Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ST. ELMO'S FIRE
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⠀⠀ In the early morning, the pale sun greets Neravale with a cold, soft kiss— brushing the cliffs where waves crash into the rocks in an endless, violent song. It climbs from the rough stone slick with algae, up to the dirt above— slowly painting every jagged protrusion with a soft, hesitant glow.

By the highest point, it slithers through the weathered tower of gray stone until it reaches the curving glass panes of the lighthouse. There, it refracts just enough to pierce a sleeping boy's eye in a blinding morning light.

Roronoa Zoro wakes to it the same way he has for the last six years: begrudgingly, face half-buried in his pillow, cursing the pale sun, the lighthouse, and the fact that he still hasn't learned the art of sleeping away from the sunbeams after all these years.

He sits up eventually, the chill of the ocean air enticing him back into slumber— a fight he is tempted to lose almost everyday. But, boys like him were never fond of losing. He stretches his arms overhead, blinks the light away, and the room settles into view: his humble shack barely large enough for a bed, a battered table and a trunk of clothes. It's not much, yet it will always be enough. At the very least, it is home.

The white gulls are already screaming. Flocks upon flocks hovering beneath the gray clouds, wings carving through morning mist, others perched everywhere as if they rule the entire coast.

Zoro pulls on his boots with the kind of practiced irritation that only belongs to someone who knows his day will be long before it even begins. The cold bites through the floorboards; the sea breeze slides under the door like an uninvited guest. It's always like this at dawn.

Outside, the cold is more unforgiving, brushing through his cheeks and leaving red hues. The boy pulls on his well-worn jacket a bit closer, yawning as he begins to climb up the short path towards the lighthouse. The cliffs are the same every morning. The crash of the waves and the screeching gulls are the only hymns he knew, the familiar scent of the salty sea envelops everything, the small patches of grass mixed with the dirt in these lonely paths he has already memorized, and the mighty stature of the lighthouse towering before him surrounded by fog. To his right, the town below is old and gloomy and poor. His eyes rarely glances over something so unimpressive. Zoro prefers the portrait of the sea. His eyes fixate on it during these short walks— the cold gusts pushing his hair back as he wonders what's beyond the endless waters.

Beneath the lighthouse is a small cottage— humble and gray as all things here. An image he has known in forever. He'll climb up to see the lighthouse keeper sitting outside in his wooden chair, sipping on a hot cup of coffee and reading the newspaper before starting the day.

"Good morning," the man named Kōshiro would greet him, warm and quiet, breath fogging in the cold air.
"Mornin'," Zoro would reply flat, barely sparing a glance before making his way to the nearby toolshed.

The noise of rummaging adds to the song of the cliffs, and the boy comes out with his battered tin can of kerosene. A heavy old thing he carries by his hip first thing in the morning. It's almost as if the pathetic can is an extension of himself— the familiar cold of its touch spreading throughout his hand as he makes his way to the entrance of the lighthouse.

"You should eat before you climb," Kōshiro offered when he passed by, gesturing towards the half-open door of his cottage where the faint scent of rice porridge and dried fish drifts out into the wind. "I made enough."

Zoro shifts the kerosene can higher in his grip, pretending he doesn't hear the rumble of his own stomach. "I'll eat after."

His answer leaves Kōshiro with a worried sigh, the way a man does whenever they know there is no winning the argument. "The old lighthouse ain't going nowhere. At least sit for a moment," he bargained.

Zoro pauses from his tracks, turning towards Kōshiro with a grin, "You worry too much for me, old man. I'm still young," he jests.

Another sigh of defeat. Kōshiro raises a hand, gesturing for the boy to carry on with his tasks. "Whatever," he says, "Just make sure to come down for breakfast, yes?"

With that, Zoro nods his head and began climbing up the gray tower. An everyday challenge yet he appreciates the routine, the strength, and the discipline it takes to reach the very top. The stone is slick beneath his boots— always slick, always cold. He keeps one hand on the railing, feeling the ocean wind weave through his hair as he climbs the endless steps. When he pushes open the heavy door at the base of the tower, he's met with the scent of salt, metal, and old kerosene. The air inside has always been warmer yet not by much.

He sets the fuel can down, wipes his palms on his pants, and begins the routine he knows better than breathing: Trim the wick, clean the burner, check the reservoir, haul the new kerosene up the spiral steps, one grueling turn at a time, polish the lens until he sees his own annoyed reflection staring back, and wind the clockwork mechanism until it ticks with the stubborn heartbeat of the tower.

The boy carries his chores in silence, laboring away throughout the morning with the hum of the lighthouse as his only company. Hours pass by fast and the dawn shifts into a brighter gray, albatrosses began to perch abovr, their cries echoing through the glass.

When 7 o'clock comes along, he jots down the weather conditions for Kōshiro's log. Something the old man insisted he did not need to do yet it's better to do it himself than for Kōshiro to climb up the steps this early in the morning. His eyes would fixate once again— beyond the glass panes and onto the vast sea, brighter now from the illumination of the pale sun.

He'd think of an old friend, a habit he picked up since six years ago. Kuina, Kōshiro's daughter who adored the view from the top of the lighthouse. Zoro remembers her fondly— a hardworking girl with her Father's eyes who'd climb up the steps with them no matter how many times Kōshiro reprimanded her. She'd stare at the sea in awe, wonderment leaving her breathless. She'd turn to Zoro with a playful grin, voice mixing into the salty air as the gulls fly away into the horizon. She'd say, "I wonder what it's like to be a bird. I'd leave this shit town for sure."

