all the while when she became so bold.
He says nothing, only watches her as she runs her fingers over the edges of his jaw, across his cheekbone and against the arch of his brow. There's something in there, in his carefully blank eyes, and she swears she's seen it before, but where, when, why, evades her.
Quietly, she draws away, lays back down on her bed, and looks away.
Her doctor waits a beat, then pulls the covers back over her. From his pocket, he pulls out a notebook and pen. She watches warily as he sits on the edge of her mattress, careful not to touch her.
"Tell me," he starts, and suddenly, as his pen touches his paper, she feels like she's seen this before, "about your dreams."
She parts her lips to answer.
"I—" she begins to say.
‡
‡
Sweetheart, he calls her.
It is an insult, a brand, a cage, and every time that word falls from his mouth like poisoned honey, she feels that dark anger inside her grow. She wants to hurt him, maim him; pierce the whites of his eyes and cut his tongue from the cradle of his perverse mouth and make him swallow it. She wants to mutilate him, flay his skin from his muscles and part the flesh to watch him bleed and bleed and bleed until there is no more blood left. Voices in the darkest reaches of her mind call for it, they beg her and snarl and spit and push against the hollow hold of her skull until Nami thinks she may go mad from the pain of want. Never before has she wanted to commit evil… Not like this.
But it keeps her alive, this desire; it keeps her sharp and it keeps her sane.
When she breaks free from this filthy prison cell, she will cut him open, and devour his heart—no, not just his heart. After everything? That simply wouldn't do. She will strip his flesh from his bones with her teeth and drink the blood that pulses red in his veins, she will swallow every last piece of him, from his body to his soul and once she has—
Footsteps outside of her prison quiet the screaming in her head. She curls tighter around herself, casting a wary eye to the bars that mock her freedom. His figure casts an ugly shadow on the filthy stone floor—dirty with nothing other than her own blood and vomit.
The tinkering of the key being shoved into the lock drives her mad. She grits her teeth to keep from growling like the feral animal that she is quickly becoming.
Kill him.
"Good morning," her keeper all but purrs, "my sweetheart."
Kill him.
Nami inhales, a slow drawl of air.
Kill him.
When he comes close enough, Nami leans across the chasm between them, and tears into his throat with her teeth. The heat of his blood burns her skin and slips over her tongue like stale warm wine. In her dry mouth, he tastes like trash.
It makes her want to laugh.
KILL HIM.
She opens her tightly shut eyes—
And realizes that she is crying.
There is a white duvet tangled in her legs, and the floor beneath her knees is polished, waxed walnut. Someone is holding her, hands to her shoulders, but the feel and width of those hands aren't of the monster in her dream.
The blood is gone. The filth, gone.
It's warm. It's clean.
Safe.
She lets those hands guide her back onto the bed, where she falls—lulled by the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear—once again, into slumber.
‡
‡
She will have no one else.
Kiefer is her boy, her darling little sunshine. He will come with her. Perhaps this is her most foolish mistake—
No.
Her most foolish mistake is believing that people forget the dead.
But no matter.
She packs her bags and tells Kiefer about the sea, about the Before. He listens in rapt attention, always so eager to please her. She traces the shape of the scar she put on his face and tells him she loves him. He looks at her like she is the incarnate of a goddess, and tells her that he loves her too.
How easy it is for you, to love someone you don't know, she wants to say, but holds her tongue.
Kiefer is good. Too good. He will come with her. He is all she has, and she is all he has. She is his mother, his teacher, his savior. He is her excuse from rightful suicide. Not family. Never family. Nami's family has long since left her.
They set out for sea, and Kiefer kills his first man on the eve of his fourteenth birthday. He cries, clutching the gun so hard in his white knuckled hands that Nami can hear the creak of his bones. She eases the gun from him grasp, pulling his fingers away one by one, and tells him how brave he is.
"You saved me," she says as he breathes as if he knows nothing of air. "You did what you had to do."
"This," she tells him as he clutches onto her arms, "is war."
"People die."
"So be it."
But unlike her, Kiefer is good. Too good. And he is always crying.
