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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

With every day that passed Shamrock was increasingly pleased and more certain in his decision to not kill his slave girl. It had been about six months and Shamrock had come to expect your presence during his daily life, not remembering what it had been like before there was always someone waiting to fulfill his every whim. He couldn’t believe he had killed so many servants before you when having someone who knew his daily routines was much more convenient. It didn’t hurt that you were a little bit pretty as well - in that raw, unpolished way that slaves sometimes were. You weren’t much to look at but you were better looking than the male slaves he had before, he supposed. 

Wherever he went, you trailed along behind him like a dog and adjusted the smaller matters to his liking. But more than just anticipating his needs, you observed as he excelled in everything he set his mind to. He had even told you which window to watch out of as he sparred his opponents so you’d be able to have the best view of him when he was outside the castle. Shamrock always felt he performed better while he was sure you were watching, something in him desiring you to see him at his best. Your presence in his daily routines was irreplaceable, Shamrock decided. He liked your fastidiousness and attention to detail as you polished his armor, made his bed, and brought him refreshments, but the task he enjoyed you completing most was brushing his long hair.

He enjoyed feeling your fingers in his hair as your soft voice told him about his own exploits. One time as he watched you gently brush his red hair, his mind wandered to thoughts of his mother doing the same while he sat on her lap many years prior. He must have been much younger since he couldn’t really remember his mother’s face any longer, just the feel of her long fingers roaming through his hair, wavy like her own… Shamrock abruptly stood up and quickly shoved that memory to the back of his mind. Shamrock saw the minute flinch of your shoulders, nearly undetectable to the untrained eye, and frowned. Over the months you’d spent in his service, he had picked up on a few of your mannerisms.

“Perhaps I should cut off my hair like my br- like others do,” Shamrock said by means of apology. He wouldn’t apologize - that would be unthinkable - but he meant to show you he wasn’t upset with your actions. As he spoke, Shamrock looked over his image in the mirror. Everyone told him that he made a fine young man but whenever he saw himself he could only see his father. 

“As you wish, Young Master,” was your reply. Shamrock had grown adept in understanding the true meanings behind your words in addition to your non verbal communication. “As you wish” was your method of disagreeing with him while not suggesting your real opinion. 

“Speak true,” Shamrock demanded, already annoyed at the extra time it would take to get the truth out of you. He had been trying to get you to tell him your thoughts and opinions over the course of months but you were reluctant to ever speak your mind. Since the math incident and consequent tutoring, he knew you were smart and could think for yourself so it bothered him that he had to constantly dig for your opinions. 

“Your hair is beyond compare, Young Master,” you said, looking at its length in the mirror while running your fingers through the section you’d just tenderly brushed. His overgrown bangs hung in his eyes, obscuring his vision, while the longer sections in the back hung in loose waves. He was the only remaining member of his family with long, wavy hair and something in his heart wanted to keep it that way.

“These front bits irritate me during battle, they fly into my eyes,” Shamrock griped, pushing his bangs back from his face. He wished you would resume your brushing but felt pathetic asking you for it directly.

“Perhaps I could style it for you, Young Master? Would you allow me the honor?” you asked in a hushed whisper. You were so fearful that someone would overhear you and slay you on the spot, Shamrock thought, as if he’d allow such a thing. No, it would be too time consuming to train another how he liked his tea, when he liked to read in the East library and where in the West, and how he liked his armor polished. It was better that you were kept alive, even if only for his own convenience. 

Shamrock settled back down in the chair in front of the mirror and watched as your deft fingers braided the front section back, tying his hair into a half ponytail. His face was framed by some of the longer sections but overall the results were pleasing to the eye. He considered himself in the mirror and turned his head to the side to view the results. He shook his head vigorously but not a hair fell out of place. 

“Is it to your liking, Young Master?” you asked, still hovering behind him. Shamrock noted your lips pressed together as your hands gripped the hairbrush tightly. He hadn’t struck you since the first days of your time together so he didn’t understand why you cowered so much around him. 

“Yes, very good. I shall keep it this way for the time being. See to it that you style it this way for me daily,” Shamrock declared, crossing his legs. You didn’t smile at him but your face relaxed, which Shamrock supposed was good enough. Maybe one day he’d see a smile - not that he cared, he was simply tired of seeing your fear on your face. You nodded and Shamrock had worn his hair in that style since that day. 

Despite the overwhelming success of his idea to keep you alive, there were some bumps in the road. At first you were living - well, he wasn’t sure exactly - but he moved you to the empty closet adjacent to his room. You had gone off to fetch him a snack one night and had taken a few minutes too long for his liking. Sighing, he left his room as a strange feeling settled over his chest. Grabbing his sword, he set off in the general direction he watched you sometimes take as you carried away his meal trays.

Walking down the shadowy hallway, Shamrock heard the tinkling of small bells. No, that wasn’t quite right, it wasn’t bells, it was something lighter - some sound Shamrock was sure he hadn’t heard before. Coming up to a turn in the hall, Shamrock peered around the corner to see what was making the happy noise. It was you, laughing into your hand as a boy slave near your own age said something close to your ear. You were carrying his food on a tray with your hands while the slave continued to sully your hearing with his words. Even though his gut burned with hatred, Shamrock made no move. He wanted to hear the sound again, the kind of sound he’d never heard you make in his presence. 

The slave said something else to you, making you gasp in false outrage while a smile flitted across your face. You slapped the boy’s chest with one hand and pushed him away lightly, taking the tray in both hands once more as you moved down the hall closer to Shamrock. The boy watched you leave as his eyes looked you up and down. Shamrock made a note of his characteristic features - a missing pinky on the left hand, a birthmark on the neck - for justice to be meted out later. Shamrock stepped back into the shadows where the light of the lamps did not reach and awaited your approach. Shamrock’s frown deepened the longer he had to wait for you to pass as he replayed you touching the other slave over and over in his mind, the sound of your laugh mocking him in his memory. 

You hurried along but as you passed, Shamrock’s arm shot out and grabbed your elbow, his grip unrelenting as he spun you to face him. The silver tray dropped to the stone floor with as clatter as you sucked in a breath, not calling out like he had expected you to. Your body was chilled through your thin dress, goosebumps lining your skin as Shamrock gave you an assessing look. He didn’t have to say anything as you withered beneath his gaze, pressing your hands and lips together, your body shaking with anticipation of his next actions. The silence grew heavy as Shamrock refused to speak to you while the laws dictated you could not address him. He saw beads of sweat lining your brow as you worried over the consequences of your actions. 

“I should kill you both,” Shamrock hissed at you, making your shoulders visibly shake. Shamrock knew he should kill you for wasting his time, for leaving him waiting while you had fun with another slave. You didn’t answer but ducked your head, awaiting the blow that would end your life. You didn’t beg or plead, just waited until Shamrock passed his judgement over you. And yet his hand rested on the pommel of his sword rather than gripping it as displeasure washed over him. He turned on his heel and you followed, the silence between you deafening. You were safe, he wasn't going to kill you. The boy, on the other hand, Shamrock would have to think of a suitable punishment for touching what was his. 

After that night Shamrock had changed your living situation. He didn’t want other slaves near you when he wasn’t witness to the interaction, pulling sounds from you he’d never heard and could not get you to replicate. It was preposterous to think that you’d have  any kind of relationship with anyone else when the only person you needed to care about or for was himself. It almost felt like when one of his favored horses accepted another rider but worse, like the horse itself had selected another rider. It wasn’t a feeling Shamrock was used to and he certainly didn’t want to be accustomed to it either.

When he had told you that you’d be moving closer to his room, you had brought your meager belongings - another dress and a thin blanket - with you one morning after he’d commanded you to relocate. You stood in the middle of his empty closet, shifting your weight on your feet on the carpeting. Your face wasn't displaying any kind of emotion other than the general fear he'd long come to expect when you were faced with new situations. 

“Well? Is it not enough?” Shamrock scoffed. Yes, it was a closet but it had windows and a door and even a small half bath. Surely that would be good enough for someone like you.

“It is magnificent, Young Master,” you said, clutching your things to your chest tighter.

“Have the rest of your belongings brought up by evening, I don’t want you sleeping out elsewhere again.”

“You have blessed me, thank you Young Master,” you said, moving towards him and sinking to your knees. You bowed your head to him with tears running down your face, shaking slightly with the effort to keep yourself from crying aloud. Shamrock’s face was impassive but in truth, he was confused. He closed the distance between you and extended his hand, not exactly sure what he was going to do. Perhaps pat your head like a favored dog? He’d never comforted anyone but he didn’t like the tears on your face - though he couldn’t place why. It didn’t bother him when the slaves he fought on the battlefield cried for mercy, it only annoyed him further.

You reached out with your own smaller hands and fervently kissed the back of his gloved hand, causing Shamrock to snatch it back out of shock. He had seen favored female slaves do such things before, it wasn’t completely out of the question, but he hadn’t expected the gesture from you. His heart pricked with a small pang of regret as you rocked back on your heels and hung your head. He almost extended his hand again to see if you would repeat your action but he decided against it. 

The next morning, you awoke him as you normally did by opening the shades to his room. After getting him ready for the day and strapping him into his armor for his battle practice, Shamrock poked his head into the closet and was surprised to see it still empty. Turning on his heel towards you, you took a step back away from him as you avoided eye contact. He grabbed you by the upper arm but kept his fingers light to prevent further bruising. He saw bruises where he gripped you roughly the night before and he found it gauche, as if it said he ruled you by force.

“I ordered you to have the rest of your belongings brought up. Where is your bed? Your pillows and blankets? Did you defy me and sleep in the slave quarters once more?” Your eyes were wide and you shook your head furiously as Shamrock waited for your answer. 

“I have no other belongings, Young Master. I stayed in the room as you commanded, I would never defy you.” Shamrock’s ire was sated but he looked at the empty closet. The thin blanket you’d brought with you was folded neatly on the floor and your change of clothing was placed next to it. Even though the floor was carpeted in the finest, plushest, ruchest carpet available in the world, you would be able to perform your duties better if you slept well. It wasn't that Shamrock cared about your needs, he only cared about how  diligently you were able to work for him. 

“Have a cot brought up. Pillow and thick blanket too. I shall be locking you in at night,” he decided, turning away from the closet.

Though Shamrock tolerated your presence at all times, he enjoyed most when you spoke to him in soft tones at night before he went to sleep. You told him about all the amazing things he’d done during the day, never failing to highlight the incredible way he fought or how he’d gotten difficult math problems correct after you’d explained them to him once or twice. But sometimes conversation shifted to other topics. At times you told him some mild gossip about the servants but the best was when he convinced you to share some of the fantastical stories the slaves told among themselves. He couldn’t outright demand them from you, you denied that the slaves spoke to one another at all. Instead he asked you for a story, something to relieve his mind of its burdens and after a few moments you would always acquiesce, unable to deny his requests. He wasn’t sure if they were all from other slaves or if you made up some of them yourself but he heartily enjoyed them all either way. The stories soothed him until he was able to calm his own mind, after which he locked you in your closet and fell fast asleep with the knowledge that you’d be waiting for him the following morning.

Under the glow of the candle, you sat at the end of his bed and told him story after story, each more marvelous than the last. There were bold, brave knights who fought to save beautiful maidens, dashing sword fights, self driving horse carriages, lands with no water at all, treasures, fairies, evil Kings and Queens, and monsters beyond his wildest imagination. Yes, he liked them all, but the one he favored the most was one about a cursed prince who had been turned into a hideous beast. The Beast locked away a beautiful maiden in his castle, keeping her as prisoner with him in his loneliness. In order to break the curse, the Beast had to get the maiden to fall in love with him, meanwhile the Beast’s estranged brother was planning on slaying the beast, unaware that the Beast was the transformed Prince. The two fought to the death but the maiden’s love for the Beast saved him in the end and they lived happily ever after. Shamrock had made you tell it so many times he practically knew it by heart himself, though he enjoyed it when you told him the story time and time again.

“You’ve forgotten the part about the maiden falling in love with the Beast,” Shamrock complained one night as you told him the story again at his request. You paused in your telling and looked at him. He’d gotten you to look at him, though not in the eyes of course, since it bothered him when you looked away when you spoke. 

“Young Master does not favor that section of the story, you prefer the sword fights with the Beast’s brother. I do not mean to bore you, Young Master,” you said quietly. Shamrock exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I like all the parts of the story. Yes, I like when the Beast fights his brother and slashes his face with his claws but I also like when the maiden finally falls in love with him while trapped in his castle. She’s weak to his charms, enthralled by his strength and action.”

“She falls in love with his kindness for her,” you replied in a steady voice. “He shows her he isn’t a Beast like she thought, that he has no charms where she is involved. He could be cruel to her, she is at his mercy but instead he helps her. He shows her the library and lets her read at her leisure. He feeds her fine foods and values her intelligence, the feature about herself she likes most. That’s why she loves the Beast, not his battle prowess,” you said, looking back down at the floor. Shamrock was silent as he digested your words. He was almost sure you were saying something else, but the meaning was just beyond his grasp. You sat in silence, waiting for Shamrock’s next command.

“In any case, do not skip any parts of the story. I enjoy them all,” he declared, setting his hands behind his head. 

“Yes, Young Master.”

Yes, Shamrock had made the right decision in not killing you. He began bringing you outside to his fighting lessons and subsequent matches, both to tend to his needs as well as to watch his prowess. The first time he had brought you, it had been a cold and windy day, the breeze nipping at him even through his many layers. The grounds were muddy from the previous day’s rain and the cold wet slop seemed to penetrate every seam and pore. In between bouts, he looked over to ensure you were watching him as he struck down his foes. 

What he saw displeased him immensely -  you were shivering as the wind whipped your hair out of your face, your feet covered nearly to the knee in mud. You were wearing the same thin house clothes you wore every day, and likely the same slippers as well. Your fingers were blue from cold and even though your eyes were trained on the battlefield, they were red rimmed and your cheeks shiny. You must have felt Shamrock looking over at you because you dropped your gaze to your feet.

Shamrock nearly lost his next match.

