Disclaimer: One Piece does not belong to me.
WARNING: Character Death. If this is a topic that you are uncomfortable reading, or if you think that it will upset you please, please, please don't read this one. I don't want anyone to be adversely effected by this short snippet of writing. The next one shot I post will be back to the usual, so if you don't feel up to this one, just skip on to the next (spoiler: its at a circus and real fun - so go ahead - no hard feelings :) )
I apologize in advance for the sadness - I don't know what possessed me to write this :(
Lost at Sea
The air was heavy. Beneath a veil of smoke, canons rang. At each muted thud, the smoke lit, flashing yellow and red. The regular booms were accompanied by sporadic gunfire. Popping, like hail upon a tin roof, bullets rained down from all sides. Loose pellets, still hot from firing rolled on the deck. The compact spheres were dark – born from a kiln and infused with kairoseki. The marines were learning.
Shadows twisted on the smoke riddled ship. Shapes were dulled by fog. Their violent movements could pass for an intricate dance but for the blood-soaked planks beneath them.
His three swords in their customary positions, Zoro ducked and spun, weaving deadly arcs between his enemies. Though they were no more than shapes in the fog, he didn't hesitate to strike out at those around him. He knew the shapes and sounds of his nakama better than he knew himself. Even half-blinded by fog, he had no fear of hitting a friend.
The smoke lit in another blinding flash. This time, the deck shuddered beneath the impact. Zoro automatically adjusted to the movement, rolling onto the balls of his feet. His katana found its target. Spinning, he re-gripped the blades. The leather hilts were slick with sweat - and blood.
The marines had been prepared; arriving with an arsenal at their command. They'd likely been planning this attack for some time.
Sailing unsuspectingly into the wide port, the trap had been sprung.
Zoro had no measure of the time that had passed, save for the count of marines who had fallen beneath his blades. If they were a true measure of time, then the length of the battle was not measurable in minutes – but in hours.
Grimacing, he disposed of the next line of marines who sought him through the fog. Their swords were too clumsy – their bullets too slow. Nameless, faceless, the figures fell without a sound. Someday the immeasurable weight of the bodies accumulating beneath his katanas might burden his conscience, the names and faces of their owners lost to the fog. But for now, death held no meaning for the swordsman, save for keeping eight particular shadows free of its spindly grasp.
His failure in this regard, was announced not by the pop of a gun, nor even the dull throb of the cannons. His failure sounded as the shrill, panicked scream of his captain's name.
The battle seemed to still around him. Scanning the fog, he searched for the source of the cry. Swords cutting through mist and man alike, he crossed the ship. He had sworn to protect the man who would become the pirate king. If Luffy was in danger, he would find him.
He nearly stumbled over the body. The prone figure had been blanketed by smoke and shielded by writhing shadows. But it was not their captain.
He was vaguely aware of Luffy's battle cry. The sounds of battle seemed to momentarily mute in the face of the enraged, anguished shout.
Swords clattering to the deck, he dropped to his knees. Her face was white. Orange hair fanned the deck. The stain spreading across her shirt stood stark in comparison. A blade lay on the deck beside her. The same red painted its length.
His mind, blank and buzzing, nonetheless connected the dots. The navigator had stepped in the path of a blade meant for their captain. Luffy - who had saved her, snagging her from Arlong's grasp; who had brought the prison of her childhood crashing down and left it a pile of rubble and stone. Her scowls and façade of indifference had done little to hide the truth. For saving her, the navigator adored their captain – she, like the rest of the crew, would have done anything for him. And so she had.
Pressing his hands flat over the wound, he felt her chest's rapid rise and fall beneath his palms. Her gasps were too shallow, each breath far too short.
Warm liquid welled around his fingers. Hands that had only moments before spilled countless ounces of blood, were now powerless to stop it. Her name spilled from his mouth as the red liquid spilled from her. As the battle raged on and his fingers stained red, he continued speaking. Countless words passed his lips; strung together, he couldn't be sure they held any real meaning.
Her eyes were on him. Meeting her stare, he repeated the words, as if they alone would be enough to make her stay. She blinked, slowly, lethargically.
They were young, strong, adventuring the seas. Their captain was going to be the next pirate king. They had so much to do – all of them together. To reach the finish-line one player short? Impossible.
Long ago, he had agreed, made a private bargain with himself that he would give each battle his all – acknowledged that any fight could be his last. But Nami was not a fighter – these same rules didn't apply.
Zoro knew death. Its hand had brushed him – once he had even lain upon its palm. But it was not supposed to reach Nami. Never Nami. Bright eyed and stubborn she had seemed immune to its touch. But now, prone upon the deck, its chill fingers were upon her.
Between blinks, her lips slowly curved. Eyes squinting, her smile was satisfied and – resigned.
How was a ship supposed to sail without a navigator?
It was wrong. Her expression was wrong. Nami's face held a wealth of expressions – joy, anger, annoyance, rumination, smugness – but not resignation. Never that. Zoro leaned forward. Balancing on his knees, he redoubled the pressure over her wound.
And what about the swordsman? The one who struggled to find his way?
Blinks slowing, she stared up. But her brown eyes no longer focused upon him. Again, words fell from his mouth. Somehow, he felt if he could just land upon the right ones they would convince the stubborn woman to stay.
What would the swordsman do without a navigator?
Beneath his hand her chest heaved in short gasps.
How could he ever be expected to find his way?
And then, horrible and impossible in its suddenness, there was nothing. Though the battle raged on, she was still. And with her, the world seemed to grind to a halt. Slowly, haltingly he lifted red hands from her chest. Her eyes were blank. Seawater rushed around his knees. It darkened her orange locks. His eyes, blank like hers, struggled to focus. Tearing from within, he felt a visceral creature; unhinged, enraged, it demanded nothing short of death for something as incomprehensible as this.
But as the red water swirled around them, an equally base urge demanded he stay. Scooping an arm beneath her, he pulled their navigator to his chest, away from the cold, hungry maws of the sea. The body in his arms was light, and whatever was left of his rationality acknowledged that what he held in his arms was not Nami. Nami had lived and breathed and smiled. Her eyes had been bright. No – this was not Nami. But even so, he held her close, instinctively protecting her from the harsh pull of the sea. With the battle at his back and before him, the cold, insistent tug of the sea; immobile, Zoro remained.
How in the world was a swordsman supposed to find his way?
I'm so sorry. The next one is happy - go on. Go. Just leave this sadness behind :P