AN: new fic time, y'all. This is our man Brook when he was alive, and how a leader of a battle convoy for a kingdom got into a life of piracy. There will be a least 10 chapters, and an epilogue. Might update sporadically, but rest assured, it will be finished.
Brook was proud to say he was seven years old. He was a whole hand and a third in age, and his mom said that was something to be proud of, so he was.
Brook ran around on his birthday that year and told everyone he knew that he was seven now and since he was older they should say happy birthday. They did, but they also seemed surprised. Only seven years old? He was so tall! They had thought he was one of the older kids and Brook smiled at the high praise. He looked like a big kid! Very impressive.
Now that he was seven, he finally got the present he had been asking from his dad for ages. His dad had told him he'd only get it when he was taller than it, and only when he knew he wouldn't break it. Brook was very glad he was tall for his age, otherwise he might not have gotten this present until later. He was glad he didn't have to wait! He was going to show it off to all his friends and then his teachers when he got the time. They'd all be so jealous!
Brook bounced on his toes as his dad brought out a large present wrapped in brown paper. He rushed to it, but his dad stopped him from toppling into his new gift. His mother laughed at him from where she sat in her chair.
"Now Brook," His dad said slowly, his serious tone off put by the amusement in his voice.
"You probably already know what this is... So I need you to promise me something, okay?" His dad said, and Brook nodded furiously. Anything to get the present. His dad took his pinky in his, and held it tight.
"Do you promise to take good care of this, for as long as you can?" His dad asked.
"Yes! I promise!" Brook said, and was met with a bright smile from his father. Brook smiled back because that's what you do when people smile at you. As soon as the present was in his hands, Brook tore open the paper and revealed a brand new, polished, violin. He looked at the glossy surface of the violin, his reflection looking back at him. He had a lot of curly hair, forming a large halo around his head and hiding his eyes. It was his mother's hair he was told, and he was told he was bound to get his father's cleft chin when he got older. He didn't particularly like the cleft chin, and his dad teased him all the time about how soon, he'd have a butt-chin too.
He squealed and hugged the instrument close, then twirled around twice. He loved it.
"I love it!" He said, and his dad beamed and his mom laughed from behind her hand, and it was one of the happiest moments in his childhood. But like all good things, it never lasts.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
His father was trying to teach him how to read sheet music. It was really hard! The strange new letters and numbers didn't mean what they normally meant, and the lines on the page looked just like that, lines on a page. How could these lines and shapes be music? He didn't understand.
His dad just patted him on the shoulder and told him he know soon enough. He supposed his dad would know, he was the expert, after all. His dad knew how to play all sorts of musical instruments. He knew how to play the piano, the tuba, the flute, but Brook's favorite was the violin. Learning all those other instruments just seemed hard. The violin was the most appealing though, not because it seemed like it would be the easiest to learn, but because it seemed... pretty. It was beautiful when it played, and Brook knew from the moment he saw his father play that first lullaby that he needed to do that too. It was Important.
So he begged his parents to teach him music. He wanted to be like them, he wanted to make music too! So his parents taught him. His mother had a soft, melodic voice that carried through walls, and she was teaching him how to sing. She said since he was still young he'd have a hard time singing the deeper parts, but he'd get there in time. He stayed up late with his mom some nights, when his dad would get home late and neither of them could go to sleep, and sing songs together, she taught him the lyrics, he sung them the best he could.
His dad taught him instruments, sheet music, and how to clean and maintain his new violin. It was much harder than singing. There were just so many parts, how was he supposed to remember them all? But his dad would often remind him when he got frustrated about his promise. He promised to take good care of his new violin, and he knew that if he didn't keep it, his dad would take it away. It was scary how much he listened to his dad's lectures after that. He listened with an odd intensity only a five year old could muster, and tried his hardest to keep all the new information in his head.
But it wasn't all music and fun for him, either. He had other things he needed to do, too. Like all his homework from school. And all his schoolwork from school. But it was just so boring! It was all math and history that made his fall asleep in class. And that usually meant he missed the lecture, and then he'd have to do the schoolwork at home along with his homework, which he didn't know how to do since he missed the lecture.
And then he'd have to go ask one of his parents for help, and that always got him in trouble because that meant he had slept through another lecture at school. He liked going to his mother for help more often than his dad, his dad usually put him in time-out for an hour when he asked for help. His mom would scold him, but she then help his with whatever project he needed to get done and then send him to bed early.