The next day you dutifully followed Shamrock outside, but this time dressed in a thick wool dress and leather boots, complete with a padded jacket and gloves. No one commented on your change in clothing - who would dare? - and Shamrock was able to concentrate on his opponents now that he didn’t have to hear your sniffling. Shamrock defeated more slaves than ever before, his sword dripping with blood by the time his matches were over.

That night, you once more appeared before Shamrock to tell him a story, but somehow you weren’t with him. You were physically there but the light had gone from your eyes, the deadened state so similar to other slaves he had seen. You told him his exploits as before but usually once you started telling you would add details and use your hands to craft the story into something fantastic that he could picture in his mind's eye. But tonight your hands sat in your lap as your dull voice told him about the slaves he had slain on the training field. After a few moments, Shamrock stopped you with a wave of his hand.

“What is the matter with you?” Shamrock rebuked you, his tone more irritated than he truly felt. He was tired from the day’s training but he couldn’t let you think that your behavior was acceptable.

“I apologize, Young Master. Please let me know the justice -”

“No, no. Speak true,” Shamrock said, wanting to cut to the heart of the matter immediately. You remained silent as you wet your lips with your tongue. 

“Was I not impressive today?” Shamrock prodded. He had been proud of his techniques, it would be a shame if you didn’t think the same.

“You were amazing as always, Young Master,” you stated while picking at your nails. 

“Then why are you so…small?” Shamrock couldn’t think of a word that would describe the way you were folded into yourself. Every Celestial Dragon was loud and big and proud but now you looked like a gentle breeze could carry you off into the night.

“I am a slave, Young Master.” Shamrock scoffed - you were always speaking in circles, your meaning elusive as you tried to avoid his wrath. 

“Of course you are a slave, you are my slave, lest you forget. Now tell me before I anger, what is the matter with you?”

“You fought many slaves this afternoon and defeated them all, Young Master. I…I knew some of them well,” you said in a quiet voice. A single tear ran down your cheek and Shamrock impulsively reached out to touch it. You startled and jerked back, your doleful eyes brimming with tears. Shamrock was unmoved by your tears, he wasn’t upset he had killed the slaves but…

“I am done with you for the night, I am too tired to hear of my exploits. Be gone to your quarters,” Shamrock demanded, turning over to face away from you. The bed dipped as you stood up and hovered near the bed. 

“Praised be your name, Young Master,” you said with a deep bow as you padded to the closet. Shamrock stood up to lock you in for the night, following behind you. Shamrock lingered by the doorway and watched you settle onto the small cot on the floor. He was about to shut the door and lock you in when a thought came to him. 

“I am in need of tougher opponents on the battlefield; slaves are below my current level of ability. They are no challenge for me, I slay them too easily. I will have masters in various martial arts brought to train under instead. Tomorrow begins a new style of regimen for me and I expect your presence on the field to observe.” Shamrock did not look at your face as he shut the door and turned the key in the lock. 

Chapter Text

“Ah! I finally found it!” Shamrock yelled out with true excitement, jumping off the top of the library’s ladder to the tiled floor below. You were sitting and patiently awaiting his return as you watched the tiles crack under his feet as he landed. Padding over to you in his soft leather house shoes, Shamrock revealed to you the cover of the tome in his hands. You gave him a vacant smile as you looked at the book, still seated on the floor cushion.

“It is a written version of the same story you tell me at night. I believed we had a copy and I was finally able to locate it,” he stated proudly, opening the book to show some of the pictures within. Your smile faded slightly but you continued waiting for his extrapolation. Shamrock titled his head as he watched you nibble your lower lip.

“Why does the book upset you?” Shamrock asked, as you brought yourself back to a neutral facial expression.

“It does not upset-”

“Enough.” Shamrock waited a few moments in silence, allowing his presence to discomfort you. After about a minute you bit your lips again and wrung your hands. By the second, you began speaking.

“If Young Master reads the book, my services in storytelling will no longer be required,” you said in a near whisper. Shamrock softened his face as you took in a shaky breath in response to his regained composure. As he gave you an indulgent look, you relaxed slightly into the cushion. 

“Are you saying you enjoy the time spent with me at night?” Shamrock teased in a dry tone. Your face flushed deep with color as you studied the tile beneath his feet. “Read me the book and we’ll see how they compare. There’s no book that can win against your stories,” he said while sitting on the couch nearest you. He wasn’t sure why his attitude was so personal that day but he chalked it up to his excitement. After handing you the book, he laid down on the couch, his boots dirtying the fine purple silk with the mud still caked on them from the morning’s practice. You sat quietly, not speaking or reading.

“Well? Begin,” Shamrock snapped as he closed his eyes, idly jiggling a foot in the air. What was taking you so long?

“I cannot, Young Master,” you said in a hushed tone. Shamrock frowned and opened his eyes. ‘Cannot’ was not something you’d ever said to him before and not something he wanted to hear now. Further annoyed, Shamrock sat upright and swung his feet over the side of the couch. He glanced down to see you staring at the cover of the book, tracing your finger over the letters of the title. Ah. Right. 

Shamrock wanted you to recite the book to him but slaves weren’t allowed to learn how to read. He quickly thought through solutions to the problem - you were intelligent, much better than he was at mathematics if he was being honest, and you picked up skills easily. And really, why shouldn’t he do what he wanted and teach you to read? He was a Celestial Dragon - he made the rules and society followed. If you were literate, it would be much more convenient for him, which is really all he cared about.  There had been quite a few occasions when he’d wanted you to fetch him books or labeled jars and you hadn’t been able to discern which ones he meant immediately. If there was something Shamrock hated, it was being inconvenienced.

Really, it would make much more sense for you to be able to read. It would be preposterous for regular slaves to be able to read but you were in a completely different situation. You were his personal slave, his property that he could do with as he wanted. And he wanted you to read to him, so you would. He didn’t know how to teach someone to read but you’d pick it up quickly, he was sure. Perhaps you’d finally learn something from him, instead of the other way around like in mathematics lessons.

Matter settled in his mind, Shamrock lay back down on the couch and snapped his fingers so you moved closer to him. He took the book from your offering hands, cracked it open and put his finger on the first word. Clearing his throat, he began to read aloud.

“Once upon a time, in a far off land” he began, articulating each word carefully. He kept his finger on the word that he was reading, but you were studiously looking at your lap. “You’re not listening. Pay attention. You know how I feel about repeating myself,” he chided, tugging on your hair gently. You turned to watch as he started again at the beginning, his finger tracking the word he was reading. He read for half an hour before he grew weary of the book and stopped for the day. “We will pick back up tomorrow after my practice. Did you notice how they omitted all the fine details you include about the Beast’s castle? Your version is clearly superior,” Shamrock stated with a sniff, slamming the book shut between his hands.

By the end of the second week you were slowly reading to him at bedtime, your finger now trailing across the words on each page. It was a long ordeal but it didn’t bother Shamrock as much as he thought it would. He laid in his bed patiently, gently corrected you on more challenging words after allowing you several stuttering attempts in your lilting voice. 

Shamrock started keeping several books in his chambers, eventually necessitating a bookshelf. He didn’t know and didn’t care what happened to the books in his absence, though he did periodically have new books brought in once they stopped moving around on the shelves. 

Shamrock didn’t worry about anyone finding out you could read. He’d been taking haki lessons from a fishman slave who had been bought for the sole purpose of Shamrock’s education. He’d practiced his observation haki by trying to locate you throughout the castle, finding you an excellent means of focusing on the endeavor. He had learned of a third type of haki, Conqueror’s, and based on his lineage factor he was sure he would be able to unlock it soon. But as long as he had observation haki, he’d know if anyone tried to approach you without his knowledge. Even Father.

~

Shamrock’s 15th birthday was on the horizon but he wasn’t all that excited for the day to arrive. As a child, thought of his upcoming birthday would fill him with glee as he anticipated all the presents he’d be getting and the various celebrations about the household. But this year he didn’t care to think about any of that foolishness - none of it sparked joy within him. Of course, he still wanted the fancy gifts promised to him- a new sword that had eaten a devil fruit, new longer boots, new slaves, all things that should make a 15 year old excited. And he did want those things, especially the sword. But instead of looking forward to the merriment, Shamrock found himself thinking about your looming branding.

Slaves didn’t have birthdays, but they did receive their branding as they came of age. In your case, you’d started to turn into a woman - and a pretty one at that. No one dared attempt anything in his presence, but Shamrock saw the way heads turned as you passed by, the way the male servants would shove each other in the ribs behind your back. It was grotesque and unsightly but Shamrock understood that human nature meant others would find you attractive, even though you were a slave.

You needed to be branded as all slaves were; it would likely happen around his own birthday. He couldn’t trust someone else with the task of marring your skin - he’d seen some of the ghastly burns on slaves who’d had careless servants brand them. Some were lopsided or uneven, and some slaves were branded twice if the first time was particularly illegible. And really, if you were caused injury or harm, he’d have to wait longer for your recovery and that would ruin the tournament he was participating in within the next few weeks. Really, it wouldn’t be best if the brutes in charge of branding did yours, he decided.

It soured Shamrock’s stomach to think of your soft, even skin being ruined by such an ugly marking. He didn’t mind the hoof on the other slaves but on your body it needed to be done with consideration to the flow of your form. Shamrock couldn’t imagine looking at a lopsided brand on your body for the rest of his life. And really, why should he? As his property, it was his right to ensure that your brand turned out as best it could. There was no way around it, even you as his personal slave needed to be branded, but he could ensure it wasn’t completely ghastly. No, Shamrock needed this done correctly and most importantly, once . Which meant that he needed to do it himself. 

After a few days of research and gathering supplies, Shamrock was prepared for the endeavor. One night, he sat in front of the fire with his hands steepled as he awaited your return with his night tea. Despite the fact that you entered his chambers silently, Shamrock was aware of your presence as he was always attuned to you. You approached him calmly, the tray in your hands carrying his favorite tea and nighttime snacks as well as a few others. He’d asked for more than normal, your arms straining under the weight of the plates of food, drinks, and the bucket of ice he’d asked for. You’d be needing food in the coming hours and Shamrock didn’t want to have to send for it afterwards.

“Set it over there, I do not wish for it yet,” he said, continuing to stare into the fire. You walked along obediently, setting the tray down by his bedside. Returning to his side, you sat on the cushion at his feet, readying yourself for his next command. 

“Some things in life are necessary, even for one such as myself,” Shamrock began, unsure how to broach the topic. He didn’t need to explain anything to you, you were merely a slave, but he thought the process might go more smoothly if you weren’t panicked. You weren’t prone to outward displays of emotions, it was something that had been tamed out of you long ago, but he still wished for you to know what would be coming. 

“It is time for your branding,” Shamrock stated, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward on his elbows. He kept his gaze trained on the fire in front of him as he heard no sounds from you. The eyes roved over the brand currently in the fire, the red hot metal glowing like the embers it was set in. 

“Take off your dress and lay on the rug,” he stated with no hint of emotion in his tone. Your face was ashen as your shaking fingers grasped the hem of your dress. Still, you took off your dress overhead and laid on the floor noiselessly as he’d ordered you to do. Shamrock belatedly realized he’d never seen your figure in so few clothes, but perusing your body was not on his mind at the moment. You shook in your simple undergarments as you lay on your stomach in front of the fire. 

“I will make this as efficient as possible,” he continued, gathering the supplies he’d ordered brought to his chambers. Shamrock had taken the care to have another slave bring him the items - he didn’t want to frighten you or have you dwelling on the procedure before the time for the branding arose.  

Shamrock grabbed the rubbing alcohol along with a clean cloth and debated how to proceed. He’d never touched your skin directly before, he’d always worn gloves in the few times that he’d needed to touch you. But the guide he’d read said that he needed to use clean hands on clean skin otherwise the risk of infection grew exponentially. You wouldn’t be able to reach the area that he wanted to brand with your own hands; Shamrock was going to have to disinfect your skin. 

Pouring some of the alcohol onto the cloth, Shamrock moved your brassiere strap out of the way and rubbed the cool liquid on your shoulder blade. He thought that it would be the least obtrusive place for your brand, something he wouldn’t have to see daily. You jumped at the touch of the cloth, perhaps mistaking it for the brand. Your skin prickled under his ministrations, much like his own did in the cold. It was soft under his fingertips, softer than his own. A sudden urge had Shamrock placing his hand on the lowest part of your back near your spine to calm your tremors. He idly wondered if you always felt like this, cold and prickly, or perhaps it was just the effect of the upcoming procedure.

Returning his thoughts to the matter at hand, Shamrock stood and walked over to the fireplace, clutching the handle of the poker within his steady hand. Shamrock’s heart was beating furiously as he removed the brand from the fire. He’d had a new brand made just for you - it was smaller than the one normally used so instead of the bulky thick lines used on the rest of the slaves, you’d have one with the thinnest possible outline. He’d ensured the circle was not filled in so that in the middle of the hoof there was room for a four leafed clover. It would be clear to everyone just who you belonged to - who you served body and soul. 

After removing the brand from the fire, Shamrock turned to face your nearly nude body. Your lips were pressed together and your eyes squeezed shut, your hands balled into the carpet by your head. You reminded him of a frightened rabbit Shamrock had recently caught during one of his hunts. His dogs had chased it down and were going to rend it to pieces before Shamrock stopped them with a whistled command. To destroy such a pitiful thing didn’t bring any emotions of joy or satisfaction, and you were no exception.

Shamrock turned the brand so it was oriented the correct direction, looming over you to begin the process. And yet, he hesitated . Shamrock set the brand back in the fire as you anticipated the pain, sweat glistening on your forehead. He..he…he couldn’t bear to harm you, not like this. He wanted you asleep, kept safe from the feeling of your own flesh burning under his hand. Shamrock wanted to stop this process, but the only protection he could offer is if you weren’t able to feel it at all. 

It had to be done, it had to be done, it had to be done, it had to be done , he repeated in his mind, trying to use the mantra to crowd out the panic seeping through the cracks. It felt like he could feel your heartbeat, the heartbeat of the fire, of the stones, the walls, the brand, his own, all merging into one.