Zoro would respond with a chuckle, finding her thoughts ridiculous but she'd pull at his arm to face her and add, "You'd go with me, right? We can be birds together."

He would grin, still finding it absurd that she thinks two poor kids could just get up and leave Neravale. Yet, he'll say "Sure". An empty promise only meant to indulge her. Years have passed yet he wonders if Kuina would still hold that oath against him— or if she would understand how he never learned to fly.

With that thought in mind, Zoro pulls his gaze away. He'd close his eyes briefly, attempting to shake away memories— for it still wraps around his chest like old rope, suffocating the life in his ribcage. With one last exhale, he'd open his eyes and find himself breathing again.

After his morning chores, he'd descend the stairs once again, passing by the narrow window cut into the outer wall. The ones that faces the nearby cliffs, Within that small window, something glints far below— a mere spark of gold in the churning blue. He pauses momentarily, squints only to find the shining thing gone. 'Probably nothing', he tells himself before carrying on.

Reaching the very bottom, he'd find himself inside Kōshiro's small kitchen again. The small dining table has already been set, his breakfast plated and still hot while Kōshiro sits across with his own untouched food, waiting for him.

"How's she this morning, boy?" Kōshiro inquired as Zoro sits down to eat with him. His stomach growls at the mere aroma of the rice porridge.

"Same as always. Need some supplies though. Almost out of wicks," he answers before taking in a spoon full of porridge, the warmth of it filling his belly immediately.

"I asked for supplies a week ago. Might have to go to town hall later to get them."

"I'll get them for you," Zoro volunteered as he digs into his food. Kōshiro raised a dismissive hand to the boy's determination, not wanting to impose anymore. The old lighthouse keeper wonders if he's taking advantage of the boy's kind heart, of his daughter's best friend.

"No need. I can go to there myself," he insisted.
"In your condition? The trail is tiring," Zoro swiftly objects, his eyes flying over Kōshiro's leg underneath the table. "Besides, old man Zeff owes me a bottle of rum. I helped him with his fishing nets a week ago."

Kōshiro sighs, finishing the last bite of his fish before a silence occupies the both of them momentarily. He can only watch Zoro finish his food with a look of satisfaction. Sometimes, he wonders if the warm food and the small shack is enough to repay the boy's kindness.

"How is that old sailor?" he asked instead, "I haven't seen him in quite some time."

"Still a mean piece of shit," Zoro replies bluntly, making Kōshiro chuckle, "He's busy right now with his new tavern. Still looking for workers that he could boss around. You know how he is."

An idea sprang into Kōshiro's mind. "He is? Why not work for him then? I bet the pay would be good. Better than here at least."

"Don't wanna," he rejected without a second thought.
"Why not?"
"Then I'd have to stay near the town. How am I supposed to take care of the lighthouse then?"

Kōshiro looked away from him, worry and fear painted across his face as he turn towards the open window of their kitchen— the tall structure visible from there.

"Well," he began with an assuring smile, "You can leave that old thing to me. You're almost 18. Surely, you'll want more than that gray tower."

Zoro gave him a quizzical look. The boy rarely thinks of the future. Sometimes he's quite convinced that he's content with what he has here— the cliffs, the vast sea, Kōshiro and the memory of his best friend. It's more than enough for an orphan like him, and the idea of a future beyond Neravale just seems blurry. Nonetheless, he knows Kōshiro would not drop that worried look on his face, so he answers, "I'll think about it."

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⠀⠀ Beneath the cliffs is the seaside town of Neravale, a forgotten port tucked into the far edges of the East Blue. A poor and wind-bitten thing, scarred by every storm that has ever passed her. Nonetheless, Neravale is yet to break. The locals often say the island carries the same grit as the souls who call her home.

Morning settles over the crooked rooftops in pale gold as Zoro makes his way down the winding cliff path, boots crunching over gravel still damp from last night's deluge. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys. Fishing boats groan awake in the harbor below, their hulls knocking against the docks in the tired rhythm of men who've done this every day of their lives. Brine hangs thick in the air— old, familiar, almost comforting as the lighthouse's beam. Within these hours, Neravale sings the same song: shutters swinging open, nets being hauled, gulls circling low for the chance to steal. Zoro slips into its pulse without a word, passing the bustling market.

Neravale's town hall rises above the square like an old sentinel, its stone tower weathered by centuries of wind, and storms. Slender windows climb its height, the pointed roof crowned with green-patinated copper catching the morning sun. At its base, an arched entrance yawns into a cool, shadowed hall where fishermen, sailors, and townsfolk shuffle in to settle their daily grievances. It is an imposing structure— the only grand thing this poor town has ever managed to build. Still, it stood firm, stubborn in the same way Neravale itself endures.

Zoro steps inside without a second thought. A monthly routine: waiting in line, being called 'lighthouse brat' by the old timers who watched him grow up, signing Kōshiro's name in the ledger, and receiving their ration of kerosene. The lighthouse is ancient, its keeper aging too. Neravale funds it through meager port taxes— just enough to keep the flame alive, never enough to make it easy.

