Chapter Text
There is a saying in Flevance — except no, that isn't correct, is it? Not anymore. There used to be a saying in Flevance: Fällt eine Krähe ins Mehl, so bleibt sie doch nicht lange weiß.
Every Flevish person, man and woman and child and anything in-between, knew it by heart, didn't have any trouble translating the hard consonants and vowels into meaning, neither metaphorically nor linguistically. Flevish, once upon a time, used to be a language renowned world-wide for its poets and philosophers, for its medical discoveries. Once upon a time, the White City stood proud and gleaming among her brethren, marble walls infused with precious metals and language rich with imagery, her people alive to understand, speak, pass down its meaning: A crow that falls into flour won't stay white for long.
It's a reminder and a warning both; the White City suffers no fakeness.
When Flevance burns, her white walls crumbling and the gleaming Amber Lead in her ground melting, her people screaming to gods who cannot (or will not?) hear them, so does her language, her culture, her imagery, her poetry and philosophy. When Flevance burns, the once-proud jewel of the North is reduced to ashes and ruins and piles of corpses, rotting and forgotten with no one left to bury them, and the Marines hunting down refugees uncaring. When Flevance burns, so does all knowledge of the truth behind the disease that ravaged her, hidden behind lies and illusions and fear-mongering, buried under the carcasses of her citizens and white walls scorched black with no one left to remember.
Except that also isn't true, not really, because one of Flevance's children survives the flames and the rot and the sickness even as it boils in his veins and devours him from the inside out, slowly but surely; one of Flevance's children, her last heir, carries memory and knowledge and rich imagery in his heart and mind and soul and he knows, just like once every other Flevish man, woman and child did, what the saying translates to in the tongue spoken throughout the rest of the world. There is no direct equivalent to it, unique to the White City's language, yet the dialect widely used across the North Blue has a proverb that portrays a similar meaning, albeit in different words: A crow is never the whiter for washing herself often.
Be it the lost metaphor of Flevance or the common muttering of Northern elders, they share the same truth, the same kernel of truth that makes proverbs ring true across cultures and countries and continents regardless of heritage and the language they originated from: no matter how hard you try, you cannot hide your true nature. And the last child of Flevance will always be hers, no matter how far he goes or how well he lies.
Trafalgar D. Water Law, sole survivor of the White City and her legacy, the single carrier of her memory and culture and language, gazes out over the grey seas of the North Blue and wonders not whether it will come true but rather when, knowing full well that his story is written in blood and poison and fire, that — just like the crows from either one of the proverbs — he won't be able to hide forever, to pretend to be someone, something he's not. He knows it to be true like the faint scars left on his skin after painfully scraping out every ounce of Amber Lead from his own body, knows that even as the pigment returns to his hair and his eyes and skin, there is nothing that can mask the truth forever. No matter how much he wishes for it — he cannot wash his hands (his bones, his skin, his organs) off Flevance anymore than the White City can wash off the lies that led to her destruction.
A part of him wishes to erase his memories of the time before, of summers spent playing with his sister and dissecting frogs with his parents, of festivals dancing around trees wrapped in colorful ribbons, of harvests full of asparagus and strawberries and pumpkins and potatoes bleached as white as the city itself, of Sundays spent in church on his knees and muttering old prayers along with his peers and neighbors even if he never quite believed in any of them. Wishes to burn it from his mind like Flevance has been razed to the ground because the memories hurt almost as much as losing it all in the first place, because he cannot bear to be the only one left, because they're an unspeakable, insurmountable weight on his shoulders that was never meant to be carried by a single person.
This part of him wishes he had died along with his parents and sister, along with his classmates and the Sisters, along with the poetry and the festivals and the language.
A much bigger part of him wants to raze the world to the ground for what they have done to his home and his people, wants to rage and scream and destroy, make everyone responsible pay until they experience the same loss, the same agony of seeing everything they love go up in flames, the same horror of having to hide under rotting corpses to ensure their own survival. It's the part that jealously guards the memories in his heart in spite of how they weigh him down and how painful they are, the one that whispers Flevish under his breath lest he forgets the way the words sound and how to make his lips form them, the one that carefully marks down the dates of old festivals and harvest celebrations and name-days of long-forgotten saints on the calendar hanging in his room — all of it to preserve what little he can of his origins and the legacy of the once vibrant White City.
