A One Piece Drabble
May. 29th, 2007 06:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsI was thinking about a certain word tonight and it made me realize that I haven't written much Shanks and Ben fic lately, let alone Serious!Shanks fic. And I wanted to. This is a bit odd and in present tense even though it's set in the One Piece past.
Title: Martyr
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen, but Shanks and Ben fic nonetheless
Word Count: 914
It is a hot day, sultry, and shimmers of heat dance on the nearly flat surface of the ocean. The sails overhead sag as if the weather is too much for them; the desultory wind barely has the strength to flutter the ends of the black flag atop the main mast from time to time. Shanks stands at the bow, neatly lined up with the great jutting dragon’s prow of a figurehead, and stares over the becalmed plain of the sea. He’s been up there, motionless for nearly half an hour when the first faint mutterings of the crew reach Ben’s ears. The first mate quells the rumors – for no ship, not even this one, is free from superstition – with a sharp glance and wanders away from where he’d been repairing canvas in the stern towards the front of the ship. Cigarette smoke has nowhere to go without a breeze and it trails after him like a living thing, wreathes his head in a bitter-smelling cloud. Shanks doesn’t move when Ben comes to stand next to him, leaning against the railing and ashing over the side. He speaks, though, and his words are enough to jerk his first mate upright.
“I sometimes think,” the captain says, usually cheerful voice rough with an emotion Ben cannot place, “becomin’ a martyr means takin’ the easy way out.”
Martyr. It’s not the sort of word Ben wants to hear and he turns cautious eyes to the side of Shanks’ face. Bandages, thinner now but still there, cover the left half and he can barely make out the bright gleam of hazel beneath the veneer of gauze. A rusty stain mats the material to his face at his brow and speckles of dried blood dot it elsewhere from his forehead to right above his cheekbone. It had been a close call but Shanks still has his eye. Ben doesn’t think that the captain’s odd choice of conversation starter has anything to do with the injury. Carefully, probing at just the surface, he replies.
“You’re correct, to an extent. But being a martyr also means taking the final way out.”
Shanks laughs, a bitter, hollow sound. “As usual yer absolutely right. Death. Ain’t no comin’ back from that no matter who ya happen to be.”
Belatedly Ben remembers the day, a memory of the calendar hanging on the wall of the galley rising up to remind him of the buckwheat pancakes they had for breakfast and the fact that it’s April in spite of the heat. Grand Line weather makes it easy to forget the rhythmic changes of the year outside of the freakish stretch of sea and they’ve celebrated winter holidays in summer heat plenty of times before. When he turns, stretching his feet out and leaning his elbows back on the rail, getting comfortable, Shanks finally glances at him.
The captain’s one truly visible eye is flat, blank, looking somewhere far away from the ship and into the past. Hazel is fogged with memory and Ben can only imagine the stretch of gray stone and the light patter of silvery rain, the flash of dull, shrouded sunlight on falling blades. It’s been ten years since Shanks’ captain died and he set out to become one himself. Ten years since this thing that is being called ‘The Age of Pirates’ in great, resounding tones has started. Ten years and no one seems to be any closer to One Piece and claiming the title of Pirate King. And one man started it all by an act as simple and encompassing as his death. No wonder Shanks is talking about martyrs
“Sometimes…” Ben chooses his words, slow and deliberate, giving himself time to think as he takes a drag off his cigarette. “Sometimes there is more a man can do with his death than with his life. But when that is true, really true, it is a rare and terrible thing. To make a gift of one’s death seems to me to be an act of either desperation or blind faith.”
He pauses, searching Shanks’ closed-off face. “Or maybe both. Living, as those nameless they often say, isn’t easy. And living while trying to achieve what seems like the impossible is even harder.”
That brings a smile, a small one with a touch of rueful embarrassment. Shanks reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim gold coin, sends it rolling across his knuckles with a gambler’s easy skill. He nudges Ben’s outstretched leg with his own. “Ah, but we live ta make the impossible seem easy.”
“You do, perhaps.”
There is a hint of mockery, both for the captain and directed at himself, and Shanks catches it, flips the coin with a flicker of his thumb. Ben snatches it out of the air before it can go tumbling in blinding flashes of gold into the ocean and Shanks finally grins at him for real.
“Let’s just say I’m not plannin’ on makin’ a martyr of myself anytime soon.”
A relief, those words, not that Ben has harbored any real doubt, and he claps the captain on the shoulder. “Good. Dead men can’t mend sails and we can use an extra hand.”