He cries as she forces him to eat the fruit. Why does he cry so? Does he not know how much he needs it? How it will save him from death? They stand amongst the filth of the dead, souls gone by, the number racked and carved under Nami's belt. A measly twenty in comparison to her most outstanding toll of—
"Swallow it," she barks with no kindness as he gags on the taste. "Don't you dare spit it out."
He can no longer swim. They must have one more to accompany them on their journey. If either one of them were to fall, it would be over. Done. Nami has to fight the urge to let herself fall into the dark allure of the sea and be done with it all.
They bring a girl with emerald eyes and golden hair. She is Eli, and is pretty, with elven features and a pert, upturned nose that is irritatingly breakable. The girl is smart, but she is not strong. She almost lets Nami's darling Kiefer drown one night, and Nami is forced to bring another.
Not quite man, not quite boy, his name is Liam, and he has startlingly green eyes and deep copper skin, handsome and loyal. He is strong, but he is reckless. Kiefer is in no danger of drowning with Liam, but Liam in danger is a constant.
They camp in abandoned islands, ruins of cities with no fear. They make their way slowly, ever slowly, towards their goal.
But Liam is reckless. And Eli is weak. And Kiefer is far too good.
And Nami?
She is selfish.
She cares little for things that are not hers.
Kiefer is her boy.
When she thinks back on Liam and Eli, it is with distant apathy.
She did what she had to do.
This is war.
People after all, die.
So be it.
‡
‡
When she wakes, she is strangely cold. She reaches behind her, half expecting someone to be there, and is almost disappointed when she touches nothing but cool sheets. Almost, but not quite. The sun that shine into her eyes tells her that they've surfaced, and the murmur of voices beyond her door tells her that there are more people on the ship than usual.
There is excitement in the air, and Nami, for once, does not want to be exempt from it.
This room tires her so, with it's blank walls and empty drawers. And for some strange reason, she's woken with a good mood. And so she rises, tosses the covers from her legs and swings her legs onto the floor. She flinches. The ground is too cool against her feet.
Most days, the door is left unlocked, but on the days where her doctor has lost his patience with her, he will leave her lock in isolation for god knows how long. Today is not such a day, and under Nami's hand, it opens easily, allowing her into the hallway. She smooths her long hair down and tugs on the hem of her dress, anxious for the first time in a long time about how she must look. It's been weeks since she'd last looked into a mirror, and that had been back when she'd first woken, her face and throat mottled with bruises. She'd avoided mirrors after that, and only now does she feel regret at having forced her doctor to remove them from her bathroom.
"Nami?" A voice breaks her from her reverie. Startled she turns towards it, hand at her throat and heart jumping.
The white bear looks back at her, equally surprised.
"Are you feeling better today?" he asks, his tone so gentle that she flusters.
"I'm… alright," she replies after a long pause.
The bear smiles at that and after another pause, extends his paw towards her. "Were you looking for Captain?"
She nods in ascent, even though she wasn't looking for anything in particular. The bear smiles wider and beckons her. With hesitation, she takes his paw. His claws are intimidating, but the pads of his fingers are incredibly soft.
"He's in the main room, I'll take you to him."
She follows him, their footsteps soft against the low murmur of voices. The lights are dim, and what little light that floods from the portholes are brilliant, sending beams of white light dancing across the floor. The sun light is warm on her skin, and she is reminded suddenly of a time when she used to lay out for hours under the sun, simply basking. But again, it is not a memory, only a fleeting color and sensation.
The bear remains oblivious to her thoughts, happily leading the way to his captain and her doctor. His fur seems damp, and he smells faintly of sweat, prompting her to wonder if he's ever hot under his uniform. It would seem so.
They enter a common room of sorts, and the moment she crosses the threshold, all eyes are on her.
One in particular stands out.
A woman with sky blue hair and indigo eyes stares at her like she is something reverent, something legendary. The women's lips part, and, trembling, she exclaims softly, "Nami."
The woman stumbles on her feet, like she's lost feeling her legs, only for a man just beside her to catch her, whispering a faint, "Are you alright, Vivi?"
"Nami," the woman—Vivi—says again, "Nami is that really you?"
And Nami herself simply stares.