He stared down at you, feeling something swelling inside himself as you squeaked in discomfort and moved your limbs sluggishly. It had to be done, it had to be done, it had to be done, it had to be done…your face contorted in pain, you crying out for him, your skin cracking peeling blistering bleeding, it had to be done, it had to be done…

A blast of red haki emanated from him - the bright red charge striking you in the chest. You immediately went limp on the carpet, though Shamrock could see your chest rising and falling. Picking up the brand, he quickly stamped it onto your left shoulder blade and marked you, the smell of your burning flesh seared into his mind. You were his.

Forever.

Shamrock hadn’t been asking you to do much for him in the past few days, instead ordering other slaves and servants to bring him what he needed as you recovered. He’d seen other slaves sent back to work immediately after their branding, their skin still boiling and blistering, but he didn’t want that for you. If the brand became infected it would take even longer for you to heal and he’d continue to suffer under the incompetence of other servants. It was barely tolerable to have to check on you throughout the day in your room as you napped or read books on your bed. 

As you were not around to bring his meals, they were left in his chambers. Shamrock would eat his fill and leave the rest on the plates once done, servants ordered not to come in for an hour after his meals. By the time they came in, the food was completely gone. If anyone noticed he was ordering double the amount of food he normally did, they didn’t say anything. 

Overall, you were healing quickly, Shamrock thought. He changed your bandage and applied salve to your back as well, but that was only because you couldn’t reach the spot yourself. He took care to carefully remove the gauze covering the oozing wound and inspect it daily, as the book recommended. Though he didn’t like that the wound was on your body, he’d done a fine job, he thought. 

Shamrock was lost in his thoughts about the red haki from the night of the branding as he passed by an open doorway. Servants were within, speaking with one another, hardly a notable occurrence. However, he heard your name being spoken in soft tones so he stopped to listen into the conversation. Derisive laughter had him reaching for his sword. 

“-seen how she’s lookin’ these days. Few more years and that’s a woman I’d take to bed. Or against a wall,” a male voice said with another grunt of laughter. Shamrock’s hand tightened on the pommel of his sword as he listened closely. 

“You better act fast, aboutta have more red haired bastards running around the place soon the way he acts with her,” another voice sneered quietly as the first laughed. 

No sooner than the laugh rang out than the first speaker’s head was on the floor, blood spurting from his now decapitated body. The head rolled towards Shamrock, the cranium crushing easily like a fall gourd under the heel of his boot. Shamrock looked the remaining servant in the eyes as he stood frozen, mouth agape. No sounds were heard except the dull thud of a now headless body slumping to the floor and the gush of brain under Shamrock’s boot as he ground the skull into the floor.

Shamrock turned his body fully toward the servant, who cowered and covered his face with his hands in an attempt to protect his own neck. “Never speak of her,” Shamrock ordered calmly, seeing no need to yell. His message heard, Shamrock turned and left, his boots tracking the blood pooling out from the dead servant. 

His heels clacked along the floor as Shamrock rolled his eyes. Great , Shamrock thought, now he’d have to change his boots before he returned to his room. You didn’t like cleaning blood off of them.

Chapter Text

“Hideous. Next,” Shamrock said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he lounged on a loveseat off to the side. You were standing on a small stool in front of a three way mirror as tailors and seamstresses brought in garments sewn to your specifications. He had outfits made for you at least four times a year and oversaw their execution personally to ensure they were to his taste. He found that if he wasn’t involved, the seamstresses would put you in drab sacks that didn’t accentuate your form, which was of course unacceptable. Other slaves needed to blend in with their environment, for eyes to be able to rove over them without notice, but you were different. You represented him as you passed through the castle, you needed to look your best at all times and to be comfortable while doing it. Otherwise how could you complete your tasks well?

The Figarland family color was deep ruby red, but Shamrock didn’t feel that it did your countenance justice. Instead he had you swathed in green, which was much better suited to your complexion. This time, he was having your dress made for his 18th birthday celebrations. He would soon be a full fledged man, and the castle was having a massive ball to commemorate the occasion. Father would even be in attendance, for a portion of the ball anyway. Shamrock needed you to look as pristine and polished as possible for the event - which did not include an empire waist frilled frock in chocolate brown.  

Shamrock watched as another dress was brought in for you, a lovely princess gown with a sweetheart neckline. It was demure and well constructed, Shamrock noted as it was brought over your head. You allowed the seamstress to fuss about you without complaint, enduring as they continued to adjust the dress to your body. After a few minutes of silence from Shamrock as the sound of cloth on cloth filled the room, the servants turned you towards him.

“Is this to your liking, Young Master?” the chief seamstress asked, her eyes averted from his own as befitted her station. Shamrock made a circular motion with his finger, which you correctly interpreted to turn in place. He sighed heavily, sitting upright and rising to his now towering height. The other servants cowered and shifted backwards as he walked towards you but you remained in position, your hands folded neatly in front of you as you waited. Despite the fact that you were the only slave among servants, you were the only one not afraid of his presence.

“Acceptable. Leave,” Shamrock commanded. The seamstresses and servants bowed before scurrying away from the room like vermin, only you and Shamrock remaining after a moment. He circled you slowly with his hands behind his back, admiring you like you were one of the precious statues in the many hallways of his palatial home. 

“Do you find this dress suitable?” Shamrock asked, stopping for a moment to rub the rich green brocade between his fingers.

“Do you, Young Master?” you replied, waiting patiently for his answer. He frowned as he dropped the fabric back down.

“It is slightly less hideous than the other options. It will have to do, I suppose,” Shamrock replied with a sigh, giving you one final glance over. With you standing on the stool, your face was much closer to his own as you calmly watched him consider you. Shamrock had the fleeting urge to wrap his arm around your emphasized middle, and pull you to his front. Instead he gave you a languid smile as he reached into his pocket.

“You look rather…unadorned,” Shamrock drawled, his eyes twinkling. Since you didn't have a birthday, he decided to gift you a bauble on his own. Better to share the day with you than his fool of a brother. Shamrock pulled out a thin golden chain complete with a small emerald pendant dangling between his fingers. Your eyes widened but you waited for him to elaborate. Shamrock held the necklace in front of your face, allowing you to examine it with your eyes for a few moments.

“Thank you, Young Master. It is better than I deserve,” you whispered, your eyes entranced by the gem. 

“Move your hair,” Shamrock requested softly as you obeyed his command. He carefully placed the necklace around your neck, ensuring the clasp met with a soft snick. 

Though it looked rather plain, Shamrock had spent a significant sum on it. The chain itself was of course gold and the pendant a precious gem but the high cost had come from paying the Lock Lock devil fruit user to enhance the clasp. Once it was put on you, no one would be able to remove it except for Shamrock himself. Some slaves wore collars all the time, this would be no different, he had reasoned to himself. Just a finer caliber of collar, one that he could bear to look at daily. It really was a fine addition, Shamrock thought as you admired the jewel now flush against your chest. You shivered as he picked up the gem with one finger, testing its weight before letting it drop back to your skin.

“Change into your normal attire, I will remain here,” Shamrock said with a wave of his hand to dismiss you. He lent you his arm to step down from the stool, afraid you’d trip on the long skirt that had yet to be tailored to perfection. Stepping back, Shamrock gave you one survey before plopping back down on the couch, making it scootch backwards with the force of his fall. You bowed deeply to him before leaving the room, heading towards the servant’s antechambers that where you’d left your daily clothes. 

As the servant’s door shut softly behind you, Shamrock’s awareness prickled. Twisting his head towards the main door, Shamrock’s eyes widened slightly as he saw Father staring into the room, his eyes boring into his son’s. Father said nothing and kept walking, but Shamrock took the meeting for what it was.

A warning.

A few days later and the castle was abuzz with the upcoming event. Shamrock’s birthday and subsequent celebration was the following day and despite the late hour, servants and slaves alike were running about the castle in preparation for the event. You’d been sent to your closet early that night, Shamrock was anticipating a tiring string of “surprises” and presents and he’d be requiring your presence for all of it. The only thing that kept him from leaving the events or avoiding them entirely was the knowledge that you stood calmly behind him, tacitly reminding him to behave in a manner befitting the only son of Saint Garland and not the petulant child he no longer was.

The upcoming schedule made Shamrock feel restless, his leg bouncing as he sat during dinner. After locking you into your closet and securing the key once more around his neck, Shamrock had gone riding with Titus under the light of the moon. Shamrock naturally excelled in all manner of sport, fighting, and educational matters, but horseback riding was one of Shamrock’s favorite activities.

He’d gotten Titus as a young man, picked him out personally from the live auction. Father had requested Shamrock to select another slave for his retinue, but he hadn’t been interested. First of all, Shamrock had you for all his purposes - he didn’t need another slave - and certainly none as sloppy as those they saw at the auction. Besides, Shamrock wanted a horse all his own, one that would consider only him to be the master. He’d ridden all the horses in the stables, and for as grand and fast as they were, they weren’t his.

Titus had stood out to Shamrock immediately, his proud bearing in stark contrast to the various whip marks trickling blood over his fine red coat. He was huge - larger than any other horse for sale that day - and completely wild. Shamrock had nearly begged his father for the horse, warned by the current owners that the horse was defiant, proud, and would be difficult to train.

And he was - the horse was haughty, arrogant, and all around a pain in the ass. Shamrock loved him immensely.

Everyone expected him to whip Titus or starve him or engage in any number of cruelties that were used to break horses. Shamrock did none of that. He simply visited the horse every day, brought it apples and carrots, and treated it well. Once the horse grew tolerant of Shamrock’s presence, he threw a blanket over its back for the day. The next he added a saddle but didn’t sit upon it. When the horse kicked an errant stable boy, Shamrock did not punish the horse. Everything he did in the company of the horse was to put it at ease. Shamrock had it eating out of his palm within a week and was riding it the week after.

Titus liked only Shamrock but seemed to tolerate you well enough. You’d been in the background of every visit, inuring the horse to your scent. Shamrock had forced you to feed Titus by hand, grabbing your wrist tightly to remain in place as the horse ate apples from your palm. You didn’t put up much resistance, though you were frightened by the gigantic stallion. He’d even had a stable boy show you how to maintain Titus, though that wasn’t part of your regular routine.

The sound of hooves pounding the packed dirt was barely perceptible as Shamrock pushed Titus faster and faster over the familiar paths, jumping hedges and riverbanks with learned precision. Shamrock’s mind was able to calm when he was riding, focusing only on the path that lay directly ahead. He’d been trying to shake certain thoughts and ideas that kept cropping up - namely about you. How it thrilled him when he was able to make you smile, how soft your eyes became when you looked at him in the privacy of his chambers, how you’d read to him or tell him stories at night just as you always had since you were children, how he longed to smooth the slight wrinkle between your brows when you were unsure or frightened, how your figure grew ever more luscious by the day…Shamrock needed a few hours away from you to stifle these thoughts and regain focus on his training.

Finally, after a long and exhilarating ride, Shamrock returned his stallion to the stables, patting its red flanks gently as the stable boy took the reins. 

Despite his mind still mulling over the upcoming celebrations, Shamrock paused before bursting into his private chambers. A barely perceptible sound - the tinkling of bracelets if he guessed correctly - was unfamiliar and incongruous. He was glad he already locked you into your closet, it might buy you the precious few seconds you needed until he was able to kill whoever was lurking in his chambers. 

Using his haki, he felt the person inside was a woman, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous. Shamrock drew Cerebus soundlessly as he opened the door to his chambers, scanning for the threat. To his surprise, the woman was sitting on the edge of his bed rather than in a fighting stance.

“Welcome back, Master Shamrock. Care to join me?” she asked, her painted smile mouth quirking up at the corners as she patted his bedspread. Shamrock did not return the smile, nor did he resheath his sword. 

“You dare enter my chambers in my absence?” Shamrock said quietly, his angry presence filling the room without the need to yell. The woman’s smile faltered but she regained it quickly as she brought her arms in front of her, pressing her impressive breasts together for Shamrock’s perusal. 

“I was sent as an early birthday present by your father,” she said with a languid smile. Inwardly, Shamrock groaned. He couldn’t send the prostitute away without engaging with her in some kind of way lest he displease Father.

“Am I not to your liking?” she pouted, sticking her lower lip out like a spoiled child. This time Shamrock did scoff loudly. There was no way to avoid the scenario, so he might as well get it over with.

“Barely tolerable. Undress me,” Shamrock demanded, securing Cerebus back within its scabbard. This was some kind of test from Father, Shamrock was sure of it. He needed to play along, at least for a while, until Shamrock figured out his next move. 

“I’m more than tolerable , I’m the most expensive, beautiful courtesan-” the woman began huffing at Shamrock whose frown had deepened.

“A whore is a whore. Undress me,” he stated in a bored tone.  She flicked her eyes over him, clearly not expecting this reaction. She quickly shifted her gears and gave him big doe eyes, now playing the ingenue. Her shoulder slumped forwards in a show of submission as she tried to work her charms over him. Shamrock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

This wasn’t his first sexual experience - servants and other nobles had been throwing themselves at him since he could remember. Sometimes Shamrock would allow himself minor dalliances when he was interested - as long as you weren’t in his presence. He’d gained a reputation as an excellent lover, though he truthfully didn’t care either way. But tonight he was in no mood for such matters and wished he could dismiss the woman entirely.

“Of course, Master,” the courtesan cooed, rising to cross the room to where Shamrock waited. His eye momentarily flicked to your door, wondering if you could hear the ordeal. He didn’t want you to hear him speaking so crassly but there wasn’t much he could do to avoid the situation. Her soft hands began removing his riding outfit, her garishly painted nails gently scraping his skin where it was bare. Your bare nails were clean and buffed, not needing a coat of red to make them presentable in his eyes.

“I’m happy to serve your every need,” the courtesan purred, removing his riding jacket and throwing it carelessly to the ground, running her hands over his shoulders and back. You never threw his clothes, Shamrock thought, you always folded them carefully to avoid further sullying them. The courtesan slowly unbuttoned his undershirt, her fingertips grazing his chest as she worked. Shamrock felt like yawning, the artifice of seduction had never been of interest to him. He preferred earnestness and awkwardness over beguilement and learned charms but he could work with nearly anything, he supposed.