Afterwards, he'd find himself weaving through the busy market. He'd pick up supplies for Kōshiro's cottage— cheap medicine, wick materials, and a whole lot of food so he won't need to come down for a few days. The folks of Neravale knew him well— older women in stalls even offering discounts for their fishes, though the boy never appreciated the tinge of pity within their eyes. Miss Makino, the local florist, even gave him flowers despite Zoro refusing at first. Zoro accepted them the way he accepts pity discounts— tense, pretending he didn't care, despite gratefulness spilling easy for a boy like him.

Old man Zeff's tavern sits in the middle of Neravale's main street. It used to be abandoned. For years it was nothing more than a husk— frail foundations, windows crusted with grime, doors swollen from rain and neglect. Kids used to joke that the place would collapse if anyone so much as breathed too hard near it.

But then Zeff bought it. Named it Baratie— his pride and joy.

Now the tavern hums with life. Warm light spills from its newly restored windows. The door is still stubborn, still creaking— swings open and shut with a steady rhythm as fishermen, dockhands, and tired townsfolk walk in. The scent of butter and char, pan-seared fish and simmering broth winds down the street before you even reach the place. It's humble, it's loud, it's crowded, and somehow Zeff manages it all with the gruff ease of a man who has survived storms far greater than any dinner rush.

Zoro passes beneath the mermaid figurehead mounted proudly above the doorway— an old wooden carving whose edges have softened from decades at sea. She was once the prow of Zeff's first ship, salvaged and restored with a tenderness the grumpy sailor would never admit to. Her outstretched hand points toward the ocean as though she remembers the old routes, the wind in her hair, the taste of salt spray. Now she watches over Baratie instead— a guardian of good meals and rowdy nights.

Inside, the atmosphere is warm. For many in Neravale, Baratie has become the heart of the town: a place to rest, to eat, to remember they're alive. And beneath it all, the unspoken truth: no one cooks like Zeff. Even the storms seem to soften their bite on nights he's feeding half the port.

"Well, if it isn't the lighthouse brat." One of Zeff's cooks named Patty greeted him with arms crossed on his chest. A broad and loud man who also acts as Zeff's bodyguard. He's the one who breaks up fights and tosses anyone out if they get too rowdy. Zoro brawled with him once. It was over something stupid and it only ended with Zeff hitting them both in the head with a rolling pin.

Zoro raised a middle finger to him. "Where's the old man?" he asked, wanting to ignore Patty altogether. The cook grinned over Zoro's gesture before calling over the kitchen.

"Owner Zeff! Kōshiro's boy is here!"
The sound of clanging pans was the first to escape the kitchen before Zeff's grumpy voice followed, "Tell the brat to wait! We're fuckin' busy here!"

Patty turned with a cocky grin. Annoyance immediately settling in Zoro's fist the moment he saw it. "Well, you heard the man. Go sit over there, boy." Patty ordered. Zoro followed with a click of his tongue.

He settles down near the kitchen doors. The tavern was lively with a door endlessly swinging open, chatter and gossip filling up the whole room. Yet Zoro found himself sitting alone, thinking about how much he wants to go home— climb up the cliffs and take his afternoon nap right after. Deep in thought, he did not realize Patty setting a bowl of clam chowder in front of him.

The boy only looked up once the cook started speaking. "Eat up," Patty said, "On the house. Boss man is gonna take a while."
"Thanks," Zoro curtly answers, not even sparing a glance towards Patty and immediately devouring the meal in front of him.

A few moments later as he is finishing the last of his soup, the tavern door swung open with a bang. People's eyes immediately snapped to the door, where a grumpy old man marched in dragging his loud grandson. 'Fuckin' Garp, man. Always causing a ruckus', they'd complain under their breath, making sure the retired navy soldier doesn't hear it.

Zoro can only chuckle as he watches his friend, Luffy get another hit to the head by his grandfather before they settled into one of the tables. Though, Luffy isn't really one for settling down. His hyperactive mind wanders throughout the tavern and it didn't take long for him to spot Zoro. A wide grin instantly forms before he stood up again, not minding whatever his grandfather has to say about it.

"Zoro!!" The boy greeted, excitedly running up to him while waving around a piece of paper.
"Hey there, Luff." Zoro greeted shortly, pushing away his finished meal with an amused grin.

Monkey D. Luffy is Zoro's only friend in Neravale. Other kids used to say Luffy is the only numbskull in this island who's dumb enough to wave off his shitty attitude. And Zoro can admit that. Ever since Luffy moved here 2 years ago, the boy has consistently tried and tried again to make him his friend. Zoro kept dismissing him at first, yet there is always something about Luffy that draws people in. It's a sort of gut feeling, telling you to trust his warmth and comfort. Zoro gave in one way or another.

"Ace sent me another letter!" Luffy excitedly proclaimed, sliding over the seat, not bothering for an invitation.
'Well, that explains the grin,' Zoro thought, amused by Luffy's never ending adoration for his older brother.

"He even sent a picture this time. Look! Look!" The boy went on, opening the letter as a photo fell from it. "He's in Alabasta right now. He said the deserts go on forever. Marco even gave him money to explore around! I'm so jealous!"

Ace's handwriting sprawled across the page, messy and full of life— exactly like him. Portgas D. Ace is another kid Zoro knew from town. Luffy's adoptive older brother who left Neravale for a life at sea 6 months ago. One of the lucky ones who was given the chance to get out of here, he supposed.