Should she speak? Should she reply? Should she tell the stranger that she knows nothing of her?
Her doctor speaks for her.
"Are you feeling better?" he asks to break the silence. Already, he is moving to cross the room in three quick strides. He seems upset, but what for, she cannot guess. Not yet at least. His hand falls to her arm, pulling her close.
"Yes," she answers truthfully. His grip loosens enough that it doesn't hurt, but not near loose enough for her to pull away. She meets his gaze, only to see panic flitting there. Her eyes fall back on Vivi and how she's watching them both with such wide, wondrous eyes.
Her doctor puts his hand to her forehead and makes a grand show of fussing over her, tutting at her temperature and musing that she should eat and take her medicine out loud. She almost laughs at him outright. He's a terrible liar.
He drags her and the white bear out the common room with an exclamation of how she needs more rest, and once they're out of earshot, he whirls on the bear.
"What were you thinking bring her out here, Bepo?"
"Sorry Captain…" The bear looks at his feet sheepishly. "I thought you were alone."
Her doctor sighs deeply. "Go back and tell them that Nami isn't feeling well. And that she won't be joining them for the night because her injury is… flaring up."
"But," stammers the bear, "she just said out loud that she was feeling fine."
"Tell them that she was pretending." Her doctor's eyes dart here and there, at a loss for an excuse. "Tell them that she's always… like this… No, that's not right…"
"Bepo," she says to the white bear after listening his captain's meager skills in lying, "you can tell them that you were looking for your Captain because I wasn't feeling well. Say that I have a fever, they'll fill the blanks themselves."
Her doctor blinks like the answer was obvious—which is was. To her, at least.
"Yeah," he agrees as he nods to the bear, "Tell them that."
She opens her mouth to say more, but her doctor is already leading her away. The white bear salutes them before running back towards the common room.
"Hey," she calls to him.
"What?" replies her doctor.
"Who was she?" Then remembering her name, she asks differently, "Who's Vivi, Doctor?"
Her doctor is quiet. His hand slips from her elbow to her wrist, the slide of his palm leaving her wanting him to do it again. When he looks at her, it is with a brush of loneliness.
"Call me Law," he tells her instead. "Just Law."
‡
‡
Kiefer looks at her, eyes wide and lips parted as he reaches out one lonely hand to touch her. Nami steps aside, out of reach, out of touch, and strides towards the sink. It's hard putting one foot in front of the other today, and the world around her seems so bright—so woolen. Her ears ring. Her eyes water.
"Are you alright, Nami?" Kiefer asks with his wide mismatch eyes trained on her. They are bright and as she blinks, she can see them dance behind her eyelids, a spiel of colors that she just can't seem to—
Nami takes a cup from the cupboard and inspects it. The glass seems to shiver and slide from side to side in her hand, glowing a strange shade of purple. It's shine is so bright, she has to shut her eyes.
"Fine," she says, "just fine."
She turns on the tap.
When she lifts the cup to her lips, she finds that she's dropped it onto the floor, and that Kiefer sits picking up the shards.
‡
‡
Law hides things from her.
She's hardly surprised. It's well within his character; Law fancies himself as some kind of dark knight, honorable, morally grey. He thinks he's well within rights. She thinks him a tad bit silly. He was the one who wanted so badly for her get better. The only one sabotaging that is himself. If he's going to be so tight lipped about her, then she decides that she'll find out more by herself.
Searching for the woman with the blue hair, Vivi, is fruitless, Law keeps the hatch which separates the sleeping quarters from the common room locked. Her search for answers is limited instead to her bedroom, Law's, his office, and the bunk room for the crewmates. The crewmates have nothing to interest her, just dirty clothes and old photos. But Law…
Fishing around his room while he's showering or bathing lends her notes about herself. They lay scattered about his desk, stained with coffee and torn on the edges.
Possible absence seizures, reads one.
Intense withdrawal symptoms, reads another.
One note describes her height(170 cm, 5ft and 7 inches) and weight(47 kg, 105 lbs), characteristics(violent, quick to anger, nervous ticks) and looks(red hair, brown eyes) down to the point, and underlined in dark blue ink is her weight. Twenty pounds under weight is noted in the margin, the scrawl of Law's handwriting cramped and angular. Refuses to eat, accused me of poisoning her.