He had friends at school, though, so that was nice. He'd play with them in the yard before and after class, and they'd play tag or hide and seek or eye-spy. He told his friends about his new violin and how his dad taught him music. He was so excited, which was why he got confused when his friends laughed at him. They said music was for losers. Brook got upset and he told them that, no, music was super cool and they were just stupid. They got mad at that, and shoved him to the ground. It didn't hurt, but Brook was crying and he got up and bit the boy who pushed him down.
That's how he got sent home early and was promptly grounded.
He was in his room on his bed when his mother decided to check in on him.
"Brook, dear?" She called quietly into the room. He was curled up on his bed covers, his violin laying next to him. He was quiet.
"Come on, sweet pea. There's no need to pout." She said, shutting the door behind her. He curled up tighter in response. She sat down next to him and waited patiently.
"Alright, Brook. Tell me what's wrong." She said at last. Brook looked at her through his makeshift cocoon.
He mumbled.
"Those aren't proper words, dear." She said, and peeked at him through the gap in his fingers.
"I bit someone, today." He said, a bit louder than before.
"Would you care to tell me why?" She asked softly.
"He made me mad." Brook said.
"So you bit him?" She said, and he nodded. She seemed to take in this information for a moment before picking the boy up by his armpits and plopping him down on her lap. He squeaked in reply, and soon he was hugging his mom tight around the waist.
"Brook, just because something makes you mad, doesn't mean you should get violent like that." She said, and Brook frowned up at her.
"But what about when-" He started, and she shushed him quickly.
"Of course there's times when you get to be physical when you're mad, but this wasn't one of them, Brook. This is just something you have to learn as you grow up, and you aren't done growing." She said.
"I'm seven years old." He said defiantly.
"That you are, and since you're so mature, you're going to write an apology to the boy you bit to give him tomorrow." She said, and he groaned. She smiled down at him, unable to remain disappointed in her boy for too long.
"What got you so mad in the first place, Brook? You've always been my happy little boy, what changed today?" She asked when his dismay had passed.
"They were being stupid!" He said immediately.
"Stupid how?" She asked.
"They said music was for losers." Brook grumbled and his mother laughed, he voice like bells.
"What did you think was going to happen?" She asked, and she received a very grumpy frown.
"Not for my friends to be dumb." He said flatly. She patted his hair gently, but soon the smile slipped from her face.
"Listen, sweet pea? I know you like music, but... there are other things to learn out there, you know?" She said.
"Yeah, I know." Brook said.
"You don't have to do what we do, just because we do it, Brook."
"But I want to!" He said, suddenly looking scared. Was she going to take away his violin?
"Yes, I know, but you can learn other things, too. Like me! Just because I sing doesn't mean I can't do my job!" She said, and Brook had to agree. His mother was a seamstress by trade, and she was pretty good at it too. She made all his clothes, which she had to do often because he grew so fast.
"And what about you father? He knows all sorts of music but does that stop him from fishing?" She asked, and he shook his head. Not once had his dad stopped fishing for music. Where was she going with this?
"Okay...?" He said, curious.
"The thing is, Brook, making music is... okay as a hobby. It just isn't something that can get you money though. People don't usually like musicians because they're considered poor." She explained.
"Oh."
"I think you should start thinking about what you want to be when you grow up, Brook. I know you think you're grown up now, but when you're actually an adult you're going to look back on this and realize you weren't mature at all." She said, scooping him from her lap and placing him next to his violin.
"Now, get some sleep, I think you need a nap." She said, and he groaned yet again.
"I'm not tired!" He said, and she scoffed.
"But you are grounded, now take a nap and when you wake up, we'll work on that apology letter."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Years pass, and Brook grows even taller. The kids in his class often joke that he'll never stop growing, and he rolls his eyes. He's ten years old now, and he honestly looks like he's fifteen. He's so tall even his own teachers mistake his age, and often hand him the higher grade's papers to do instead of his own grade. This, of course, does not help him achieve more in school. As a matter of fact, it makes things considerably worse.
He almost always takes his work home and shows it to his mother. She is incredibly smart, and usually knows exactly what a certain problem is, not to mention she knows a whole lot about the islands' history, however accurate that may be.