Zoro only half-listened at Luffy's ramblings, eyes set on the photo on the table. "See? That's Ace in Alabasta! He said the sun's so bright it hurts, and the sand gets everywhere. But he's on old man Newgate's ship, so he's having the time of his life!"

In the photo, Ace was smiling ear to ear with sand beneath him. Marco & Thatch, some older sailors from Newgate's ship, were with him too, bearing the same grin. Beyond is a vibrant town square filled with people. Different buildings peek from the background— architecture and culture foreign in the boy's eyes. Ace looked older. Happier. As if the world is finally big enough for him.

"Man, I wanna sail too," he heard Luffy whine. "Just jump on a ship and go wherever I want." Zoro smiled without thinking— small, warm, and fading as quickly as it formed. Luffy's voice was full of hope and certainty it made Zoro's chest ache. A frequent sensation, he recently noticed, whenever he is with Luffy.

"Hey," Luffy went on, brightening suddenly. "If we ever sail, we should bring Nami with us. You know her, right? Belamere's daughter? The one with the fruit stand? She's good at charting maps. I bet we'd never get lost if we bring her along."

Zoro nodded, imagining the world much larger than this forgotten port. But then, he thinks of Kuina. This is what she wanted despite all of her doubts, despite her duties to her Father. Zoro recalls his days with her— running up the cliffs, arguing about nothing in particular, and the ache she left behind that binds him to the lighthouse. Wonderment leaves him as quick as it arrives. His hunger for something more satiates at the thought of leaving her behind.

Their conversation drifted into quiet until a loud voice at the next table cut through the tavern's low hum.

"—circus is back in town."
"They say Mr. Zero's got a real mermaid this time."
"Yeah right! The last mermaid a circus brought here were just some fools in cheap costumes."
"It's real this time! I swear!"

Luffy perked up at once, turning to Zoro with the same glint of curiosity he has always held, "You think they're real? Mermaids? It would be so cool to see one."

Living in an island where sailors, fishermen, and men of the sea pass by everyday, tales of merfolk are a common occurrence. Many claimed to have encountered one yet none is capable of providing proof. The most recent one so far is Luffy's odd friend, Usopp, who was claiming he found a mermaid's scale. Though, the old fishermen from the docks say it's only from some fish he painted with watercolors.

Before Zoro could answer, a heavy bottle thumped onto their table.

Zeff.

The old man set down two wrapped meals— fish, rice, bread, and another wrapped bundle he pushed toward Zoro. "For your old man. And for you. Tell Kōshiro to eat real food for once."

Then, without missing a beat, he jabbed a thumb toward the chattering table. "And quit listenin' to sailor nonsense. Ain't no damn thing as a mermaid."

Luffy blinked. "But—"

"Nothing but tired men seeing shapes in the waves," Zeff grumbled, wiping his hands on his apron. "The ocean plays tricks on the mind. People will only see what they want to see."

He snatched up an empty cup from their table, muttering as he turned away, "Mermaids... yeah right. That conman, Mr. Zero will say anything to swindle money off of folks."

He wandered back toward the counter, still muttering to himself and not allowing anyone to talk back. A stubborn old sailor he has always been— likely tired of hearing foolish tales.

Luffy sipped on his drink and whispered, "I dunno... I think mermaids sound cool."
Zoro snorted. "You heard the old sailor. The only mermaid we will ever see in this lifetime is that damn figurine on the tavern door."

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⠀⠀ He left the town before noon. The pale sun breathed a soft warmth into the back of his neck as he adjusted the strap of the bulging canvas sack over his shoulder. One hung from his other arm; a third was lashed to his back. The old cliff road wasn't kind to stubborn men. However, Zoro was raised by these steep paths and salt-bitten wind. He moved steadily— foot after foot, breath after breath towards the high spine of rock where the lighthouse perched.

The trail narrowed halfway up. Below him, the sea hummed its low, familiar song, tame today in the fragile noon light. Somewhere along the way, he paused for a moment to breathe— loosening his grip onto the strap that's digging into his shoulder.

As he does so, there it was again: a fleeting glimmer of an unknown light. A familiar sharp sliver of gold & blue somewhere down the water's surface. Zoro squinted at the calm tides. No boats were nearby, no glass catching light.

He clicked his tongue— assuming some stupid sailor was throwing away trash or a busted mirror into the water again. He shook his head at the thought. People have always been too careless with the sea, and Zoro does not appreciate it. He has heard of the omens men of the sea preaches. 'St. Elmo's fire', he thought for a moment. A spirit of the drowned or a sign of divine protection. Either of it seemed too comforting.

He brushes the thought aside before starting up the path again.

By the time he reached Kōshiro's cottage, sweat clung to his spine and the wind had dried the rest. He pushed inside without knocking. The place smelled like lamp oil and old wood— home, in its own quiet way.

"You brought everything?" Kōshiro called from the corner, hunched by a half-dismantled lantern.

"Yeah," Zoro replied, dropping one bag onto the wooden table. "Picked up your new glasses from Kureha, too."

Kōshiro smiles softly at the boy's comment, watching him diligently unpack the bags immediately. "Thank you," Kōshiro genuinely replies as he stood up.

They unpacked everything together— salt, rope, jars of food, lighthouse supplies and a new logbook. Zoro placed each thing where it belonged, the movements familiar, worn in. Afterward, Zoro rolled his sleeves and started his afternoon work.