Sneaking into his library gives her books she assumes Law reads for her, about her.
The Psychology of Complex Trauma, reads one.
Amnesia and It's Long Lasting Effects, reads another.
Law leaves careful notes in the margins and between the lines of his books, colorful tabs sticking out from the pages to mark what he deems important. Some notes are cynical musings about how the author has no actual practice, only theory, and some are drawn conclusions about herself, comparing her to the symptoms described.
She should be flattered, she supposes, but she only feels like she's been violated, dissected and left to dry on Law's operation table. There are some things she'd like to keep to herself.
Her most intriguing find during her routine snooping is inside a box shoved deep in Law's closet. Simple cardboard and labeled with her name in black pointed letters, it is filled with what she takes to be trash at first. A yellow seashell, a scrap of torn paper, a cracked log pose, and a pair of worn jeans. She dumps the entire box onto the floor, checking for something more substantial and severely disappointed when her search comes empty.
Trailing hesitant fingers over the log pose, she traces the prominent crack in the glass globe and follows its path until it separates into what seems to be a million hairline cracks. This was hers, once upon a time, and though now she would throw it away as it is, Law had deemed it important enough that he kept it. She places it back down and takes the jeans instead, eyeing it critically. It's too big for her now, she thinks immediately, and when she presses the waistband to her hips, she finds that she's completely correct. It's here that she realizes for the first time how thin she is. Her hipbones protrude from underneath her cotton shorts and she can count her ribs easily—her wrists stick thin and ankles near pitiful. The thought that she might be less than attractive like this upsets her, so she decides to put the jeans back into the box.
Out of sight, out of mind. She is fine. Just fine.
Quickly diverting her attention to the yellow seashell, she discovers that when pressed at the top, it emits a low static noise. She tries to speak into it, shakes it and even hits it against the floor, but the yellow shell does nothing but play back static. Sighing, she puts it down and picks up the scrap of paper. It's barely the size of her palm, and though the edges are torn, the scrap is pristine, unblemished, uncreased. Just as she's wondering what makes this little scrap so special, it moves. She blinks—once, twice, three times, but there's no mistaking it. The paper is moving in her hand.
Vivre Card, whispers something in the far corner of her mind, it will lead you to whom it belongs to.
"Vivre card," she parrots, tasting the words in her mouth, "it will lead me to whom it belongs to…"
The realization that someone is on the other side, that someone out there, that the person who this paper belongs to, knows her, hits the air out of her lungs. At the same time—that her past was so close, and that Law was so insistent on hiding it, upsets her.
She doesn't get to mull over these realities for long however, as the sound of footsteps approaching the room has her scrambling to clean her mess. In goes the log pose and the shell with the jeans, to the box and that she shoves all the way back into the corner, making sure to lay Law's clothes back the way they were when she found them. Just in time, she notes with frazzled pride as the door creaks open. She whirls on her heels, and puts her best smile on her face. Law's stares back at her, eyes almost wide as they dart from her to the rest of the room. A pregnant pause fills the room and tugs at her waning smile, but she holds firm.
Law's question comes hesitantly and slowly, "What are you doing?"
She tucks a wayward lock of hair behind her ear and peeks up at him through her lashes in what she hopes is a coy look. "Looking for you," she replies easily enough, relieved that there is no stutter or stammer in her answer. She hopes that he can't hear the way her heart is leaping in her chest.
Law continues to stare at her for much longer than necessary, and she desperately fights the urge to fidget under his scrutiny. She feels naked like this, stripped down and bare before his oddly keen eyes.
"Hm," he hums curiously after what seems like an eternity. "Is that so?"
She grapples for a moment; there's a test in his tone, but what he's looking for she doesn't know. Not quite. She sucks in a breath, stalling, before blurting, "I just, you know, missed you." Then, because those words sound so corny and the face he's making is strange for so many reasons, "Don't be flattered. Your attitude is shit. Your face is the only thing that makes up for it."
His lips twist, and she recognizes the familiar beginnings of a smirk on his stoic façade. "You think I'm handsome?"