This is the part of him, he strongly suspects, that will be what reveals the truth about him because there is no way he can pretend to be just another random kid from the North Blue, no way a Flevish word will not fall from his lips one day, no way he won't refer to a festival or tradition one day that only his homeland celebrated and observed. Even with his country and people gone, betrayed and shot and burned and scrubbed from this world, he still breathes and bleeds and is Flevish and he knows that it is a question of when, not if, his past will be laid bare.
He also knows that he isn't ready for the conversation, may never be. But even at just over sixteen years old, Law also knows that he may not have a choice in the matter — there are very few things in his life that he has had a choice in, after all.
Behind him, there's a familiar rustle of feathers and wool, the big steps of someone whose limbs are just slightly too long… immediately followed by a yelp and the sound of a body hitting the cold ground. Law doesn't move, continuing to grimly gaze over the Northern sea, waiting for his companion to gather themselves and plop down next to him properly.
The scent of cigarettes and herbs wafts over, his silent contemplation interrupted by the usual clink of a lighter. He doesn't have to strain to be able to smell the stench of burning fabric, just like he always does.
Without looking away from the ocean, Law sighs.
"Cora. You're on fire again."
"Ack!" Some hasty patting and swearing later, the small fire is extinguished again, replaced by a puff of cigarette smoke. When they'd first met, Law had hated the smell of both the frequent accidental fires and the cigarettes, too reminiscent of everything he's tried to bury and forget under fury and spite and nihilism, but by now, they're a strange comfort to him.
It's been years since Law has smelled burning fabric and thought of Flevance instead of Cora.
"You're ridiculous." His tone is gruff but there's no bite to it. There hasn't been for a long time. Next to him, Cora laughs quietly.
"Brat," he replies and it sounds fond, more term of affection than insult. "Is that any way to talk to your elders?"
Law doesn't bother saying anything, just snorts derisively. They both know that Cora isn't really affronted, hasn't been in years. Maybe not ever.
For a while, they sit next to each other in silence, each lost to their own thoughts. Cigarette smoke curls around them with the sea breeze, the lone teenager and the tall young man in his late 20s. They're an odd pair, always have been, ever since those fateful six months of initial travel that have taken them all across the North Blue, leaving countless hospitals burning in their wake. Almost three years later and free of the poisonous lead that has once ravaged his body like the World Government has ravaged his home, Law may have finally gotten a first growth spurt and doesn't look like the next strong gust of wind will knock him over anymore, but Cora has always been freakishly tall and will forever remain an absolute obnoxious 10'.
Even the oddness is a comfort by now; mostly because there was a time when Law wasn't sure if he'd ever get to look at Cora's face again and see his eyes crinkle with the force of his smile, if his heart would continue beating or if he — just like Law's city and people and culture — was doomed to leave him and become just another ghost living in his memory. The tips of his fingers tingle, remembering snow and blood and bullet holes and tears and the desperate attempt to save just one person.
Sometimes, he still cannot believe that both of them have managed to walk away from Minion Island with their lives.
"You're awfully quiet today," Cora remarks eventually, shifting his weight as he leans back on his hands. "Quieter than usual. Something on your mind?"
It's a loaded question that Law doesn't know how to answer properly, so he simply shrugs, arms folding across his chest.
"Home," he says and it tells Cora everything he needs to know. After all, he's the only one who knows the full truth about Law and his past, about Flevance and the Amber Lead. Especially the Amber Lead.
"Ah." Cora shifts again, the black feathers of his coat rustling quietly. They had discussed getting rid of it, back when they'd first arrived here, but there's few people his size this far North and not many clothes fit a giant of a man like him, especially in this cold climate. Unlike Law who's grown up used to the lower temperatures of the North Blue, Cora has always preferred warmer areas, constantly freezing even during the more temperate months of the year. So the thick woolen coat had stayed and with it the thick scent of cigarettes and the herbal mix of his preferred tea blend. "Wanna talk about it?"