Now half naked, Shamrock allowed himself to be led back to the bed, though he yanked his hand away from the woman as soon as they reached it. She leaned back, her nearly translucent robe opening down the middle as soon as she spread herself on the bed.

“How can I please you, my Lord? May I rub your-”

“By shutting up,” Shamrock replied tersely, pushing her back onto the bed. The woman bit her lips but nodded, removing her robe completely and awaiting his next move. Shamrock acknowledged that she wasn’t bad looking, she was beautiful as she had claimed. Her breasts were tipped with rosy colored nipples, budded in the cold air of his chambers. There was no hair on her body anywhere below her head and her skin was finely oiled and scented. Really, she was a lovely looking package and most men would be thrusting into her already. 

“Turn over,” Shamrock commanded, removing his belt from his pants. Perhaps if he didn’t have to look at her he would be able to stomach the experience better. The woman dutifully turned over onto her stomach and hoisted herself to hands and knees and waggled her rear end. He should have told her to shut up from the beginning , he thought.

Fisting his half hard cock in his hand, Shamrock began to pump himself in preparation for entering her. He didn’t really care if she enjoyed this or not, this wasn’t for her - or him -  to enjoy. It was just something he had to do if he wanted things to go smoothly with Father. Shamrock closed his eyes as he trailed his fingers over her soft skin. 

He tried to imagine something erotic, something that would make him want to pound into this stupid courtesan. He tried thinking of the other servants he’d had before, or even some of the noble women who were attractive but nothing was sparking his fancy. After a moment, Shamrock’s mind drifted to his favorite fantasy, the one he thought about every night - the one that featured you . In his mind, Shamrock would be alone in his chambers and would go to your door, unlocking it to see you shivering with fear. The fantasy didn’t always start there, but he knew very well what his mind would play next. 

You’d look up at him, your eyes wide with admiration, as he extended his hand to you. You’d take it and he’d pull you to standing.

“Don’t be afraid,” Shamrock would say. You would nod your head and place your hands gently on his shoulders, pressing your front to his. He’d feel your breasts and puckered nipples through your thin shift as you waited, licking your lips in anticipation. Shamrock would wind an arm around you, pulling you closer. Your breath would hitch and he’d see the raw desire in your eyes but the persistent fear you’d have to make the first move. 

“It’s alright, I’ll always protect you,” Shamrock would say, tilting your chin up even further with two fingers. You’d swallow but nod again, trusting in him completely as your lips parted with a small gasp. Shamrock would slowly lower his face to yours, kissing you softly. It would be the first time you’d ever been kissed, he’d teach you everything he liked. Your fingers would grip onto his shirt as you breathed quickly, your heart fluttering in your chest. 

“Just like that,” he’d murmur, leaning down to kiss you again. He’d move on to kissing your jaw, his hand coming to cup your face. You’d tilt your head to the side, trusting in him to make you feel good…

Shamrock felt his cock harden in his hand as he continued to stroke himself. If the sex was to be at all pleasurable for him he’d have to tend to the woman, he begrudgingly admitted. He found her clit with one hand and lazily started rubbing it while continuing to stroke himself  Closing his eyes again, he returned to his fantasy of you.

He’d sweep you off your feet and set you on the bed gently. Your brow would be furrowed, your nervousness getting the better of you. You’d never laid on his bed before and certainly didn’t have any romantic or sexual experience. He’d lay you down on his pillows then tenderly start to remove your shift from the bottom hem, running his fingers over your legs as he moved it upwards. Your face would be flushed and your chest heaving, even these activities would have your thighs trembling with anticipation. He’d ruck your dress up to your waist, leaving you only in your plain cotton panties. He would be able to see that they were soaked, practically drenched in your desire as you watched him with hooded eyes.

He’d remove his own shirt quickly, unable to bear a single more moment of not touching your skin. He’d place a hand between your thighs and gently pry them apart to slot himself between them, leaning over you once more to continue kissing you. He’d slowly trail his fingers up your inner thigh as you shut your eyes, the embarrassment too much to handle as your face flushed all over again.

Shamrock’s vision was broken as he heard a high pitched moan and saw the courtesan was now rubbing herself against his fingers. She was wet and wanting, her cunt practically dripping. At some point in the fantasy, he had started reenacting his movements in real life and teasing the whore. Deciding she was ready enough, Shamrock pulled her back to him as he aligned his cock with her hole. After shoving himself in, he heard a lewd low moan, making him scowl. He could do it, all he had to do was pretend that it wasn’t some random woman beneath him, that it was you. 

Shamrock fisted her hair in his hand, pulling hard as he began fucking her from behind. He smacked her ass a few times, eliciting a pleasure fueled whine from the woman. He wanted to do such things to you, he did, but not for the first time together. He’d teach you everything you’d need to know about pleasuring him. The slap of his thighs against hers had Shamrock trying to imagine you again, his eyes sliding closed once more.

But it didn’t work this time. Shamrock couldn’t block out the woman and focus on the one he wanted to picture in his mind. 

Her hair wasn’t the same color or texture as yours, her skin not roughened with days of hard work, her voice not the one he was accustomed to morning noon and night, her smell not of laundry soap and tea but fragrant incense from the New World. 

She wasn’t you.

“Get out,” Shamrock growled in the woman’s ear as he pulled her head back towards him by her long hair.

“Wh-what?” she asked, her face reddened from where he’d been fucking her into the mattress. Her eyes were glassy and distant as she tried to continue rocking on Shamrock’s cock. 

“Get. Out.” he snarled into her face, pushing her off of him. Her reverie broke as she fell face first onto the bed but quickly scrambled off, her face draining of blood as Shamrock’s haki started sparking. He didn’t need haki to scare the weak woman away but his mood was so volatile he couldn’t control it. The woman grabbed her robe not even covering her nudity as she fled. 

Shamrock sighed heavily and collapsed on the now mussed mattress. Rolling onto his back, he rubbed the heel of his palm against his forehead and closed his eyes. He’d be able to tell Father he’d fucked her, he’d completed enough of his duty. But there was a bigger issue at hand - Shamrock couldn’t ignore his feelings for you any longer. Yes, he wanted you physically, that was no grave sin. Masters often were with their slaves sexually, it was practically expected. But his feelings ran deeper and he’d been in denial for so long. 

Allowing you to speak to him. Having you watch him during practice. Changing his decisions for you. Keeping you safe from others. Changing your quarters to his room. The branding. Teaching you to read. Giving you new clothes. The necklace. 

All of it was one large sign pointing out his greatest vulnerability - you. 

Even now as Shamrock lay in his bed, his skin itched with the need to remove the scent of the interloper. He wanted you, not just in body but in spirit and soul as well. You were his and he’d be yours - there would never be another for you as long as he was alive. He could never articulate these feelings to you - you’d be executed and he would be punished, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Shamrock wasn’t sure what to do about the revelation, his nerves already fried from Father’s “gift.”

Shamrock reached over on the bed and found his pants, putting them hastily over his legs. The key to your door laid heavy on his neck as he padded quietly towards your door.

Shamrock unlocked the door with shaky fingers, pulling it open slowly so as not to startle you. You were there, watching him with doleful eyes as you moved to a kneeling position in front of him. 

Shamrock didn’t know what to say, how to tell you that he didn’t want to have sex with that woman, that he couldn’t bear another moment with her when all he wanted was you in his arms. 

“Change my sheets. I am going to bathe,” he ordered. You didn’t reply, just nodded your acquiescence as you always did. Shamrock offered you a hand as you stood on wobbly legs, as unsure as a newborn calf. Once you were up, Shamrock left for the bathroom as he had said he would. Only now it carried the shame of retreat.

Shamrock came back after a brief bath and a change into clean clothes, pleased to see that his bed looked now like it always did, the interlude with the whore erased from his room. You were by the door to your room though you hadn’t gone back in, standing at attention while pressing the nail of your thumb between your index finger and thumb. Shamrock knew all your tells - you were nervous and scared. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, coming closer towards you. As he reached you he saw your red rimmed eyes - you’d been crying.  Shamrock wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close to his chest, your smaller hands fisting into his shirt in surprise. You looked up at him, uncertainty flickering across your face. You blinked rapidly and stiffened in his arms - he’d never made such a bold move before. 

“Do you desire this? Desire me?” Shamrock asked into your ear, his thumb roving your cheek gently. You bit your lip as a flush spread from your cheeks to the tips of your ears and you nodded mutely. Putting his two fingers under your chin, Shamrock was about to fulfil his fantasy when a knock resounded outside his door.

“Saint Garling requests your presence, Young Master.” Your breath caught as Shamrock held you even closer for a moment, squeezing you against him. 

“It’s alright, I’ll always protect you,” Shamrock murmured, kissing your forehead. Letting go of you, Shamrock put on his clothes unhurriedly, as if this was a common occurrence. In truth, he hadn’t been summoned by Father in years but it likely had something to do with the whore from earlier. Shamrock affected his normal bored look as you fixed his hair. All too soon, Shamrock was ready to leave for Father’s summons.

“I’ll be back shortly. Remain in your room,” he said by way of goodbye before throwing open the door with a flourish. A sinking feeling in his stomach warned him this wasn’t a congratulatory brithday wish.

A few moments later Shamrock was in Father’s office, standing in front of the Adam’s wood desk as he had when he was younger. The opulent office always made Shamrock trepidacious, as Father had always administered his cruel punishments within. Father was smoking his ever present pipe and facing towards the windows. Shamrock stood silently, awaiting whatever Father had to say. 

“Your toy is well polished, Shamrock.” Father let his sentence linger in the air, though Shamrock didn’t answer. He’d had enough conversations with Father to know he wasn’t done speaking yet. Pungent smoke wafted away from Father as he continued.

“It follows you about like a well trained hound. It wears a bejeweled necklace now, as well as fine dresses and shoes. It looks almost pretty, does it not?” Father swiveled to face Shamrock, a raised eyebrow alerting Shamrock to remain quiet.

“You didn’t even enjoy the whore I sent to your room for your feelings towards the slave,” Father continued. Shamrock’s mouth opened before Father gave him a look. “I inspected her personally,” Father said with finality. Shamrock shut his mouth with a snap, his hand unintentionally seeking the pommel of Cerebus.

“It is time to put away your toys. You’ve grown too attached to this one and spent far too much time with it. You’re a man now, not a child. It can’t be anything more for you than a pass time, a bauble to enjoy momentarily. Starting next month you will be training to be a God’s Knight. Your pet may not join you,” Father intoned, his eyes flashing with ill concealed anger. Father waited a moment as if in thought.

“Where shall I send it? Perhaps to Saint Sommers? Saint Saturn? Or shall I have it killed? It is not worth much, though it does have its charms, ” Father asked with a sickening grin, tapping his pipe against his lip. Shamrock kept his mask of impassivity on his face despite the anger threatening to consume him - any reaction would give Father further ammunition against you. Shamrock didn’t think he’d send you to any other Saints - you knew far too much about the goings on in his household. If anything, Father would kill you in front of Shamrock as a test of devotion. Father watched Shamrock intensely, setting his pipe down against the rich brown desk. 

“May I speak, Father?” Shamrock asked in a blithe tone after a few moments of silence. Father nodded as he sat in the fishman leather chair behind the desk. 

“You are right, it has outlived its usefulness. I would like to kill it myself before I leave for training. I don’t like sharing my possessions,” Shamrock drawled, putting all his weight on one leg. Father’s face split into a wide grin.

“Excellent. I await its head. It may live through your birthday celebrations if you wish.” Father said, steepling his fingers. Shamrock bowed and turned to leave - the conversation was over.

Shamrock left Father’s office with his back straight and head held high. He reached the closest restroom and vomited into the porcelain sink, the bile continuing to rise even after there was nothing left in his stomach. After a few minutes Shamrock rinsed his mouth and wiped his face on the back of his hand. Looking at himself in the mirror, he made a vow. One that he'd keep for a lifetime.

He would always protect you. He just needed to figure out how.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Three weeks later and nearly every facet of Shamrock’s plan had been completed. He’d found every person he needed, gathered all his supplies, and tracked down his drunken lout of a brother all while Father remained unaware. You were none the wiser, kept busy by Shamrock at night and sleeping or reading during the day. Shamrock was leaving for training in two days so everything had to happen tonight. 

After tonight, he wasn’t sure when he would see you next. The thought had him restless and rising from his bed as soon as you were asleep. He’d dosed you with heavy sleeping medication earlier; you needed to be comatose for the rest of the night. 

He had loved you with every ounce of his heart earlier that night. You had suspected something was amiss, your mouth set into a small pout as your eyes searched his own for answers. Yet you obeyed his command to ask him no questions, only running your thumbs over his cheekbones. Shamrock leaned into your touch, kissing the inside of your palm tenderly. He had taken his time making love to you, savoring the way you came undone under him, the way you felt when he kissed you, your soft moans in his ear as he rocked into you. He wanted to commit every part of you to memory, to savor every last bit of you that he could. All too soon it was the middle of the night and he’d had you three times, your legs still quivering from the last orgasm he’d given you. You were mewling small protests at his hands diving between your legs again, so Shamrock allowed you to drift off to sleep. You nestled in closer to him, your head on his chest.  You were none the wiser of what would be happening to you, for which Shamrock was sorry.

He wished he could freeze time and stay cuddled with you in his bed, but it was time for action. Shamrock had to get moving otherwise he would miss his window of opportunity. He ensured you were sleeping deeply, then rose and dressed. He grabbed the supplies he’d covertly gathered, strapped the sword to his back, and unlocked the cuff from about your ankle.  Shamrock dressed you in a simple gown, he had no patience for the many stays, buttons, and loops of your normal attire. Besides, simple attire would suit you better shortly. It would be better if there was no evidence of your life with him, including lavish dresses.

He bundled you in one of his old black cloaks and collected you carefully, making sure not to harm you in the process. Shamrock had waited until there was a meeting of the God’s Knights and Father was not in attendance at the castle. He'd told Father that he was to meet his brother would be gone for at least a night. But in truth meeting his twin for the first time was not on his mind in the slightest. Only one singular thought played through his mind on repeat:

Tonight would be the night he lost you .