Hook, line and sinker.
She tosses her hair as she makes her way across the room towards him, finger curling around the vivre card—out of his sight, out of his mind.
"Of course," she says, "it's the only reason I stick around."
"Oh?" Law answers, "I though you were only here for the free food and labor."
She gives him a shy grin as she slides past him through the doorway. "That too," she admits.
That look flashes across his face again, the one from the day she'd touched his face—nostalgia, loneliness, and perhaps even longing—but it is gone as quick as it came, and Law is once again, carefully blank. He turns his face away, not looking at her. As if he can't bear to.
She feels all her bravado wilt.
"Nami," says her doctor, "you can't just—"
And it's here, watching his lips form the shape of name—that it hits her.
It looks—
—just like—
—the way…
…when…
His skin smells and tastes like antiseptic, the very antithesis of sensuality, but the warmth of it intoxicates her. Softly but ardently, she leaves a pathway of kisses on his warm, olive skin, on the corner of his mouth, the curve of his jaw, his chin and under his ear. Underneath the sterile taste, is the barest hint of him, a taste she cannot describe with words. He groans when she licks the salt of his sweat from his throat, and the noise he makes—sharp, strangled and very much pleased—sends a streaking shot of desire down between her legs. She rubs her thighs together, and when she reaches back up to kiss his lips, she feels him grin.
She doesn't like the thought of him laughing at her, even in good humor.
In retaliation to his smile, she bites his lip none too gently. He hisses, and makes to pull away, but Nami pulls him back by the collar of his half shed shirt and eases the sting with a stroke of her tongue. He falls easily back onto her, his weight and warmth returning and pressing her back into the hard edge of the wooden table. They part for air, lips pulling away loudly and breathing heavily.
"Can't get enough of me?" he taunts, disregarding her scolding bite from earlier.
From under his dark mussed hair, she can see amusement dance in his yellow eyes. He pushes back stray strands of her hair and tucks them behind her ear, before pressing a gentle, lingering peck to the very tip of her nose. The gesture is so tender that she can't help but blush.
The smile on his face only widens.
Scowling at his teasing, she pulls his face down to hers by his ears, and kisses the smile off his handsome face. Her touch trails down the tendons of his neck, over his tattooed chest and to the waist of his jeans, where she hooks her fingers into the belt loops and pulls his hips flush to hers.
He doesn't say much more after that, all too eager to slip his hands under her shirt and press himself closer into the soft cradle between her thighs.
And that's fine because he's—
…He is...
He's… what?
So much, Nami thinks to herself from somewhere deep in the far reach of her too dark mind, nicer like this…
"Nami?" Fingers brush tentatively against her cheek.
There's a stain on the floor.
Looks like coffee.
When was the last time she cleaned…?
The fingers trail down her shoulder and wrap around her elbow. Another appears in the edges of her vision and grasps her chin. She blinks blearily as her gaze is lifted from the stained floor.
"You slipped away again," Law says to her, so close that she can see her reflection in his pupils.
"I," she begins, then stops, unsure of what to say. "I was… just thinking," she finishes lamely.
She moves to step away, but her legs are shaking so hard that she almost falls face first into the floor. Thankfully, Law is there to catch her halfway, his fingers abnormally hot on her too chill skin. They curl with bruising strength around her biceps, anchoring her both to reality and to her feet.
"Nami?" he sounds incredulous—she can't look at him—she won't look at him. "What's wrong with you? What happened?"
"Nothing—" she tries to say, but her mouth is dry, her throat swollen. "I just… don't feel very well."
Then—partly because her face is beginning to burn with a blush that is ten times too hot and partly because the way Law is looking at her makes her uncomfortable—she flees to the haven of her room.
The door slams shut behind her, and only then does she let herself cry, mourning and missing and resenting something that can't even be called a memory.
A fantasy.
Yes.
That must be what it was.
A fantasy.
A rather cruel one.
‡
‡
Kiefer slaps the cup from her hands and it rolls twice against the table top after falling from her grip.
"Don't drink that," he hisses with such ferocity that Nami flinches.
Where is her shy little Kiefer?