He slipped back into the rhythm without needing to think too hard about any of his grievances. The lighthouse breathed and he breathed along with it. His afternoon chores only consisted of cleaning the place up— oiling hinges, maintenance and sweeping the long spiral staircase. Time passed by faster during these hours and by the late afternoon, the chores would finally be thinned, leaving him with a familiar hollow and restlessness he could not shake.

He'd greet the cliff path once more, heading south. The wind would start to cool, sharpen even more as the sky begins its slow descent into gold. Within these familiar paths, he'd greet a headstone like an old friend. A small, weathered thing facing the restless stretch of blue, as if it is still waiting for something that will never come back.

Zoro kneels without ceremony. He knew this routine well— something he has memorized for about six years now. He sets down the handful of wildflowers Makino insisted he take for free, arranging them with a care he would deny if asked. Beside them, he'd place a cup of rice — his best friend's favorite. The gulls would steal it the moment he turned his back, but he left it anyway. Ritual has never been about logic.

He wouldn't speak. He rarely did. The silence between them has grown into something companionable over the years— a place where her memories lived without stinging quite as sharply. On days when he feels talkative, he'd tell her about his day— random anecdotes, lighthouse errands, Luffy's most recent stupidity. He'd always find comfort at the thought of her smiling face as she hears it. However, for today— the words sat heavy in his chest and it refuses to move no matter how much he pushes himself to do so.

Instead, he'd settle beside her gravestone, letting the quiet do most of the talking. He tilts his head back and let the breeze comb through his hair, the same breeze that had once caught Kuina's laughter and flung it across these cliffs.

He remembers everything about Kuina. His most fond memory being a summer day when the circus arrived just in time for Neravale's festivals. He remembers the way her eyes lit up when they both watched a dueling competition together; the way the clashing swords took her breath away, and her unsteady voice as she declared her dreams of becoming a swordsman. He thought of how everyone laughed at her for saying such foolish things yet Zoro stood with her more than anyone ever did. He believed in Kuina better than he ever believed in himself.

But then, they turned eleven. She was only eleven when she fell from the same cliff. They were racing— daring each other down the same jagged rocks Kōshiro forbade them from touching a millions times before. It only took one misstep, one slick stone. She slipped before he could even reach, and was swallowed by the dark water's violent pull. He remembers climbing down that ridge faster than he has ever done before, the rocks tearing his palms raw. Unfortunately, the sea has already claimed her. There was no body, no final good bye. Just the echo of his helpless voice, cursing the waters.

'The sea keeps what it loves,' he once heard from old sailors. Zoro can only stare into the horizon now— his jaw tightening as old anger coil around his ribs once more.

"Why her, then? Why did you have to take her?" he thought bitterly, "You sick, greedy bastard."

Even so, he cannot declare his hatred out loud, for the sea is a vengeful thing. He knew it since then, when his best friend was swept away by the waves.

The sun dipped lower, bleeding light across the waters. Zoro dragged a hand over his face, pushing himself to his feet, and dusted off his palms. Enough. He turned back toward the lighthouse path. However, something made him pause. A flash of color where there shouldn't have been. Zoro stepped closer to the cliff's edge to find a shape crumpled against the rocks below. It was the same place where Kuina had fallen.

Immediately, his breath stopped.

A body. Unmoving. Pale skin. Long golden hair tangled in red-washed water.

Chapter Text

BAD OMENS
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⠀⠀ "The sea keeps what it loves."
      The lighthouse boy witnessed its greed once— how it takes and takes and takes without mercy. Violent tides it uses as limbs to seize all it desires. It is a wretched thing to understand— the sea does not fall in love gently.

Beyond all reason, beyond all logic screaming at him to stay still, to not climb down the same ridge that once robbed him. Roronoa Zoro, with his heart violently crashing through his ribcage, began descending from the cliffs.

The wind howled in his ears, salt stinging his eyes, the familiar burn of panic clawing its way up his throat. His palms slammed against the stones, muscle memory taking over even as his mind wavered. Zoro remembers it vividly— the pain of scraped hands, the bitter taste of copper from biting down his fear, and the helpless rage that surged inside his small, eleven-year-old body as he scrambled down these very rocks, screaming his best friend's name into the crashing waves.

The very moment her hand slipped from his reach still haunts him. The sound she made still rings in his ears— the smallest gasp as her gaze fixates on him, unknowing that it will be the last time she'd ever see the one person who believed in her. Then, in only a second, the roar of the water swallowed her whole.

Roronoa Zoro closes his eyes briefly, shaking off the memory. His breath was too fast, too shallow as if every pulse of his heartbeat was throbbing behind his eyes. He needed to steady himself first.

'Not again. Not again', he thought repeatedly, the words clawing from something deep and buried within him. All his life, no deity has earned his devotion. So now he wonders when desperation started sounding like a prayer.

Not once did the cliffs go easy on him. This time proved to be no different. He leaps from one jut of stone to the next, his old boots slipping on almost all of them. He forced himself down a moment later— fast, reckless, uncaring if the sharp rocks tore his palms open the way it once did. The world just seemed to narrow onto the sickening shape below: a body that is pale, motionless, surrounded by blood, and the tide creeping closer as if it were a monster eager to claim another prize.

"Fuck," he whispered through gritted teeth as he dropped the last few feet down. The sand was soft yet still it managed to jolt the air from his lungs. He could not care. His eyes went back to the figure ahead of him. The tide was low, revealing a thin stretch of wet sand tucked between stone walls. A cradle the sea would easily reclaim in minutes.