Shamrock gripped you tighter as he descended down the staircase to the dungeons below the castle. It was a putrid, disgusting place, filled with peasants, slaves, and servants who deserved their filthy surroundings. It was somewhere he would never have brought you under any circumstances, but he himself had been many times. The Celestial Dragons were in the habit of keeping Devil Fruit users who had useful fruits – either to kill them and collect the fruit themselves or to use the services if the situation arose. And Shamrock had found quite a few interesting subjects.

Descending further into the depths, the groans of the dying and injured barely registered on Shamrock’s ears as he found the cell he was seeking, his mind only on one objective. Shamrock used the keys found outside the door and opened it, the aged wooden door opening with a creak. It seemed the Celestial Dragons had largely forgotten about this particular Devil Fruit user, kept in the far recesses of the dungeon.  

The holder of the Memo Memo no mi. 

It pained Shamrock to know you wouldn't remember anything of your time with him. But he didn't want you to miss him during his absence, to wonder why you were cast aside. Furthermore if you were bereft of your memories you would not be able to relay anything of your time with him, even under duress. That alone would keep you from becoming a pawn in someone else's hands to get to him. It was better that he take them from you, to be returned at a later time once he was able to reunite with you. Once you regained your memories all would be well and things would go back to the way they were. Shamrock brought you into the cell, repulsed that your body had to share space with such a creature. The old man remained at the back of the cell, waiting to be told what to do, his one working eye averted to the floor.

“Come forward,” Shamrock ordered, not releasing you from his hold. He was not going to set you down in this dismal dungeon. The man shuffled forward immediately though slowly, his chains clinking as he moved. Once he reached Shamrock, he bowed low enough to the ground that his scraggly beard met the floor.

“How may I serve you, Young Master?” the man croaked out. Shamrock had thought about his statement many times, but had never spoken the words aloud. He cleared his throat, willing himself to begin the process he would not be able to retreat from.

“Remove all her memories of myself and my family. They go back about six years,” Shamrock ordered. The man straightened as much as his hunched spine would let him.

“I can't - that’s not how the power-” Shamrock took a step closer to the man, allowing his haki to crackle around him. The man’s words died in his throat as Shamrock’s haki built, the red lightning surging with his anger and annoyance.

“Yes, Young Master,” the man said with a bow.

“Begin.”

An hour later and the films of your memories lay piled in the man’s hands. The man had begun with your most recent memories and had worked backwards, to the day that you were sold to the Figarland family. One of the films on top was the day he’d spat in your face, his own younger countenance looming over yours. Shamrock frowned at your memory, he had nearly forgotten his first impression of you. Shamrock had the man place the numerous films in a sack. He'd have to preserve them away from his family home. 

“Close your eyes. Then give me your own memory of this meeting,” Shamrock demanded. The old man dutifully closed his eyes and pulled the memory of Shamrock coming down to the prison. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do for now. Once the man was done, Shamrock gathered your precious memories with him and departed, locking the cell once more behind him. He had yet more to do during this night.

He passed by another dark cell on his way back to the main floor. A middle aged woman was within, her pale face withdrawn and sunken. He beckoned to her from outside the cell. You did not need to go within it for this errand.

“Extend your right hand,” he ordered. The woman’s shaking hand reached through the iron bars in the small window the door provided. Shamrock was loathe to let such a creature touch you, but it had to be done. He removed your hood gently before grabbing the woman’s arm. He yanked her as far as he could and pressed her pale, sickly hand to your beautiful face for only a moment before releasing her. The woman inside toppled to the ground but stood up again quickly.

“Show me her visage,” Shamrock commanded. The woman nodded and touched her face with her left hand. Suddenly, there was another you within the cell. You looked just as lovely and radiant as you always did, so much so that Shamrock nearly smiled when he saw the woman pretending to be you. However, the longer he stared at the woman, the more he could tell it wasn’t really you. He could tell that it wasn’t your soul within the woman, she was merely an exact duplicate. 

“Enough,” Shamrock ordered. The woman touched her face with her right hand again, shifting back to her original disgusting form. Shamrock would have use of her later that night, but not right now. 

The bag carrying your memories was heavy on his shoulder as he made his way out of the dungeons and to the stables to see Titus. The horse was pleased to see him and trotted up to Shamrock at first glance. Shamrock set you down gently in a pile of hay before turning his attention to his favorite horse. Shamrock pat him gently on the bridge of his nose, pulling him closer by the bridle. Shamrock leaned his forehead against the horse’s, willing Titus to understand the severity of the situation.

“Titus, I need you to eat this,” Shamrock said, pulling out a Devil Fruit from his bag. It was an orange fruit with white stripes and ears. “After you eat it, you won’t be able to swim.” Titus sniffed the fruit and reared back, offended by the smell. Shamrock grabbed his bridle and pulled his head back into place gently.

“You have to watch over her and this will help. There’s no other way,” Shamrock urged, pushing the fruit closer to Titus’ mouth. The horse looked at Shamrock and bowed its head, almost as if in approval. Titus opened his mouth and bit at the fruit, disdain coloring his expression. 

“Thank you, Titus. We must depart,” Shamrock said, exhaling a breath. His plan didn’t hinge on Titus, but it was a relief to know he would be with you. Shamrock gathered you in his arms, checked that the sword was strapped to his back, and mounted Titus. 

“To the Abyss,” Shamrock ordered.

Shamrock was slightly surprised at the sword pointed at his throat as he came through the Abyss. He had purposely chosen this abandoned manor inhabited by only one man, the one he was seeking. The nobles who previously lived there had an Abyss pentagram installed in the hopes that a God’s Knight might visit. None had until now. 

Shamrock used one of his gloved fingers to move the point of the sword away from his throat. He didn’t think the man he was seeking would be the kind to draw his blade before determining who his opponent was or their motivations. Looking up, he saw his intuition was correct. It was Shanks who had his sword drawn. Ever the fool, he supposed. But where was-

“Who are you?” Shanks demanded like a petulant child. Shamrock resisted the urge to roll his eyes and sigh heavily at his brother. Only a few moments into their first meeting and Shanks had already disappointed him. Shamrock didn’t answer, merely shifted you to one arm. Dropping Titus’ reins, he used his free hand to push back his hood. 

“Now that you’ve drawn your sword, are you willing to use it?” Shamrock drawled. Shanks had gone silent, his eyes wide as he took in the visage of his brother for the first time. Moments before, Shanks’ face had been filled with suspicion and bravado, but now Shanks’ mouth made a perfect circle as he resheathed his sword.

“Well? Swords aren’t for threats, they’re for actions,” Shamrock continued. Really, did he have to teach his younger brother everything? Had Roger not taught him not to draw his sword without meaning?

“Quite right,” another deep voice intoned. Shamrock looked towards the door of the room and saw a man in a frilly white linen shirt, drinking a glass of wine. Here he was, the man upon whom Shamrock’s plans hinged. 

Dracule Mihawk. 

Mihawk looked over Shamrock and took another large sip of wine. His face betrayed no hint of his emotions, though he did raise an eyebrow at Titus as he flicked his fine tail.

“No horses inside the manor,” he stated. 

“Very well. Titus, change,” Shamrock commanded, inclining his head towards the host. It was a reasonable request, after all. In a moment, the horse shifted into an orange house cat. Mihawk continued to watch as Titus walked around, adjusting to his new size. Shamrock wished he had the time to watch Titus teeter around as a cat, but now was not the moment. 

“You are Red-haired’s brother,” Mihawk noted, taking another sip of the red wine.

“Yes. I have a proposition for you,” Shamrock said, taking a step out of the Abyss towards the swordsman. He had no wish to discuss Shanks, already dismissing his younger brother from his thoughts. Shamrock wanted to move the conversation along to his own ends.

“Are we not gonna talk about this? That I have a brother? A brother I didn’t know about? Are we twins? You look exactly like me but - wait, did you know about me?!?” Shanks asked Shamrock, his hand on his cheek in disbelief. For someone raised on the Pirate King’s ship, Shanks was certainly naive. This time Shamrock did roll his eyes and turned to face his brother.

“Of course I knew. I surmise no one told you. You have an older twin brother, congratulations,” Shamrock said dryly. Shanks’ smile faded from his face for a moment, before he laughed awkwardly and smiled again. Shamrock’s patience grew thin; his brother’s babbling was irritating him when he needed to have a discussion with Mihawk.

“Who’s our Dad? Or our Mom? I’m guessing since you came from the Abyss that they're Celestial Dragons. Gasp! Does that mean I - we’re Celestial Dragons too? I hate those fuckers, but you seem-”

He did not feel like playing games with his twin, he barely cared that Shanks was there. His real purpose in locating Shanks had been a complete coincidence. Shanks happened to be traveling with Dracule, so Shamrock was able to pass off the easy lie that he wished to see his brother. Shamrock suspected Father would be open to such a suggestion, since it would be a natural curiosity for a twin to wish to meet his brother. Shanks continued to talk despite no input from Shamrock thus far.

“What’s your name? You look just like me! Well, except your hair’s longer and - whoa, you’re so pale. Do you ever go out in the sun? Do you like to sail? Who did you bring with you? And what’s that-” Shanks drew nearer to Shamrock, who bristled and held you tighter. 

“Do not touch her,” he stated, his tone ice cold and eyes flashing. He stifled his haki from rising, it wouldn’t benefit him in any way to challenge Shanks right now. Even though his brother was an irritant, Shamrock knew Shanks was much stronger than he let on. There was a reason Mihawk dallied with him, after all. 

“I assume the woman has to do with the proposition,” Mihawk inferred. “Let us go to the parlor to discuss,” he said. Looking between Shanks and Shamrock, Mihawk drained his glass. 

“I will bring more wine.”

A few minutes later Shamrock, Mihawk, and Shanks were all seated in the main parlor. Well, Shamrock and Mihawk were seated – Shanks was pacing back and forth near the door. Shamrock had gently set you down on a couch near his own chair, making sure your head was resting on a pillow. From the angle at which he sat, he could clearly see your beloved face while also angling to protect you should they come to blows. Shamrock was not sure he could defeat Mihawk and Shanks if they fought together, but he would die trying to defend you.

“I am Figarland Shamrock,” he began, swirling the wine in his glass that Mihawk had provided. Mihawk inclined his head.

“I am Dracule Mihawk. Welcome to Kuraigana Island.”

“I have need of your services,” Shamrock began slowly, trying to sound less haughty and demanding. He was requesting something from Mihawk, which was not something he’d ever had to do before. Having to ask for help was demeaning and not an experience he enjoyed.

“Which services?” Mihawk asked, setting his chin in his hand as he crossed his legs in the chair. “I am no mercenary for hire,” he continued. 

“Do you need my services?” Shanks asked brightly, turning to come closer to Shamrock. Enough of the fool, Shamrock thought. It was time he learned his place, he was irritating beyond compare. Shamrock set his glass of wine down on the low table and rose to stand behind his chair. He looked his brother over with assessing eyes before smiling. Shanks took the gesture as encouragement and smiled widely at his brother. 

“You?” Shamrock said with a mocking laugh, his eyes flashing with malice. “You were a simple convenience. If you had not been traveling with Dracule at this time, I would have told Father I wished to fight him as an excuse to come to his manor. It is laughable to think I would leave anything of value in your hands.” His voice was quiet, but his words cut like a whip as he advanced towards his brother. To his credit, Shanks did not retreat but stood firm as his brother stalked towards him, his sunny smile quickly fading. Shamrock’s heels clacked against the cold marble tile with every step he took towards his twin until they stood inches apart, face to face.

“You are an aimless, drunken fool. Completely useless to any and all. Cast aside at every turn - by your Captain, by your sworn brother, by your former crew, by your own blood relations. I have no doubt that Dracule will become the World’s Strongest Swordsman. One can see the desire burning within, that he will manifest his will and bend reality to his making. But you? Even if you were to become one of the Emperors of the Sea – nay, the King of Pirates himself - you would remain worthless. Leave my treasure with you?” Shamrock laughed, a cruel sound leaving his throat as Shamrock’s wry grin twisted into a scowl. Despite his impressive strength, Shanks flinched as Shamrock flicked the brim of the straw hat on his brother’s head.

“I would rather kill her myself.”

“So you wish for the woman to remain here,” Mihawk intoned several minutes later. Shanks had excused himself and ran off like the immature child he was. Shamrock was glad for his absence. Mihawk had watched Shanks closely after Shamrock had chastised him but did not come to Shanks’ defense. Shamrock did not care to speculate why. Mihawk had resumed talking not long after.

“I do,” Shamrock agreed. “She has no memories of her time with me. She is adept at nearly every task and independent by nature. She is incredibly intelligent and diligent,” Shamrock continued, proud to state your superior qualities.

“And why should I agree to such a request? I am no babysitter,” Mihawk drawled, resting his free hand on his knee. But Shamrock knew he had Mihawk’s interest from the moment he had appeared in the estate. 

“Because I have something you want and would not otherwise be able to acquire,” Shamrock replied simply, finally getting to the heart of the matter. Shamrock had surmised that someone like Mihawk would not be swayed by might or money. It was one of the many reasons why Shamrock had selected the principled man as your would be guardian. No, money couldn't buy Mihawk's protection. But there was one thing Mihawk desperately wanted, that he could not hide his unbridled desire for.

Yoru.

The sword had been strapped to Shamrock’s back from the second he’d come into the manor, the supreme grade sword glinting in the light of the fire. Mihawk’s eyes had drifted to it but once, but that was enough to confirm his interest. Yoru had been passed through generations of the Figarland family for centuries, but you were worth more.  

“I will give you Yoru in exchange for your vow that my woman will remain here for as long as needed. You will do everything in your power to protect her. You will tell no one of her existence. You will share no information of how she came to be here nor of me – with her or anyone else. Titus will remain to watch over her. If the terms are not amenable to you, I shall depart with her forthwith and leave you to enjoy your company,” Shamrock leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, the perfect picture of indifference. Inside, he felt like there was an animal gnawing at his bones. He needed Mihawk to agree, this was the linchpin for all his hard work.