The pool of black tea grows from the upended cup until it spills over the edge and onto the floor, where it collects into an ugly dark puddle.
"I taught you better than that," she tells him as she wipes the tea from her fingers. "Who taught you how to be so rude?"
Kiefer looks at her for a long time, hands limp at his sides. When he finally speaks, his voice is a murmur, quiet and timid.
"You remember me?"
Nami raises a brow as she reaches over to tuck an errant strand of his wild hair behind his ruined ear, her bruised fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw. She gives him a soft smile. "Of course I do."
And when he begins to cry, for the life of her, Nami cannot fathom why.
"I miss you," he tells her. "I miss you so much."
Nami cannot understand.
"I'm here," she tells him. "I never left."
He only cries harder, presses his face into her palm closer.
"I know," he says, so sad, so, so, sad… "I know."
‡
‡
"Law?" she asks.
"Yes?" he answers.
She takes in a breath. Watches the sea pass her by in the porthole window. Lives. Dies. Exists.
"What day is it today?" she asks.
"Thursday," he answers.
"Where are we?" she asks.
"Don't worry," he answers.
"Where," she asks, "is my cat."
"Gone," he answers.
"And my Kiefer?" she asks.
A pause.
Breathing. Living. Dying. Existing. All so quiet.
The sea passes them by.
"Gone," he whispers, but Nami hears the tremor, sees the panic, feels the tension.
She looks at him, and he looks back.
"Gone?" she asks.
Law wavers under her stare, breathless, real—and for the first time since she woke beside him in her bed—human.
"Yes," he answers.
She watches the door long after he has left.
Law is lying to her.
When has that stopped being surprising?
‡
‡
"Are we going to do this?" There's a tremble in Kiefer's voice. "For real?" he asks.
"Yes," Nami says, "for real."
She wipes the sweat off her forehead and looks at him. For the first time since arriving, he was showing hesitance. Kiefer meekly meets her gaze, the firelight from the corpse oven turning his one blue eye yellow.
"I'm scared," he confesses, suddenly looking very much like the young boy he once was, the one who had smiled so softly up at her, all those years ago.
She closes her eyes, and sees—
Fire, careful smiles, death. The smell of burning hair, the sizzle of human fat over flames the taste of blood on her—
But she opens her eyes, and the image is gone.
"What for?" she asks. She sets her shovel down beside the corpse pile. Some flies scatter from the sudden movement, but return to their spots soon after, one large blanket of eternally moving black. Nami stares at it, disgusted, before returning her gaze to Kiefer. "What are you scared of?"
Kiefer turns his face to look at the fire blazing in the ovens, a smear of ash covering his left brow. "I don't want to die."
"We all die, Kiefer," Nami says without pause.
A sad truth, but a truth all the same.
"I know," he says, an annoyed glance thrown her way, "but that doesn't mean I want to."
She lets his words roll into the silence, and contemplates for one long moment. "Sometimes I do," she admits.
And she does. She really does.
Sometimes it hits her hard as she does the most mundane of tasks—hot and burning—the want to die. The want of closing her eyes, and never having to open them… Sometimes…she's just so tired. So tired…
Kiefer flinches, startled. He asks, "Why?"
And as Nami stares into the fire, feeling so far away she might as well be half way to the stars, she replies, rather bitterly, "What do I have left to live for?"
Tentative silence. The blaze in the oven crackles and sizzles. Flies buzz. Shadows dance.
"What about me?" Kiefer asks tentatively. "What about the doctor?"
What about Law, she wants to ask, what about you?
Who is Law to her other than a man who no longer is who he once was? Who is Kiefer to her other that a boy not yet man who cries and clings and wants so much to live for something that is only fiction?
What are they to her, other than poor substitutes for something that only exists in memory?
Nami picks up her shovel, and once more, the flies flit about. Her body feels heavy and her eyes strangely dry.
"Sometimes, Kiefer," she amends, more for him than herself. "Only sometimes."
‡
‡
She dreams that she is crying—that she is dying.
The silk sheets of her bed entangle her arms and legs, a web of luxury that refuses to let her go.
She screams, she wails, she begs to die.