There are smiles on the faces of the crew as Shanks whines and trails after Ben and even the wind sees fit to try a little harder as the flag, newly bearing a trio of scars across the skull, snaps to full length for the world to see.
Title: Martyr
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen, but Shanks and Ben fic nonetheless
Word Count: 914
It is a hot day, sultry, and shimmers of heat dance on the nearly flat surface of the ocean. The sails overhead sag as if the weather is too much for them; the desultory wind barely has the strength to flutter the ends of the black flag atop the main mast from time to time. Shanks stands at the bow, neatly lined up with the great jutting dragon’s prow of a figurehead, and stares over the becalmed plain of the sea. He’s been up there, motionless for nearly half an hour when the first faint mutterings of the crew reach Ben’s ears. The first mate quells the rumors – for no ship, not even this one, is free from superstition – with a sharp glance and wanders away from where he’d been repairing canvas in the stern towards the front of the ship. Cigarette smoke has nowhere to go without a breeze and it trails after him like a living thing, wreathes his head in a bitter-smelling cloud. Shanks doesn’t move when Ben comes to stand next to him, leaning against the railing and ashing over the side. He speaks, though, and his words are enough to jerk his first mate upright.
“I sometimes think,” the captain says, usually cheerful voice rough with an emotion Ben cannot place, “becomin’ a martyr means takin’ the easy way out.”
Martyr. It’s not the sort of word Ben wants to hear and he turns cautious eyes to the side of Shanks’ face. Bandages, thinner now but still there, cover the left half and he can barely make out the bright gleam of hazel beneath the veneer of gauze. A rusty stain mats the material to his face at his brow and speckles of dried blood dot it elsewhere from his forehead to right above his cheekbone. It had been a close call but Shanks still has his eye. Ben doesn’t think that the captain’s odd choice of conversation starter has anything to do with the injury. Carefully, probing at just the surface, he replies.
“You’re correct, to an extent. But being a martyr also means taking the final way out.”
Shanks laughs, a bitter, hollow sound. “As usual yer absolutely right. Death. Ain’t no comin’ back from that no matter who ya happen to be.”
Belatedly Ben remembers the day, a memory of the calendar hanging on the wall of the galley rising up to remind him of the buckwheat pancakes they had for breakfast and the fact that it’s April in spite of the heat. Grand Line weather makes it easy to forget the rhythmic changes of the year outside of the freakish stretch of sea and they’ve celebrated winter holidays in summer heat plenty of times before. When he turns, stretching his feet out and leaning his elbows back on the rail, getting comfortable, Shanks finally glances at him.
The captain’s one truly visible eye is flat, blank, looking somewhere far away from the ship and into the past. Hazel is fogged with memory and Ben can only imagine the stretch of gray stone and the light patter of silvery rain, the flash of dull, shrouded sunlight on falling blades. It’s been ten years since Shanks’ captain died and he set out to become one himself. Ten years since this thing that is being called ‘The Age of Pirates’ in great, resounding tones has started. Ten years and no one seems to be any closer to One Piece and claiming the title of Pirate King. And one man started it all by an act as simple and encompassing as his death. No wonder Shanks is talking about martyrs
“Sometimes…” Ben chooses his words, slow and deliberate, giving himself time to think as he takes a drag off his cigarette. “Sometimes there is more a man can do with his death than with his life. But when that is true, really true, it is a rare and terrible thing. To make a gift of one’s death seems to me to be an act of either desperation or blind faith.”
He pauses, searching Shanks’ closed-off face. “Or maybe both. Living, as those nameless they often say, isn’t easy. And living while trying to achieve what seems like the impossible is even harder.”
That brings a smile, a small one with a touch of rueful embarrassment. Shanks reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim gold coin, sends it rolling across his knuckles with a gambler’s easy skill. He nudges Ben’s outstretched leg with his own. “Ah, but we live ta make the impossible seem easy.”
“You do, perhaps.”
There is a hint of mockery, both for the captain and directed at himself, and Shanks catches it, flips the coin with a flicker of his thumb. Ben snatches it out of the air before it can go tumbling in blinding flashes of gold into the ocean and Shanks finally grins at him for real.
“Let’s just say I’m not plannin’ on makin’ a martyr of myself anytime soon.”
A relief, those words, not that Ben has harbored any real doubt, and he claps the captain on the shoulder. “Good. Dead men can’t mend sails and we can use an extra hand.”
There are smiles on the faces of the crew as Shanks whines and trails after Ben and even the wind sees fit to try a little harder as the flag, newly bearing a trio of scars across the skull, snaps to full length for the world to see.