Brook had decided, through rigorous trial and error, to never, under any circumstances, bring his homework to his father, ever. A fact hard learned from the last time he had ever brought work he needed help with. He could still feel the belt marks on his thighs. He shudders simply thinking about it.
His father in recent times had been... unpleasant. He'd come home from school, or from playing outside, and he'd find his dad staring at him. He would get uncomfortable, ask his dad what was wrong, and be quickly shoved aside to do some chores. It was bizarre. And the look he got... it was full of anger.
Brook didn't understand.
He didn't understand why his dad had suddenly stopped teaching him music, or why he had just stopped talking to him completely. He also didn't understand why he had been giving his mom the same treatment.
Late at night, when they thought he was asleep, he'd hear them arguing. Shouting, mostly done by his father. But he could hear his mother too, shouting along with him, crying sometimes. It was so unlike how he had heard their voices before, melodious and intertwined. Now it was all breaking glass and thunder.
He found himself teaching himself music on his own, away from the house late at night. He'd crawl out his window, violin in hand, and scurry off to the forest nearby and try and remember the chords he had been taught. He folded up sheet music his dad had once written for him and kept them in his pocket, and practiced them too.
A legend was born on his island because of this habit, of the singing child who'd sing songs in the dead of night.
He hoped that whatever was bothering his parents so much would go away soon. He missed getting hugs from his dad.
It did not get better on its own.
It did not get better at all.
He had just arrived home from school when he noticed one of the windows open wide. Which was odd, since none of the windows in his house opened at all. He walked up closer to the wall and realized the window was broken. Frowning, he peeked over the broken glass and inside. His parents were arguing again. That was weird, usually they kept to themselves until it was nighttime. Both of them were shouting more than usual, too. He can't believe he hadn't heard it from the front porch.
He watched them wearily from his vantage point.
"I don't care! Who Was she? How long have you been abandoning this family-" That was his mom, and his father spoke next.
"Me? Abandoning? You're the one who had a bastard son with that asshole-"
"You don't know that!"
"The proof is in the pieces, look me in the eye and tell me that boy is my son!"
"It shouldn't matter what he looks like, you raised him-"
"You raised him, he's your problem!"
"And like you've been such a saint, you're a cheating-"
"Oh, you're the one to talk-"
They went on like this for a while. The shouting match finally reached its crescendo when Brook heard something be thrown against the wall and shatter. Abrupt silence wrapped itself around the household. He backed up away from the window and went to the front door and knocked on it lightly. Normally he'd just walk right in, but he didn't feel like he could do that now. The door remained shut for a second, but was opened a moment later.
"Brook, you're home early." His mom said from the doorway.
"No, I got out late today." He clarified, and she blinked.
"O-Oh. Well... come on in..." She then leaned down and whispered, "But please, try to be quiet."
The rest of the day progressed much like that. There was a tension in the air that Brook could instantly recognize between his parents. His mother seemed antsy in her seat, and her eyes would often flicker between Brook and his father. His father on the other hand was almost ram-rod stiff, never looking at either of them, focused on whatever task he had put his mind to. The result was the house being eerily quiet, every step being heard, the slightest wheeze being known.
Brook was on edge. He didn't know how to handle this. He feared if he moved to fast something would jump out and bite him, worse yet, his dad would lash out.
They didn't have dinner that night. His mom would be the one to make the food, but as soon as she got near the kitchen his dad snapped at her. Both she and Brook flinched away, and she did not try to go into the kitchen again. Brook was simply sitting at the table, fingers folded, trying to be a small as possible. He thought that hiding in his room would be smarter than sitting out here, but he was too weary to get up. Better to stay hidden in plain sight.
Hours passed like that, until finally his dad slipped away from the room and into the master bedroom. His mother let out a small breath. The sun had already slipped under the horizon, but the land was still bathed in a pink glow. His mother knelt before Brook, a window directly behind her, the light creating a halo of her hair. She looked worried.
"Brook, tomorrow, when you go to school, I need you not to come home." She said, quietly. Brook desperately wanted to ask why, but his voice was caught in his throat. He nodded instead.
"You'll go over to the town square, okay? Find that nice shop woman who sells the flowers. She'll let you stay there until I come and get you."