The flicker of a single candle is her only anchor to sanity as she writhes in the shackles of her silken sheets. Feverish sweat slides down her temples, slicking her hair to her forehead and cheeks and making her skin sticky. Her breath is labored, uneven, her naked chest heaving with every ragged inhale.
A single palm presses to her cheek, brushing away strands of hair with large fingers. Instead of skin, she feels the soft down of fur lining the hand.
"No more," she begs the stranger. "Please take it out. Please no more."
"You'll hurt," comes the soft answer to her delirious pleas.
"I don't care!" She thrashes, struggling against the vice hold of her bed. The hand leaves her face to hold her shoulder down. "I don't want this!"
She repeats it, again and again. "I don't want it, I don't want it, I don't want it—"
The beast inside her twists, and she cries out in anguish as it tears her body more and more. It is a parasite, unwanted and unneeded, existing solely to spite her. It is vile, it is foul, like the innards of a rotting corpse left in the sun.
And she wants it gone.
A crying swordsman enters the room, washing the darkness with a brief burst of light.
"Please," she begs him, sobbing, her body curled around her middle as she tears her fingernails into the supple flesh of her flat stomach. "Take it out."
He does as she asks, pulling the blade of his virgin white sword from it's sheath. His hand tremors, just once, and then he cuts her.
A lion bursts forth from her belly, golden fur wet with her blood and smelling of filth as it claws it's way out into the world. It bares its teeth, human lips puled back and glistening with drool as it growls. It stretches, writhes, fighting to escape the hold of her body. With one great heave, the swordsman and the stranger tugs the beast from her belly.
The candle sputters.
She quiets.
Her skin grows cold.
The crying swordsman begins to sob, pressing his dirty hands to his face.
"I'm sorry," he says, gasping, "I didn't mean to—this wasn't supposed to happen."
Then, softly, "I wanted to fix you. I only wanted to make you better again."
Nami stands from the bed, tearing her silk shackles away from her body and grabs the nape of the whimpering beast. She drags it to the window and throws it out, watching with finality as it falls into the ocean, devoured by the raging black water.
There.
It is gone.
The crying swordsman holds her in his arms as the stranger puts her innards back into her body and sews the slit in her belly shut. She doesn't make a sound.
After, while she is lying quietly in her tangled sheets, the crying swordsman kisses her face until no more tears are left, and tells her he loves her.
Nami tells him that he is a liar.
He only cries harder, his vibrant yellow eyes dulled by his bloody tears.
And when she wakes, it is to the taste of her blood on her tongue. The space beside is so cool, so cold. Someone should be there, but when she reaches for comfort, nothing greets her. The darkness swallowing the room seems to breathe, and slowly, Nami feels the walls begin to close in on her.
With a gasp, she tears herself from the bed and throws open her bedroom door. Her heavy footsteps lead her to the hatch—the door to the world outside. She doesn't know why she knows this ship so well. She doesn't question it. Just does.
The ship is quiet, no one occupies the common room, no one haunts the kitchen. All is still, and she doesn't understand it until she reaches the hatch and pushes open the door. The ship rocks gently side to side, caressed by the love of the sea as it rests anchored beside an old dock. The crew must have gone into town. She hopes her captain will bring her back some meat. But that thought is strange, so she drops it. No use pondering the useless.
The world beyond her room and beyond the halls of his ship is crisp, but not clear. The chill of the night bites her skin through her nightdress and tousles her already tousled hair to the point of no returns, but she doesn't quite care. She looks to the moon.
The moon hangs hidden behind the smog of pollution. If she tries hard enough, she can picture the sight of it, full and silver as it hangs in the sky, it's blue-grey light dancing off the white sand shores of her hometown—but that image just seems so far away…
"Nami?"
The voice startles her, and she turns towards it, lamenting belatedly the fact the she left her room running without a weapon—not that she had one—but is wildly relieved to see a familiar face.
Law looks at her with something like concern. His arms slip from the railing where they'd been resting as he moves to close the distance, the wooden deck creaking under the weight of his steps.
"Another nightmare?" he asks, as though he knows her, as she knows him.
It hits her then.
Hard, cold, real.