The lighthouse boy staggered forward. The pain from climbing down merely an afterthought as be continue to approach the body, halting when he arrived by its side.

Half-submerged in the shallow water lay a figure of long limbs, and blonde hair fanning out like spilled sunlight across the surf. However, it was the blood that froze Zoro into place. The water around it has turned into a horrifying red, swirling with each incoming ripple.

The amount was alarming. He wonders if it's too late, if he climbed down this wretched cliff again for nothing. But, he felt no regret. At the very least, this time, the sea was kind enough to return the body. A grace he was not given before.

"Hey!" he barked, dropping to his knees. He reached out instinctively, anticipating the stranger to wake up or to at least find him breathing. However, when the tides pulled back momentarily, his hand stilled. Instincts kicked in first as he immediately jolt backwards over the sight before him.

Beyond the torso is not skin, not cloth either, but smooth iridescent scales. For a heartbeat, everything inside him simply halted. Dockside tales, sailors' drunken warnings, Zeff's skepticism earlier today— everything seemed to have slammed into him all at once as the truth formed slow and heavy inside of him.

A tail.

A long, opalescent tail. A sweep of gold and blue— not the flat, dull sort of color fishmongers lay on ice, but a living shimmer, a brilliance of color that catches light and fractures it like glass. Fins drape behind the creature in long delicate streams, thin as silk and dancing gently with each sway of the tide. The caudal fin was hacked, he noticed a moment later— brutal and bloodied, edges flared like a wounded banner, heartbreakingly beautiful even in ruin. For the life of him, Zoro cannot wrap his head around what he is staring at. It felt like a sick joke.

A mermaid.

A goddamn mermaid is unconscious in front of him on the same shore. He recalls the age-old warnings whispered among those who lived along these very waters:
If you help a mermaid, your life will be tied to the sea.

But none of it mattered. Not right now. Not when the creature's breaths were shallow, the gills he just now noticed fluttering weakly. A hacked tail is a death sentence. He knew at least that much, and the waves would not be kind. They never once were.

Zoro's jaw clenched, torn between leaving it alone or moving the creature into safer waters. None of it seemed like it would save its life. However, the thought of these very waves claiming another body to thrash and swallow flooded his mouth with bitterness.

Not again.

"Shit," he cursed as the tide began crawling in rapidly.
Before he could think, he slid his arms beneath the unconscious figure, ignoring the blood, the cold, and the surreal weight of the scaled tail dragging across the sand.

As if I'd let you take another life!

He lifted the merman from the surf, and behind him, the sea hissed against the rocks, enraged at being denied its claim. Roronoa Zoro moved quick, cradling the creature in his arms. The tail alone carried too much weight, though such matters are only an afterthought as the creature began to feel colder, more lifeless.

Through the algae covered rocks he went, racking his brain on where to settle the wounded creature. Its tail reflexively flicked once— a good sign yet the lighthouse boy almost slipped from the sudden movement. Then, as his arms began to tire, his eyes found an old cavern.

Right below the lighthouse, there is shelter where the cliff curved inward, a natural hollow carved by centuries of tide. Zoro made his way there as crimson began to reflect into the water. It will only be a matter of time before the darkness swallows the long rocky trail up the cliffs.

A tide pool thankfully awaits by the mouth. The light of dusk still graces nearby yet further in is pitch black. Zoro steps into the water, the sudden disturbance awakening the bioluminescent planktons that calls this place its home. Soft blue fire bloomed beneath him, reacting to his every step. Zoro moved ahead until the water reached his waist, not minding the freezing temperature. He attempts to shake the creature awake, adjusting his hold and lowering the body slowly. Once in the water, the scales shimmered faintly in the dimness, a soft glow catching in the cracks of their damage like stardust trapped in wounds.

Still, the creature did not move aside from the faint movements of its gills. Zoro's mind began to steady, his heart settling back into its familiar rhythm as he questions what the hell he is doing. An inch of regret sank momentarily— wondering if he even has the right to take away this creature from its home.

Up close, the merman did not look real. It has the face of a boy about his age— youthful, regal, still bearing a hint of softness. It reminds him of the figurehead in Zeff's tavern, of old paintings sold to Neravale's wealthiest homes. The ones they claimed are from foreign lands— sacred things that are only meant to be admired from a distance, never touched.

Blonde hair frames the creature's face, a few of the long strands clinging onto Zoro's arm, and chest where the merman's sleeping head rests. The color reminds him of the pale sun— the one that greets him when dawn comes. Its skin was pale as though it came from the depths or the colder waters up north. It did not look sickly, but simply otherworldly. The creature looked like myth made into flesh— a divinity the sea would kill to keep.

Zoro pulled his gaze away, thinking it might be rude to stare for far too long. His breath quieted, hands finally steady from the frantic descent down the cliffs. Silence lingered with only the endless sway of the sea behind him.

'Was I too late again?' he questioned once more, a sinking feeling forming in his ribcage when the creature refuses to wake. He adjusted his hold, laying the merman gently towards the center of the tide pool.

And then, unexpectedly— a flicker. It was barely there, merely a delicate shudder at the side of the merman's throat. The gills twitched once. Then again, sharper as if it is gasping for air.

Zoro froze.
"...hey?" he breathed.
And the merman's eyes snapped open.