Brook managed to make a broken sound from his mouth. He didn't understand. Why did he have to do this? Why the sudden change? Why did things have to change? Why couldn't it be like before, when his parents didn't fight and he didn't come home to his father glaring daggers at him.
"Brook, please. I need you to promise me." She said, and she gently wiped away the tear that was forming under eye.
He sniffled and then squared his shoulders. He could do this. He was ten years old, he was a big boy. He could do this.
He nodded firmly.
"There's a good boy."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
He was woken up late in the night yet again by shouting. But it was different to the normal arguing that he heard. Instead, there was screaming, accusations, someone crying loudly. The noise grated his ears and sent him on edge.
He sat up and looked at his shut door. Bright candle light shone through the cracks, and Brook strained to understand what his parents were saying. He couldn't. They were certainly loud enough, but he couldn't make out their words due to how much they were speaking over each other.
Something told Brook to get out of bed. It was not thought, it was a command that some force told him to do, and he did. His feet gently patted against the floor, unheard under the commotion. Should he hide? He didn't think there was anywhere he could hide. He didn't want to be scared anymore.
He looked at his violin, leaning against the wall. He picked it up and felt better, and he didn't know why. It just felt comforting in his hands.
He jumped when there was a sudden boom from outside his room. There was silence until he heard small broken sobs coming from the living room.
He clutched his violin tightly, like the instrument could protect him from whatever monster lurked behind the door. He sucked in a breath. He didn't want to be scared. He was a big boy, he was a good boy.
He approached his door like one would approach a snake. He turned the knob without making a sound. He left the safety of his room and enter the brightly lit hallway, which was like fire on his eyes.
The crying could be heard more clearly now. He followed the sound. His heart beat in his chest and it filled his ears. He came to a corner and slowly poked his head around it.
He could see into the living room. He saw his dad, hunched down on the ground, his head in hands, crying. He saw something red by his father's feet. Why was his dad crying? He dared to look a bit farther into the room.
His mother was on the ground. She was covered in red. She was still. Brook could not see her face.
His father abruptly stood, the crying ceased. Brook quickly ducked back into the hallway and held stock still. He heard footsteps and then his father was looking down and him, a chef knife covered in red gripped in his right hand. It was blood, some part of his mind whispered, and he didn't dare believe it. If it was blood, what was his mom covered in?
"You." His father said, his voice like nothing he's ever heard before. His father's face was cast in shadow, he couldn't see his expression.
His dad suddenly rolled his neck, several pops and clicks coming from the older man. Brook took a step back. This man was not his father. Not anymore.
"You're not my son. You never were." The man said. He lifted the knife and examined it in the new light. The red dripped of the blade and onto the floor by his feet.
Suddenly he lurched forward, and Brook could see the wide eyed expression on his face. His gaze was staring yet unseeing.
"And I'm not your father!" He snapped, and all at once he pounced on Brook, knife in hand. Brook screamed and jumped forward. Whether it be instinct or luck, this caused his father to stumble through his momentum, and he went skidding across the hard wood floors.
Brook, violin held like a sword, took off into the living room, past his mother, past the kitchen and was flying out the front door in an instant. He could hear his father all the way there, just a few steps behind and screaming like a man possessed.
He was across the front lawn and onto the dirt road when he felt something wiz by his ear, brushing it and cutting locks of hair. The knife his father had been holding embedded itself into the ground a few feet away from him, and Brook tore down the street and took a sharp left, and he just ran. He ran faster than he ever ran before. His bare feet kicked up dirt and pebbles but he didn't feel any of it. He was clutching his violin was held to his chest like a security blanket.
He didn't know where to go. What to do. He was lost, lost lost lost. He couldn't hear his dad but surely was nearby. He was in a yard full of carts. Long distance cart that were pulled by horses when you needed to move to a new city. He climbed into one of them, and hid among the boxes, a hand clamped down over his mouth as he saw the shadow of a monster wearing his dad's face walk outside.
The silhouette looked around for a moment, before he heard loud cursing. Death threats. Promises that he wouldn't be hurt if he came out. Brook did not listen. He stayed there, frozen, as tears ran down his cheeks.
Soon, the man left, running off into the darkness. Brook held still until long after he was sure the man was gone. He then cried softly into his hand, his favorite instrument by his side. After that, Brook passed out, and was unknowingly carted off into the big city.
He dreamed of nothing