"You know me."
He must mistake her tone of voice, because to the epiphany, he says simply, "Of course I do."
She stares at him, eyes following the line of his jaw and bridge of his nose, lines that she knows so well—so well that it should be wrong. He turns toward her, vibrant eyes questioning as he takes a step closer. His hand reaches up as though to caress her face, and for a moment, Nami thinks he might kiss her. It scares her, how much she wants him to.
But instead, he reaches over and wipes at her face with frayed cuff of his dirty sleeve.
Roughly, he tells her, "You're crying."
Nami touches her fingertips to her cheeks.
They come away wet.
She decides then and there, that she is tired of this habit of not knowing.
On the other side of her vivre card, exists someone who knows her, and if she is fortunate, will not hide the truth from her. And with that hope, she collects her things—three swords and one knife—and sets sail alone in the dead of night, just like she had done back when she was young.
Hope that satisfied some thirty minds for now! Thank you and enjoy! All reviews, favorites and follows are well loved~
Anopy—Yes, it has been so long! Even longer now, between this update and the last… Hopefully you aren't too upset, life happens as I'm sure you also know all too well. Oh-ho-ho, you've caught onto Kiefer and Doflamingo haven't you? Kiefer's a sneaky one… but he's neither good or bad… for now. ;) And Doffy? Well hmm, we see if we'll be seeing him later… who knows, with a lot of the older generation gone, he could be too… but that getting ahead of ourselves, I don't want to give too much away. All apart of the suspense, after all. Thanks so much for your review, I look forward to hearing your thoughts as I always do on this chapter and the next(releasing hopefully next month)!
Chococatmarsh—You're English is fine! It's fantastic, don't be discouraged, you'll only get better and better with practice after all, so don't be shy about it. And I hope I update more too! I want to see the ending as much as you do, trust me. I just have a hard time fitting in the time to write. Anyway, thanks for your review!
GUEST—Regarding your question about whether the marines know about the machines, the answer is yes. They helped put them there actually, and had a hand at making them, in case that wasn't obvious enough to catch(maybe I should go back and add that somewhere…). Law has unconventional ways, but in the end he's still a doctor, saving lives is his mission, so I think he's not being too villainous to Nami. I would hope, anyway. Thanks for your review!
Peepachu—Kiefer is on Nami's side, I can say that definitely. But is he on ours? Is Nami even on ours? We don't know that just yet… Thanks for dropping a review, and btw, is that a game theory reference or…? Nevermind.
sarge1130—Your reviews are always so insightful! You know exactly what's going on (oops, am I saying too much?) and catch onto the little things—like feeling and knowing only what Nami does. Yes, your analysis of Law is correct. He isn't really one for backhanded tactics unless he explicitly declares you a threat, and his role and passion as a doctor is well worn with him. Keeping things like this in mind is important to really understanding what's going on with Nami and the world around her. The people around her are the same, she's the only one who's different, even if she believes the opposite. Well, enough with my rambling, thank you for your review!
Hachibukai—Yes, adulting is hard! Work, work, work, is all it's about. No time for me or my fangirling! I'm glad you like this Nami so much! I tried to make her darker, but with still that Nami feel. She's a little bit lovesick when it comes to Law, but aren't we all? Handsome beast he is… It's also great to know that I will hear from you as well! This story will not ever be abandoned (just updated really slowly!), and I hope to hear from you all along the journey! Thank you for leaving such happy and thoughtful reviews, they really make my day.
Joy-girl—Ah, is it really that brilliant? You make me blush. You're theories are great, though I think you know why I can't comment on them more. And thanks you for your wonderful review, I'm happy you enjoyed my fic so much, I can only hope from now on that I won't disappoint. Law and Nami's dynamic was something I really went back and forth on, I wanted them to seem close, but at the same time, distanced, something akin to it feels to be suddenly thrust in the company of your childhood best friend. So many strong memories, but yet there's still that distance. I'd love to hear more of your thoughts on their dynamic! Is it too dramatic in your eyes? Too complacent? Too platonic or too romantic? Well, anyway, thanks again for your review!
SELF NOTE; Forward! (•̀o•́)ง