Blue. Not earthly blue— not anything human-made or human-born. Blue like deep ocean light, like refracted dawn beneath the waves. An ethereal thing that burned with immediate terror.

Before Zoro could speak, before he could assure it, steady it, anything— the creature convulsed in his arms. A burst of sudden strength that is wild, instinctive, like a cornered animal's last weapon.

"Whoa—! Hey—!"

The merman thrashed, its tail— massive, powerful even in its ruined state, slamming against Zoro's ribs and then against the stone. The crack echoed through the hollow. A choked whimper escaped the creature, yet it swallowed it back instantly as if it's a shameful thing.

It hissed onto Zoro's direction. A sound sharp enough to cut. By the time Zoro regained balance, the merman had propelled himself to the farthest edge of the tidepool, half-submerged in defensive posture, tail tucked protectively, and pupils blown wide with fear.

"Don't touch me!" it snapped, voice shaking yet no less vicious. "Don't you dare touch me!"

Zoro held his hands up instinctively, palms open in surrender, breathing hard. His ribs still throbbed from the hit.

"Alright, okay. I'm not—" He bit down the instinct to snap back. The merman is terrified, bleeding out, and cornered. Zoro thought it acted like one of the stray cats that hung around near the tavern. "I'm not touching you," he assured.

"Stay back!" the merman snarled, baring sharp teeth that glinted beneath the waterline. Its gills flared, voice warping into echoes, the anger coming through like waves. "One more step and I'll tear your throat open!"

Zoro blinked. It was not out of fear, yet of disbelief. Awe still lingered, yet he thought of how peculiar this day has become. He woke up this morning not knowing he'll be trying to coax a folkloric creature to calm down before it dies of blood loss.

Slowly, he got out of the water, offering the creature the distance it desperately needed. He stood back onto the wet, slippery stone surrounding the cavern floor as he maintains eye contact, cautious that it might hold its word true.

"You're bleeding," Zoro announced bluntly, "I pulled you out of the surf before the waves got you."
"Liar!" the merman hissed, "That's what all you humans do!"

A sigh escapes him, patience already running thin. "You think I carried your scaly ass here for fun? You're fuckin' heavy by the way," he finally snaps back.

For a brief moment, embarrassment replaced the merman's anger— caught off guard by this peculiar human who just insulted him. It bared its teeth once more before screaming, "Shut up!"

Zoro exhaled, long and steady, letting the sea do the talking while he didn't. The merman trembled slightly. Its tail floated weakly behind, blood blooming in soft threads that dissipated into the tide. Zoro didn't move, didn't reach. He did not dare disturb the fragile space between them. But inside him, something old & buried stirred. The same part that once leaned over jagged rocks, reaching for a girl the sea didn't return.

"Listen," he tried again, calmer this time, "Before you bear your fangs at me or start accusing me of shit I don't know nothing about— first you need to stop the bleeding." His gaze went down the creature's tail, using his eyes to point yet the merman kept his glare on him.

"Don't tell me what to do!" It yelled once more, voice echoing across the cave.

Zoro sucked in his teeth. He understood that it felt unsafe, yet something about it still gets on his nerves. He mumbles to himself, "Only time I get to see a creature of myth and it's incredibly mouthy. Just my luck."

His eyes found the creature. A terrified, trembling thing, stuck across the very end of the tide pool— teeth, claws, and sharp eyes ready to pounce at any given moment. The glow of the planktons seemed to be the only light there yet he glows faintly with them.

Frustrated, he runs a hand through his face as he cannot, for the life of him, figure out an answer. People are confusing things, he has always thought so. He never learned to play nice, to hold his tongue for anything, to offer words of warmth when the truth is right there.

"Look," he began, "I won't touch you, I won't look at you— hell, I won't even breathe the same air if that's possible. But you need to fix your tail. You'll die if you don't."

The merman's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pulls. The water around his tail had darkened again, red threading outward in slow, lazy blooms. He pressed himself harder against the rocks— jaw tight, and eyes bright, sharp & feral.

"You think I don't know that?!" the merman snapped.
And with that, the lighthouse boy's patience finally fractured.

"Then stop yelling and listen!"
"I said don't tell me what to—!"
"—or what?!" Zoro barked back, voice cracking louder than he meant it to. "You'll die on a rock to prove a point?! Go ahead then!"

The words echoed harshly against the cave walls, and the merman went still from hearing it. Not in defiance— no, it was different. His shoulders slackened. His claws loosened their grip on the rocks. The gills at his neck fluttered once, twice, before stuttering unevenly.

For a moment, only the sea answered them— the water crashing into the stone walls, the night winds beginning their reign. And all Zoro could think about is the blood thinning into pink wisps that dissolved into nothing.

"...Why are you helping?" the merman asked finally, quieter now. "What do you want from me? Just say it now."

Zoro swallowed. His body was tired, his throat felt raw from their seemingly endless argument. He wanted nothing more than to climb up the cliffs and sleep the day away.

"I don't want anything from you," he answered quietly, sincerely.
The merman laughed— in disbelief, in the absurdity that a human does not want anything from him. "Then why bring me here?"

Zoro looked away, jaw tightening as his gaze flicked toward the mouth of the cave— toward the cliffs above, toward the stretch of sea that had already taken too much from him. In the back of his mind, he does know why yet he couldn't say it, couldn't understand it himself.