“Should I agree, Yoru will be mine.”

“Yes.”

“And how will you explain its absence? Surely a sword of this caliber would be missed even by Celestial Dragons,” Mihawk mused. His demeanor was calm but his fingers were now gripping his knee tightly.

“I will tell my Father that I brought the woman, Titus, and Yoru as an introductory gift for my brother, as a means to show him the delights of Mariejois. I will say we shared the woman, he did not secure Titus correctly, and he took Yoru with him to his ship. What he did with the sword thereafter, I do not know. Perhaps he gave it to a rival, or a paramore,” Shamrock stated, setting his wine glass down on the table. Mihawk’s eyes narrowed slightly. Interesting, Shamrock thought. He had hit a mark with his words, though he wasn’t intentionally bating the swordsman. 

“You are making your brother out to be quite the heel,” Mihawk said, his tone dry. Shamrock shrugged.

“He is a useful tool at this juncture.” 

“You understand I am most often absent from the estate. I return here seldomly, and use this facility only as a place of refuge and rest.”

“I understand. The humandrills will keep others out and Titus will watch over her. Your reputation protects the manor and if you are not here, no one will bother coming near.”

“And the Marines?” Mihawk asked, arching a brow. Shamrock smirked.

“They answer to me.” There was a beat of silence between the two men. Shamrock suspected that neither of them wanted to show their hand and express their strong desire for the other to agree. As the one who was stipulating the terms, Shamrock would not lose an advantage by continuing the conversation.

“Do I have your word then?” Shamrock asked quietly, looking over at the silent swordsman. Mihawk’s golden eyes looked into Shamrock’s brown ones.

“You do.”

Once Mihawk agreed to harbor you, Shamrock handed over the sword and went to settle you in a bedroom. There were many to choose from and he tried to find the one that was the nicest and in working order. Finally he found one that was not dissimilar to his own, a coincidence that pleased him. He laid you down on the bed and watched your peaceful face as you breathed deeply. Shamrock watched you for quite some time, unable to leave your side. He wouldn’t see you for many months, possibly years. He did not know the circumstances under which you’d be reunited but he knew one thing for certain.

He would come back for you.

A dreamy smile graced your features as you sighed in your sleep. A smile reflexively crossed Shamrock’s own and he raised his hand to cup your cheek. He leaned down over you, his hair covering you the way he knew you loved. If you had been awake, your hands would have wrapped themselves in it, pulling him to you for kissing. But alas, that was not to be the case. Still, Shamrock lingered, setting his forehead against your own.

“Please do not hate me. I saw no other way. I will return for you,” he whispered. You would have no memories of him, but he held a naive hope that some part of your soul would remember his parting words to you.  

Shamrock pressed his lips to your own in a final kiss. He hadn’t cried since he was a young child, taught not to show his weaknesses by his Father’s hand. And yet a tear landed on your cheek as Shamrock pulled away from you one last time.

“Goodbye, my love.”

“After I am gone, destroy the Abyss. I trust you are capable of doing so,” Shamrock said, his affect flat as he walked back to the room containing the Abyss. He was trying to hide the emotions roiling inside him, his anguish at having to leave the only person he loved in the hands of another. If Mihawk suspected anything, he did not mention it.

“Are you not curious to meet Shanks?” Mihawk asked, his eyes trained only on the sword in his hands. He was testing its weight and balance of the sword, surely finding it as perfect as its reputation suggested. Shamrock felt indifferent at leaving the priceless heirloom in the hands of a pirate, he could always buy another priceless sword. You, however, were irreplaceable. His thoughts returned to you as they always did, before he remembered Mihawk had asked him a question.

“No.” 

Mihawk did not reply and did not press the issue further. Shamrock might revisit his brother if Shanks ever became someone worthy of meeting. 

A few hours later and the night was finally over. Shamrock deposited the severed head of the woman on Father’s desk as he had been tasked. The sticky, coagulating blood was pooling over the fine desk but that was not Shamrock’s concern. The user of the Mane Mane no mi looked exactly like you, her face frozen in terror from the moment Shamrock had slain her. Even though he knew it was not truly you, that you were safe and hidden on Kuraigana Island under the golden eyes of Mihawk, he still couldn’t bear to look at it any further.

Shamrock hadn’t just killed the Mane Mane no mi slave in the dungeons. He’d killed every single person within the putrid cells. He didn’t want anyone to bear witness to his visitation with you or that Shamrock had the slave take on your visage. He’d also killed all the servants, attendants, and slaves who had ever seen you. Shamrock wanted no loose ends and killing everyone was the only means by which that could be accomplished. The castle was bathed in red, blood splattered down every hall and room. He’d buy some more slaves and servants in the morning, it would be a good lesson in what happened when Shamrock was displeased. 

Shamrock would tell Father that his meeting with Shanks had not gone as desired and he had returned in a foul mood. It was an understandable excuse since Shamrock truly had nothing positive to say about his brother. Father might be annoyed since there were some interesting Devil Fruit users in the dungeon, but he himself had done the same a few times in Shamrock’s memory. 

No, everyone there had to die so that you could live. 

Chapter Text

Your POV

Your eyes blinked open. 

You were in a familiar room. 

Wait.

No. 

You weren’t.

You didn’t recognize this room. At least, you didn’t think you did. Your head ached behind your eyes, like your brain was a soft fruit that had been squeezed too hard. Did you recognize this room? It felt familiar but you couldn’t place where you knew it from. You sat up in the comfortable bed and looked around the dusty, scantily furnished room. 

What were you supposed to be doing? 

There was definitely something you needed to be doing, but you couldn’t remember what it was. Someone was waiting for you. But who? Searching your memory yielded almost no results. 

Of anything. 

You couldn’t remember what your job was, where you were, or even your name. The last full event you remembered clearly was being taken to a slave auction – but that memory seemed distant, like it had happened long ago. There were bits and pieces you could recall since then – talking with other slaves in a kitchen, patting a horse in a stable, bringing a tray of food somewhere – but nothing cohesive. Nothing that explained where you were or why.

Looking around for some clues, you saw that there was a worn black cloak surrounding you. The soft velvet crinkled under your touch, it was surely an expensive item. You had on a simple dress, though you couldn’t remember anything about it or even putting it on. Surprisingly, there was a small emerald on a golden chain around your neck. You thought about taking it off to examine it, but you almost felt a compulsion to keep it on your neck. Letting it drop, you got up from the bed. You walked around the room but didn’t note anything outside of the fact that you’d have to deep clean and dust it later.

Wait, you knew how to clean. Were you a maid?

As you were examining a chest of drawers, a man’s voice startled you. You quickly stood up straight, averted your gaze to the floor, titled your head down, and clasped your hands in front of you.

“Ah. You’re awake. Come with me,” a pale man intoned by your door. You immediately did as he wished, unsure if he was your master or not. If he was, maybe you could determine what it was he wanted from you before he struck you. You definitely remembered being hit as a slave, by many people and with high frequency. The man brought you to a fine looking room, complete with two armchairs. It was obvious from the lack of dust and recently emptied wine glasses that this room was used frequently, unlike the bedroom you’d been in previously.

“Sit,” the man said, gesturing to the set of chairs. You chose a high backed green one to perch on, the color pleasant to your eye. You looked at him once, trying to etch his visage into your memory. The man had beautiful, haunting golden eyes, and an interesting facial hair arrangement. He was strong, as evidenced by his muscular form, and likely powerful as he wielded a massive sword. The sword itself felt faintly familiar, like you’d seen it before but you couldn’t determine where you would have seen such a thing.

You bowed your head once more in silence, waiting for him to speak and tell you what to do. You weren’t sure exactly what the protocol was, but it felt like the right thing to do. After several minutes waiting in silence, the man cleared his throat.

“I am Dracule Mihawk. You are on Kuraigana Island, inside my manor. I found you washed up on my beach and I brought you inside to recuperate. I do not know your origins,” he stated, leaning back to cross his legs. Well, that explained who he was and where you were but very little besides. You waited for him to continue.

“There was a Celestial Dragon ship sailing nearby recently. That may explain where you came from,” he said, looking to the left. You nodded, you remembered that you were a slave, just not who your owner was. You sat in silence, watching him drink his wine. He didn’t offer you any and you didn’t ask for some.

“I would like you to remain here for the foreseeable future. I do not have means to transport more than one person at the current time. Moreover, you may wish for general respite from your previous life before beginning anew,” he said, giving you a slight nod. Your mind faltered with the information he laid before you. You were…free. It was a strange thought to have, that you no longer had a master. What did a free life look like? What would you do? Mihawk sighed and drained his glass, setting it back on the table. You rose and took his glass wordlessly, your fingers itching to clear the mess away promptly.

“You do not need to complete any housekeeping duties here besides cleaning after yourself. You may amuse yourself as you see fit. There are many bedrooms in the manor, you may select one that suits your desires. I do not require your company. Do you understand?” Mihawk stated, though he didn’t stop you from taking the glass. You nodded once more, you understood. But your attention was grabbed by an orange housecat who came sauntering up to you, winding itself between your legs. You reached down to scratch his ears, the cat arching up into your touch with a smug look. 

“Ah, yes, the cat. He is yours. His name is Titus, he arrived with you. Be aware he can take the form of a horse as well. He must remain outside in that state, no horses are allowed inside the manor,,” Mihawk stated. 

“He swam with me?” you asked, not remembering anything about having a cat. The cat did not seem to have the same issue and was now rubbing its face on your shins. Its purr was loud as Titus marked you with its scent. You set the glass back down on the table and reached down to pick up Titus. He practically lept into your arms, settling in like you were his personal attendant.  

“I do not know. I found him pawing at you on the shore,” Mihawk said, looking again to the left. You also looked but didn’t see anything of importance. You swallowed and took a small breath, preparing to talk. A pressure built in your chest as you formed your words, like your body was stressed by speaking to Mihawk. 

“Do you know my name by any chance?” you asked timidly, keeping your gaze trained on the floor. You’d been trying to remember it since you woke, but hadn’t been able to determine what it was. Mihawk’s face softened as his gaze returned to you.

“I am afraid I do not. Choose a name you like and that is what I shall call you,” he suggested. “How much can you remember of your former life?” he prompted, curiosity only apparent in a slight shift in his eyebrows. You thought through the flashes you’d seen and shook your head.

“Not much, only a few bits and pieces. I know I am, ah, was a slave, but I don’t know to whom. Based on what I can remember, I think I was a maid or maybe a personal servant? I am not sure, I apologize Master,” you said automatically. Mihawk stood up and walked over to you, and put his hand on your shoulder.

“You have no Master, girl. Not any longer,” he said softly, his hand gripping you momentarily. 

“Come, I will give you a tour of the mansion. During that time please think of a name you’d like to be called. It is awkward to call you “girl.”

You dutifully followed Mihawk as he took you around the large castle, his tour focusing only on the rooms that were used most frequently. The layout felt familiar to you, though you couldn’t place exactly why. The feeling of something being just out of reach was frustrating you, though you kept your emotions from showing on your face and body language. He stopped before two large mahogany doors, pushing one open single handedly. Whatever Mihawk’s profession was, he was strong. Maybe you’d gauge his mood later and ask him.

“Finally, here is the library. If you wish for me to teach you to read and write, I have a few days before I set sail again,” he offered. You thought for a moment before responding.

“I know how to read. I do not think I know how to write, but I believe I can figure it out with paper and a pencil. I do not need to waste your time, Ma- Mihawk,” you said, bowing your head slightly. Mihawk blinked once, as if in surprise.

Mihawk POV

He had been clear at the outset on why he’d agreed to shelter the woman. Mihawk wasn’t a charitable person, he was single mindedly pursuing his goal of becoming the World’s Strongest Swordsman. To that end, he had agreed to watch you in exchange for the sword he now wore strapped to his back. Acquiring Yoru had been one of his dreams, something he had yearned for but could not determine a means to achieve. With Shamrock’s visit, it had practically fallen into his lap. All he had to do was tolerate you a few days out of the year and prevent you from dying as best he could. He hadn’t even bothered to ask Shamrock your name before his departure.

And yet. 

He could not deny that his interest was slightly piqued as he watched you acclimate to life in the manor. Mihawk didn’t need to leave you immediately, he wanted to settle you in before he left you alone for months on end. He felt it was only fair since you’d lost your previous life that he remained and ensured you’d be alright during his long absences. 

Mihawk’s interest in you wasn’t romantic, he had the misfortune to find the younger Figarland twin appealing. He and Shanks had been in an entanglement for a few years, neither one speaking directly about the arrangement. Mihawk didn’t mind that Shanks slipped in and out of the beds of many men and women on the Grandline while they were apart. On his own end Mihawk found the process of finding a lover tiresome and a distraction from attaining his goals. So their unusual system worked well for the both of them, enjoying fighting and fucking in equal measure when they met.

But as of now Shanks was in the mood for neither. Shanks had been nearly inconsolable after the harsh statements of his brother, ranting about the retorts he would have liked to give his brother. Mihawk himself had no siblings, but he supposed it would be rather jarring to find out one had a twin, particularly one who was a Celestial Dragon. And Red Haired was taking it quite poorly, drinking to excess every minute he was awake. Yes, Shamrock had said some unbecoming remarks, but Red Haired had surely heard worse. 

Mihawk tolerated Shanks’s melancholy for a few nights, but eventually poured his rival back onto his own ship and informed Benn Beckman that Red Haired was in a poor state. There were some battles that could only be fought alone. He was sure he’d meet Red Haired again on the Grand Line, it was only a matter of time. Perhaps his tears and cups would be dry by then. 

Mihawk kept an unobserved eye on you for the first few days. At the beginning, you were completely silent, spending time in the library and cleaning the unused rooms. He reminded you that you did not need to clean except to tidy after yourself, but you said you didn’t mind the work. That it gave your hands something to focus on while you tried to remember anything about your former life. Mihawk did not think it appropriate given the guidelines given to him by Shamrock to tell you that you would never be able to remember your life with him, no matter how hard you tried. Still, it was rather difficult to watch your brows hitch as your face grew concentrated, only to sigh moments later and resume cleaning. 