"I don't know," he answered. "I thought I was saving a human when I climbed down the cliff. I didn't know it's... well, you."

Silence falls between them again.

"Carry me back to the sea then," the merman demanded, forcing his spine straighter despite the tremor in his arms. "If you don't want anything to do with me."

Zoro stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Are you insane?" he shot back. "Have you seen the waves out there? You can't swim."

"So what?!" the merman snarled. "Why do you care?!"

"I don't!" Zoro snapped. "You can go die for all I care—but don't do it here."

The merman swayed. Just barely—but Zoro saw it. His breath hitched. His eyes unfocused, blue dulling as his weight sagged back into the rock. Blood seeped anew from the torn fin, drifting like smoke through the water.

"Shit," Zoro muttered as he took a step forward out of instinct.

The merman flinched violently from his attempt and Zoro halted immediately. He forced himself back a step, hands curling useless at his sides. "—Okay. Okay." His voice dropped, tight with frustration. "I won't touch you."

The merman's breaths came short and ragged now, his lip caught between his teeth to smother the sound of a whimper he clearly refused to let out.

"I don't know how fish bodies work," Zoro went on, more to himself than anything. "But you need to stop moving. It'll make things worse."

The merman didn't answer.

"Put pressure on it or whatever."
"That's not how it works, stupid human," the merman rasped.

Zoro clicked his tongue, irritation flaring bright and panicked. "Well how the hell would I know that?! What do you need?!"

The merman's head dipped, blonde hair slipping into his eyes as his strength waned. "...Salve," he whispered hesitantly. Then, barely audible—"Or seaweed."

"Seaweed?" He questioned, unsure if he heard it right.
The merman didn't respond. His eyes slid shut, gills fluttering weakly.

Zoro stared at him for a long second— at the blood, the ruined fin, the fragile rise and fall of his chest. Then, he turned sharply toward the cave mouth.

"Don't move," he said, already backing away. "And don't die. I'll be back."

Outside, the sun has began its descent into the horizon. The sea churned restlessly, waves licking at the stone walls as if it's taunting him. He jogged further to the sea, a mix of panic and determination overcoming him. His boots skid dangerously over wet stones as the tide crept closer. The rocks were coated in moss and salt, a treacherous underfoot. He nearly went down once— caught himself with a sharp breath and a hand against the wall, then slipped again, this time hard enough that his knee slammed against the stone.

"Fuck—!"

Pain flared hot and immediate, blood welling through torn skin that stings sharply in the salt air. Zoro barely spared it a glance. He pushed himself upright, teeth gritted, and kept moving.

He crouched low onto the edge of the sea, fingers digging into cold water before tearing away long strands of dark green seaweed that are clinging stubbornly onto the stone. It came away slick and heavy in his hands, dripping brine down his wrist. He gathered as much as he could carry, did not waste time, and hurried back inside with his breath coming fast and his pulse still racing.

He paused just at the edge of the tide pool. Not wanting to step closer.

The merman was slumped where he'd left him, tail partially submerged, shoulders tight with strain. His eyes flicked up instantly.

"I've got it," Zoro said quickly, holding up the dripping bundle. "I— where do I put it?"
"...In the water," the merman muttered, voice hoarse. "Don't come closer."

Zoro nodded and crouched, lowering the seaweed carefully into the pool before retreating a step. The strands floated there uselessly for a moment, drifting between them.

Then, the water shifted.
It moved with intention— curling inward, drawing the seaweed toward the merman's side of the pool. His fingers twitched weakly, barely lifting, and the water obeyed.

Zoro can only stare as if he was watching a magic show pulled by one of those freaks from the summer circus. It was fascinating to witness— to know that there is no trick behind it this time, just pure mermadic talent.

He watched as the merman gathered the seaweed with shaking hands, jaw clenched as he worked. The process was clumsy, hurried, but deliberate. He began braiding the slick strands together, then wrapped them tightly around the torn edges of his fin. Each movement clearly hurt. His breath stuttered once or twice yet he didn't make a sound.

A silence came as Zoro watches the tail, now covered in seaweed, bleeding slower. Then, a few moments later, the water cleared the red thinning until it was gone entirely. Zoro let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The merman sagged back against the stone, chest rising and falling more evenly, and clearly exhausted. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The merman lifted his head later, eyes lazily falling onto Zoro, then descending to Zoro's knee where a streak of blood left trails down to his foot

"...You're bleeding," the merman said quietly, coldly, as if he was only describing what's before him.
Zoro followed his eyes then shrugged. "It's nothing."

The merman didn't answer. Instead, he gathered what little seaweed remained— damp, frayed, still faintly glowing with salt, and let it slip back into the water.

The tide stirred again, following where his finger pointed as the braided seaweed drifted across the pool, stopping at Zoro's side.

"Place it on your wound," the merman commanded.
Zoro blinked, unsure. "Uh."
"I do not like debts," the merman clarified, looking away from him.

Zoro knew that wasn't how it worked. Human skin does not knit itself together with salt and seaweed. He wanted to say something, yet found it useless.

He knelt instead, pressing the cool, wet braid against the scrape. The sting dulled slightly, replaced by a strange, soothing cold.

"...Thanks," he offered awkwardly.

The lighthouse boy lifted his gaze, but the merman was gone— submerged beneath the tide. The weight of what he'd done lingered in his chest. He'll deal with all of it tomorrow.