But after a few days, you began to grow more comfortable around him. Like Shamrock had mentioned, you were independent and did not pester Mihawk for company, for which he was grateful. To have someone who needed to fill the silence with chatter would have been a challenge. Luckily you seemed just as content with silence as he. Your cat did not share your penchant for personal reflection, meowing loudly as it followed you through the manor, as if it was your retinue. It certainly had the personality of a Celestial Dragon, compressed into a fuzzy, four pawed being.

You began cooking for Mihawk at mealtimes, providing simple yet hearty meals that he could not deny that he enjoyed. You were a passable cook, but a rather talented baker. Mihawk did not care for overly sweet desserts but you began making a kind of tea biscuit he could not keep away from. His fingers dipped into the cookie jar far more often now that you were in residence.

After a few nights of living separately, you joined Mihawk in the parlour after dinner, reading together in the light of the fire. You began bringing him tea and refreshments during that time, the two of you sitting in silence and reading together. It was domestic and rather pleasant to have some company, he decided. Perhaps having someone at the manor wouldn’t be as terrible as he had imagined. 

In addition to enjoying the presence of another person, there were certain anomalies that drew his interest. He never directly asked Shamrock what his relationship to you was, but many clues pointed to the idea that you were someone special to him, likely a lover. Shamrock had taken quite a number of risks to ensure your safety, though Mihawk wasn’t sure what from. He had a few unfortunate interactions with Celestial Dragons and hadn’t seen them care about anyone but themselves and their own cadre. You were quite the puzzle in the form of an undeniably attractive woman.

And if he enjoyed drinking tea with you, eating your cookies, and reading by the fire, that was no one’s business but his own. 

Your POV

You tried your hardest to settle into life at the manor. Even without your memories, you could tell Mihawk was an eccentric man. Even so, his intensity didn’t scare you, it was almost as if you were used to someone similar. 

You weren’t exactly sure why he wanted you to stay with him, but for the time being you had nowhere else to go. Even if Mihawk took you to another location, you had no money, no memories, and no connections to anyone else. Besides, the island had everything you needed – Mihawk kept the food stores full, you had your pick of the fine noble clothes you found in the unused rooms. You found your eyes continuously returning to the green garments, selecting mostly from those clothes for yourself. Not only that but the library was so large you didn’t think you’d ever finish reading all the books there no matter how long you were there. So for now, you’d stay on the island – at least until you got your memories back. 

Which didn’t seem to be happening. Sometimes when you saw or touched something, a small memory would resurface, but it was never anything helpful. You started remembering calculating mathematical equations, or laundering clothes, or preparing simple meals, and always alone. There was something big missing from your life, you were certain of it. Someone or something had been the sole focus of your attention, but you couldn’t figure out who it was. 

You fiddled with the emerald around your neck as you tried to remember your name or anything about where you came from. Your fingers placing the gem back on your chest after a moment, the answers just as elusive as before. Even so, you always felt more settled when the emerald was over your heart, the small weight reassuring in some way.

Since you couldn’t remember your name, you had to come up with something for Mihawk to call you. You’d taken stock of your body as you bathed once, noting a strange slave mark. You could recall the marks of other slaves – large, ugly, raised circles that resembled a hoof. Yet yours was almost dainty, the thin raised lines set on your shoulder as if made to fit. And unlike the circle you remembered on other slaves, yours had a shamrock set in it. Running your fingers over it made your hands shake, a nameless uneasiness settling in you despite not remembering the event.

One morning, you approached Mihawk with his tray of morning tea and biscotti. You set it before him and sat in the seat across from him, waiting for him to fold and close his newspaper. You didn’t always wait, sometimes you left for the library or the gardens but today you had something to say. 

After a few moments, Mihawk set down the paper detailing the latest news coming out of the New World. You stared intently at the young man on the wanted poster on the back page – it said he was called Red Haired Shanks and had a massive bounty despite looking about your age. He felt familiar to you, like you knew him personally. You couldn’t remember ever meeting him and yet just seeing his face gave you warm butterflies. Curious. Maybe you’d ask Mihawk for the paper after he was done with it.

“Yes?” Mihawk asked, reaching for his tea. You instinctively handed him the cup on the saucer and set out the cream and sugar for him off the tray. Even though you couldn’t remember much about serving, your body certainly did. 

“I have decided what I would like to be called,” you said, now setting out the plate with his biscotti. Mihawk had first eschewed the treat, saying he didn’t like sweets, but the cookie jar was empty more often than not. 

“Oh?” he asked, adding the splash of milk you knew he liked.

“Clover,” you stated. Mihawk took a sip of his tea, taking a moment to think.

“May I ask why?” he questioned, his long fingers taking a cookie from the plate.

“I have a slave brand on my shoulder with a shamrock in it. I thought it was appropriate,” you explained. You felt like it fit you after coming across the name in a book. Mihawk regarded you before taking another sip of his tea. 

“Very well. Clover it is.” Mihawk said with a nod. You gave him a small smile in return.

Aside from your self assigned duties as a maid and cook, you spent most of your time on the gloomy island in the library. You passed your time reading books, with Titus purring contentedly on your lap. You didn’t remember how you’d acquired him, but he didn’t seem to feel the same way. He was always following you and watching your activities, even sleeping in your bed next to you. It almost felt like he was guarding you when he paced back and forth in front of your chair with his adorable little strut.

The library wasn’t organized by any method you could determine, which bothered you immensely. So you started the arduous process of reorganization after receiving permission from a mildly excited Mihawk. You tried to think of the best way to organize the massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and decided on genre then alphabetical order by author surname. 

Through your time spent in the library, you found that you liked reading fiction best, followed by textbooks about mathematics. One day you selected a book of fantastical stories, and it sparked a memory in you. There was one book of fairy tales you remembered from your past life, though you couldn’t remember any of the details surrounding it beyond what it looked like. You spent innumerable hours searching for it, hoping that against all odds the book would be in the enormous library.

And to your luck, one day you found it.

On the tallest shelf of a bookshelf set back against a window, you found a dusty copy of the long forgotten fairy tale you’d been looking for. You smiled to yourself as you brushed your thumb over the embossed cover, the print familiar to you. Stepping off the ladder, you sank to your knees in happiness, a short memory coming back to you. You remembered laying on the floor in a closet, recuperating after receiving your brand, reading this very fairy tale book from cover to cover. It wasn’t much, but it was a start to regaining your memories. 

Cracking open the aged book, you began to read. 

Shamrock POV

Shamrock stared upwards from the mud of the training grounds, unable to will himself to get up again for the journey back to his domicile. The training session with Warcury had been brutal, the Elder ceaselessly beating Shamrock until his vision was clouded by the blood dripping down his face. Even so, Shamrock was thankful for the training despite the incredible pain it incurred in him. He was growing stronger by the day, his control over his haki increasing exponentially. Soon he’d be a true threat, someone who could command respect not only for being a Celestial Dragon, but for the danger he represented as a fighter. 

Still, the process left much to be desired, Shamrock thought as he finally pushed himself to sitting. The mud squelched as he pulled his legs out of the cold ground, finally mustering the strength to stand upright. He’d go home, heal as best he could, and return to the training grounds in the morning. Shamrock patted his chest out of practiced muscle memory, his fingers searching relentlessly along his chest. Under his layers of clothes his fingers probed for the emerald he now wore on a long gold chain, only resting once he was assured it was still there. 

It was a larger version of the necklace he’d bequeathed you, identical in nearly every way. He had it made at the same time as yours, grateful for the passing thought he’d had at the time. You wouldn’t remember how it came to you, that memory was with him. But even so, Shamrock hoped that you found as much solace in your necklace as he did in his. It gave him some measure of comfort to know that the two of you shared something tangible, the emerald resting over each of your beating hearts. 

He’d grow strong to protect you. He had to.

Because you would be his once more.

Chapter Text

Six Months Later

Your POV

You were picking your way along the rocky shore, your hair blowing in your face from the strong winds, when you saw an unfamiliar vessel approaching the island. It wasn’t Mihawk’s little ship, you knew Hitsugibune on sight. After staying with you for a few weeks upon your arrival, Mihawk had sailed off on his little coffin and left you on the island alone, save for the humandrills and Titus. He’d returned twice so far, the first time after a month, the second time after two. He’d been gone for nearly three months this time and you did not know when he was coming back. 

Perhaps Mihawk was on the incoming ship? It was large, easily able to tow Hitsugibune. Mihawk didn’t strike you as the kind of man to hitch a ride with others, he liked his privacy and peace too much. The ship had a dragon’s head as the mast and ran a pirate flag, though you weren’t familiar with the exact design. You hadn’t seen any other ships since you’d been on the island, but Mihawk had warned you hostile pirates or Marines coming to the manor was a possibility.

You weren’t sure exactly what he did for training when he was away but he spent a significant amount of time recuperating when he came back. The Swordsman was proud, unable to admit when he needed or wanted help. So even though he initially protested, you tended to him until he was healed. You made him food and brought him water and tea, though he only got wine with dinner. Mihawk would rest with his eyes closed while you softly read aloud books as you sat by his bedside. 

At first you read the types of volumes he picked out for himself - often non-fiction on topics like agriculture and astronomy and biographies of famous swordsmen -  but you sometimes read him your favorite stories. The one you liked the most was the one you’d found in the library - the fairy tale about the imprisoned beauty and her beastly captor. Mihawk would huff as you began reading but was silent for the duration, and even with-holding his commentary.

The second time Mihawk came back to Kuraigana, he was wounded, the field medicine rendered wherever he had been not sufficient for the depth of the slash he’d received. You often watched Mihawk when he trained on the island, feeling at peace as you watched him train. You couldn’t imagine who was strong enough to injure him, but there was a whole world out there you didn’t know about. 

You stopped in your tracks when you saw the ship, a stone in your hand as Titus followed behind you in his horse form. A few months earlier you found that you were able to ride him fairly easily. Titus practically guided you on how to ride properly, even letting you grab his mane to center yourself. He was just as haughty and disdainful in his horse form as he was in his cat form, but you loved him all the same. Titus didn’t seem to mind Mihawk, and tolerated his presence well enough. Once, you caught Titus napping on Mihawk’s nap, the Swordman’s long fingers trailing through his fur as Titus purred. You still didn’t remember getting Titus, but you loved him all the same. 

As the pirate ship drew near the island, you could see the jolly roger more closely – it bore two crossed swords and a skull with two red stripes down the left side of the skull. You’d spent some time reading about pirate and Marine history, the books giving conflicting information depending on the century of publication and inclination of the author. Despite the prevailing attitudes of the books, things were likely not as black and white as they said. Your best guess was that not all pirates were bad, and not all Marines were good.

You had discussed it extensively with Mihawk the last time he’d come back to the island. It turned out that he himself was a pirate of sorts, though he had no large ship, no crew, and no desire to find treasure. He sailed the seas in hopes of becoming the World’s Strongest Swordsman, but was an outlaw with a bounty nonetheless. He made some money by taking riches from those he defeated, but that seemed fair to you. Mihawk explained the general structure of society, how Marines were balanced by the Emperors, and how over the Marines was the World Government, ruled by the Celestial Dragons. 

You spent time thinking over the few memories you could recollect and based on what Mihawk had told you, you were fairly sure you had been the personal attendant to a Celestial Dragon. The opulent, lavish castle you had lived in, the fine velvet cloak you’d been found in, your housekeeping skills…they all pointed towards the same conclusion. The realization didn’t help you remember anything else, but it did make you feel a little better to put together some pieces of your past. Mihawk said very little about Celestial Dragons, which was surprising given his extensive vitriol towards the Marines. You’d prodded him a few times but he didn’t answer your questions and changed the subject.

Mihawk had given you strict instructions on what to do if a foreign ship approached the island. If any ship that wasn’t his came near, you were supposed to run to the castle and call him on the snail he’d left for you after his first journey. After which, you were supposed to hide and hope the humandrills would protect you. You were thinking of asking Mihawk to give you some rudimentary fighting lessons, not wanting to be a sitting duck in the event of danger.

So now that there was an unfamiliar ship approaching the island, you did as you were told. The thought of unknown people coming to the island was frightening - what if they worked with your former masters? Or were coming to sell you back into slavery? You threw yourself on Titus’ back and spurred him to gallop towards the castle, your dress fluttering behind you in the wind. You dismounted Titus at the steps, and ran towards your chambers deep in the castle as he followed. You quickly found your snail and dialed Mihawk, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Mihawk picked up on the second ring.

“Mihawk, there is a ship on the horizon of the island,” you gasped as soon as he picked up, still out of breath from running up the flights of stairs.

“Yes. The ship belongs to Red Haired Shanks. He is an ally of sorts. You needn’t fear him nor his crew. I am not far behind, perhaps a half day or so of sailing. I should be at the island by late night,” he explained, the snail taking on his distinctive golden eyes. 

“Al-alright,” you said softly, holding your gem in your hand. You couldn’t remember its origins, but it often served as a source of comfort during stressful times. 

“Shanks is likely to invite himself into the castle. He will not harm you, nor will his men. You need not feed him nor look after him, he has a first mate and crew for such things. Do not let him eat all the biscotti. He is a glutton, he will try,” Mihawk continued. You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. If Mihawk was sharing biscotti with him, he liked Shanks at least a little.

You actually did know who Red Haired Shanks was. Well, not personally. But every time the news coo delivered newspapers, you always went straight to the wanted posters to look for his smiling face. You had a secret collection of them, hidden deep in one of your drawers. You were too embarrassed to keep them out, lest Mihawk discover your fascination with the pirate. There were some murky half-memories that you tried to grasp for when you looked at his smiling face, but nothing concrete. There was something about him, something that drew you in at first glance.

You’d mentioned Shanks a few times to Mihawk, trying to discreetly ask for more information. Mihawk, despite his protests, did seem to keep Shanks in high estimation in some respects.

“Shanks is a worthy swordsman, though I would never say so to his face. His ego is already quite large and it doesn’t need help growing,” Mihawk drawled once after a few too many glasses of wine. “He will sleep with anything that moves if given half a chance. He’s a tomcat, through and through. Though I can’t seem to help but allow the stray in my own bed,” Mihawk said, throwing an arm over his face dramatically. You smiled, it wasn’t often that Mihawk revealed his emotions, much less unprovoked. It was charming to see the proud swordsman foolish in love, like everyone else.

So even though he was a rogue pirate, with one of the highest bounties on the seas, you watched eagerly from the window as his ship docked. A small dinghy carried several men towards the island. Your eyes instantly locked onto Red Haired Shanks, his smile wide as he held a straw hat on his head. He was just as handsome as in his wanted posters and as he laughed you found yourself smiling too. His eyes locked on yours, even though he was still far off in the ocean. How had he seen you? You ducked below the window, your heart beating rapidly.

As Shanks and his crew landed on the island, you stayed in your wing of the castle, unsure what to do. On one hand, Mihawk said you’d be safe and you trusted Mihawk with your life. On the other, Shanks was an unknown entity to you. Just because you liked his photo didn’t mean you should spend time around him. You lingered in your rooms, deliberating on what to do. Eventually it got darker outside and your rumbling stomach told you it was dinner time. You hadn’t heard any noise inside the castle, you didn’t think Shanks had come inside yet. Titus was sleeping on the bed, curled up into a tiny ball. You let him nap, covering him with your favorite velvet cloak.

You made your way to the kitchen and began preparing ingredients for a hearty stew. It was easy to make and lasted a while, so it had become a frequent favorite to cook. You chopped and sauteed everything you needed, added the stock and set the pot to simmer. Soon, delicious smells permeated the kitchen, the stew nearly done.

“Hello,” a voice said from right behind you. You screamed, dropping the wooden spoon in your hands as you startled. Two warm, calloused hands reached out to steady you, grabbing your shoulder and waist. 

“Heh, sorry! Didn’t mean to frighten you,” a warm voice said as the hands receded. You swiveled, your back pressed against the counter. Right in front of you stood Red Haired Shanks, his bright smile making your stomach flip. 

You knew him.

You were sure you did. A murky memory surfaced, something lewd and private, a moment shared between you. The memory came back to you all at once. Shanks leaning over and kissing you while the two of you were naked in his large, red four poster bed. His hair was longer then, and darker, with the sides braided back. He was paler and less freckled, with no scars but there was no doubt in your mind it was him. 

The memory flooded your mind all at once as you stared at the tall man in front of you. You remembered Shanks telling you he loved you, that he would always protect you, that you never had to be afraid of him. Your face heated as you remembered the tender way he’d caressed your body, how he’d laved at your breasts, finally dipping his head lower to your sopping wet pussy. How he’d taken his time with you, how he’d made love to you. It was so clear in your mind, every detail coming back in perfect form.

“I know you,” you whispered. Shanks tilted his head from where he’d bent down to pick up the spoon.

“I don’t think so, Love. We’ve never met,” Shanks said, putting the spoon in the sink. He didn’t look like he was lying, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“We have, we were - d-don’t you remember?” you asked, ashamed that he forgot the emotional time the two of you spent together.

“Sorry, Love. The last time I was on this island, only Mihawk lived here. I’m Red Haired -”

“I know who you are,” you whispered, biting your lip. Tears filled your lashline as Shanks denied knowledge of your only clear memory from your recent past. He had been so tender, so loving - how come he didn’t remember you?

“We have met,” you insisted, raising your hand but lacking the courage to touch his tan arm. The corners of Shanks’ mouth turned down slightly as he scratched the back of his neck. And there it was - you recognized him when he smiled, but when he turned pensive you knew him. He was someone from your past, nothing he said could tell you otherwise.

“I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“Your hair was longer then! You didn’t have your scars, but I - you - we - we were in your room, the red one? With the four poster bed? We were - we were- don’t you -” your voice broke as tears fell down your cheeks. “Don’t you remember me?” Shanks wiped away your tears with his thumb, a spark of recognition passing through his features. He knew you too, you were certain.

“No, Love. I’ve always had short hair. You can ask Mihawk when he hits the island, he’s known me for years. And I don’t have a red bedroom or a four poster bed. I live on my ship and you can ask any of my crew - you’ve never been on it. I’m sorry, but we’ve never met before,” he said softly, as you turned away from him. Humiliation burned through you - you were sure you’d had sex with him before. But if he wasn’t going to admit to loving you, you wouldn’t bring it up again. You wanted to bolt, to lick your wounds in private. You took a deep breath and stopped crying, something in you able to turn off your outward showing emotions with ease.

“Of course. M-my mistake, Master,” you said, the honorific slipping out before you could stop it. You bowed stiffly, and ran from the kitchen.

~

You eventually calmed down after crying for what felt like hours. It was mortifying to remember someone making tender love to you only for the same person to deny ever having met you. On top of that, you knew with unshakable conviction that you and Shanks knew one another.

You needed more evidence.

Shanks was still in the castle, you could hear him puttering around and helping himself to anything available. You resorted to spying on him, unable to keep away from the handsome man. Since the castle had been designed for nobles with slaves and servants, there were servant corridors that ran through the entire structure adjacent to the main hallways. You found the hidden entrances easily, slipping in and out without making noise. And right now you were using them to spy on Shanks. 

Titus had gotten up from his cat nap to find you, winding his furry body through your legs with increasing frequency. He was on edge, meowing constantly as if Shanks was a threat to you. Eventually you just picked him up and held him in your arms like a baby, shushing him when he became too loud. 

Unfortunately Shanks wasn’t doing anything particularly interesting. He dallied for a while in the kitchen, eating most of your stew and all of the biscotti. He did clean up after himself, though, which was a point in his favor. Afterwards, he ambled to the master bathroom and took a leisurely bath. You smelled Mihawk’s bath salts in the air, Shanks certainly felt entitled to Mihawk’s belongings. Then Shanks went on a stroll through the manor, eventually finding his way to the wine cellar. You were watching him read over wine labels when he spoke out loud.

“You can come out if you’d like, I know you’re there,” he said with a light laugh, putting a bottle of low quality Merlot back on the rack. How did he know you were watching? You reluctantly came out from your hiding place in the servant corridor and lingered in the doorway to the wine cellar. Titus squirmed his way out of your arms, dropping to the ground and stalking towards Shanks, his tail twitching.

“Which bottle of wine do you think- hey! Cut it out!” Shanks whined as Titus hissed and swiped at his exposed legs. 

“Titus!” you said, hurrying forward to grab the angry cat.

“Ah, don’t worry. Maybe we just need to be introduced,” Shanks assured you as he leaned down to pick up Titus. Titus smirked, allowing Shanks to carry him in his arms.

“See?All animals love me- wh -uh goddamit!” You gasped as Titus changed himself into his horse form, knocking Shanks to the ground. Titus looked incredibly pleased with himself and raised his hind hoof to kick the infamous pirate.

“Titus! Bad kitty!” you reprimanded him, grabbing him by the muzzle. Titus did not look repentant, huffing and tossing his head. “Turn back now, you know the rules,” you chided, now stroking his side. 

“He’s certainly…spirited,” Shanks said, standing up slowly. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why he did that, he’s never reacted like this before,” you explained as Titus changed himself back into a cat. Shanks gave the cat a frown, making your heart beat faster. There it was again, a look so familiar your arms ached to reach for him. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Shanks deadpanned, glaring at the cat now purring in your arms.

“Why?” you asked, wrinkling your nose. 

“Hm? Why what?” Shanks asked, perking up.

“Why aren’t you surprised? Do you know Titus?” you asked, trying to fish for more information. Shanks’ mouth twisted for a moment before he answered.

“Oh, uh. No, no. Cats never like me,” he said with an easy smile. Something in your gut told you he was lying.

“I thought you said all animals love you,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

“Er, no. Not cats,” Shanks said, grabbing another bottle off the rack. “Is this wine good? When I’m here Mihawk picks for me, I don’t usually drink wine. What should I have?” Shanks asked, obviously trying to change the subject. You pursed your lips but allowed the matter to drop. Crossing over, you took the bottle out of his hands and read the label.

“Mm. No, I don’t think so. Someone like you might like this,” you replied, replacing the bottle. You let your instinct guide you, moving over to the white wine rack. You hummed and selected an expensive bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, turning it over in your hands. “Try this one,” you said, giving it to Shanks.

“How do you know I’ll like it?” Shanks asked, his eyes roving over your face. You ambled back to the door, wanting space from Shanks. It was too confusing to be near him, your heart telling you that you knew each other while he continued to deny it completely.

“Because I know you.”

~

Hours later and you were tossing and turning in your bed. You couldn’t sleep, too plagued by thoughts of Red Haired Shanks. You replayed the memory of you and Shanks making love on an endless loop in your mind. He had to be lying, he had to. No one forgot someone they said they loved, that they would keep safe, that cupped your face and kissed you endlessly. You just had to figure out how to get him to admit how he knew you. 

You were no closer to sleeping than you were hours prior, so you threw off the blankets and put on your slippers. You had the thought to go to the kitchens for a late night snack, having missed dinner due to Shanks. As you padded softly through the halls, you heard the sounds of Mihawk and Shanks talking in the parlor. Mihawk must have made it back earlier than he anticipated due to the strong winds. They’d notice if you lingered near, but you knew the castle like the back of your hand. 

You quietly crept to the sitting room two floors above the parlor. They weren’t connected by a corridor but there was a flue that ran from the fireplace of the parlor straight through the manor to the roof. The sitting room shared the same flue, so you positioned yourself so your head was in the empty fireplace and listened in to the conversation. You took in a sharp breath as you realized they were discussing you.

“-could sleep with her, you know. She must have retained some memories, based on what you've said,” Mihawk drawled. You could practically see Mihawk, his legs crossed, swirling his wine in his favorite chair.

“D’ya really think so low of me? That’s not right, that’s beyond deception. That’s practically assault,” Shanks replied, genuine hurt in his tone. 

“Hm. You may be right, I may have gone too far. I apologize, Red Haired,” Mihawk replied. Your eyebrows hiked, Mihawk liked Shanks enough to apologize to him.

“And I think he might actually kill me if I sleep with her. Like, truly. I happened to see his goodbye to her, he really loves her. I think she’s the only thing tethering him to the real world,” Shanks said, serious for a moment. You put your hand over your mouth to stifle your gasp. Who loved you? Shanks did know, he and Mihawk were keeping secrets from you. Why wouldn’t they tell you? Your heart sank as you realized Mihawk was lying to you as well, your trust in him shattering with every word that left his mouth. 

“Besides, I don’t wanna sleep with her. I have you, Hawkie,” Shanks said, the sleight already forgotten.

“Hmph. Is that so? You seem to dally frequently with others,” Mihawk replied dryly. You wanted them to return to talking about whoever loved you, but it seemed the conversation had moved on.

“Aw, come on. I get bored.”

“When I get bored, I read a book,” Mihawk retorted.

“That is so not true. When you get bored you pick fights and destroy Marine bases,” Shanks rebutted with a snort. There was shuffling for a moment before Mihawk let out a grunt.

“You are just like that cat. Curled up in my lap, constantly seeking affection,” Mihawk grumbled without malice. 

“What? Titus likes you?” Shanks asked incredulously.

“Of course. All cats like me. He hovers around Clover, but he will seek me out if she is unavailable.”

“Well, he hates me. I tried to pick him up and he turned into a fuckin’- oww! What was that for?” Shanks replied with a yelp.

“Watch your language.”

“I’m a goddamn pirate! My bounty is- hey!” 

“I am also an outlaw and my bounty exceeds yours. You know my stance on coarse language. Once more and you’re going over my knee.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good fuckin’ time,” Shanks said, drawing out the curse word for maximum effect. Your face heated as the conversation became muffled and the sound of a belt being removed came up the flue. You shuffled backwards, making as little noise as possible as Shanks’ moan ringing loudly up the chute. You wanted to hear more about your past, not listen to their private affairs. 

Who loved you? And why couldn’t you remember him?

Shamrock POV

“Pick one,” Garling demanded, leaning on his cane. Shamrock sneered at the assembled noble women standing in a small group in front of him. The women represented the best of the noble world, all of them with certificates showing their pure bloodlines. They simpered and curtsied, batting their eyes, jiggling their breasts, and giggling in an effort to attract his attention. Shamrock stood above them on the stairs of the Garling estate as they assembled in the main hall below. 

Shamrock could scarcely tell one from another, all dressed in similar fine garments of varying hues, their hair styled into stiff designs. And yet despite the countless hours and Beri spent on their looks, none of their artifice could compare to your effortless grace and beauty. Shamrock would just as soon separate their heads from their bodies as spend time with any of the disingenuous, duplicitous snakes.

Father wanted Shamrock to be engaged to someone now that his initial training was nearly complete. He would train directly with Father next, something Shamrock was not looking forward to. Shamrock had yet a ways to go, but his power (and control over it) were growing by the day.

“No. They are all disgusting,” Shamrock said with a flick of his hand, uncaring as the women wilted in front of him. “I want someone worthy of my family name.” In reality, Shamrock only wanted you, but of course he couldn’t say that. As far as Father knew, you were dead. And Shamrock wanted to keep it that way. 

“All women are the same, none are worthy. Select one and be done with it,” Garling said with a snarl, irritated with the exercise. Shamrock wasn’t sure why Father wanted him married, but he wanted no part in it. 

“No. If I wish for a whore, I’ll buy one. A wife would distract me from my training,” Shamrock said with a sniff. Father gave him an assessing glance, like he could detect there was something else in Shamrock’s mind. Shamrock met Father’s gaze head on, almost daring him to say something. Shamrock’s power was growing, soon he wouldn’t need to fear Father’s wrath. 

Father frowned and waved off the women. Their coy smiles immediately dropped into scowls, revealing their true characters. Shamrock raised a manicured brow, his hand now resting on the pommel of his sword. The women tittered to one another in fright, leaving hurriedly shortly thereafter. His reputation for ruthlessness preceded him, though it didn't stop the fools from trying to win his favor.

“Very well. I accept your declination -- for now. But you will marry before your 21st birthday.”