Law decidedly does not. In fact, he'd rather throw himself bodily into the seas below and risk certain death by drowning than talk about the complicated feelings he has about the specters of the past haunting him or his fears of being found out for who he is. What he is.
But this is Cora and Law has lost too much, risked too much, not to trust him. Even if he doesn't want to talk (and he never does, it's both being a teenager and just intrinsic to being Law), he knows that he always can. The problem is just that Law has never quite learned how to properly use his words, never having been much for peers or friendship, preferring the company of books and science and medicine over that of other kids, even before Flevance fell to sickness and fire. After that, there was little reason for him to interact with others, anyway.
He doesn't know how to even begin to explain and suddenly, fervently wishes that he could simply speak in Flevish.
Below the cliff they're sitting on, the waves continue crashing against the island.
Tracing one of the faint white scars on one of his hands with a thumb, Law exhales a slow breath, shaking his head slowly as he watches a group of seagulls circle around a spot out on the grey waters.
"We can't stay here forever," he finally says, earning himself a quiet hum from Cora. There's another clink of his lighter opening and being flicked on, another quiet sizzle of a cigarette being lit. This time, miraculously, he manages not to set himself on fire. Law feels himself relax almost despite his will, even if he is half-tempted to tell his parental figure once again how bad smoking is for his lungs.
As if they're not both aware of the fact that Law would drop everything to scrape Cora's lungs clean the second his chain-smoking habit really does become a problem.
"I suppose not." A puff of cigarette smoke escapes into the late afternoon air, the day still as grey as the seas below them. "You have a plan prepared, of course."
It's not a question because nobody knows Law better than Cora does. Because there's just something about losing your entire home, family and culture at the tender age of ten and then landing yourself with the cruelest pirate crew in the whole North Blue that makes you prone to paranoia and back-up plans for back-up plans. Law has got it under control, thank you very much. The nightmares almost don't bother him anymore (they do) and it's not like he stays up for hours to try and come up with contingency plans to avoid the scenarios he has nightmares about (he does).
Law scoffs, unimpressed. "Who do you think I am?"
It's a familiar dance, this back and forth between them. Just over three years of this gentle bickering, this odd facsimile of family, and Law has finally accepted it. Not as a replacement for what he lost, no, never that; but as something new, as something to carry him forward and help him face each day anew instead of clinging to the past and what has been.
Cora simply chuckles, exhales another cloud of smoke. "What's the plan, then?"
As if it's that easy. Maybe it is. Cora has always been the optimist between the two of them.
Law pulls up both knees, hugging them close to his chest. He's not cold, not really, even if the cool fall breeze rustles through his hair. Instinctively, he pulls his fluffy hat a bit lower — half to keep warm, half to give himself something to do to hide the anxiety swirling through him.
"… You won't like it."
"Mh. Tell me anyway."
Law hesitates for just one moment, exhaling a slow breath. Steeling himself. Then, he says,
"I'm going to become a pirate and gather a crew strong enough for the Grand Line… and then I'm going to take down Doflamingo."
He doesn't dare look at Cora after this confession, knowing full well what it means for both of them. What it means to Cora, specifically, to hear both Law's plan and his brother mentioned in the same sentence. Law doesn't generally consider himself someone who gets scared or terrified easily, not after what he's been forced to survive before even reaching puberty. But this? It scares him almost as much as knowing that he will have to disclose his origins to his peers one day. Maybe even more.
Law isn't ashamed of his heritage, not anymore. If he is to be Flevance's single survivor, so be it, he will grin and bear it and not buckle under it despite the weight of memories and responsibility. But losing Cora… He's come too close to that once already, on that fateful day on Minion Island, and it's only thanks to pure luck and nothing short of a miracle that both of them have walked (well… limped) away that day.
He doesn't think he could survive losing Cora, too. Not after everything.
Waiting is agony but Law endures, pulling at a loose thread in his jeans and staring out at sea, the swarming seagulls fighting over a particularly big fish. Their screeches are loud enough to be heard even up here.
Eventually, there's a deep, deep sigh next to him, followed by the rustle of feathers as Cora moves. Out of the corners of his eyes, Law sees him run a hand over his face and then through his bangs, coming to rest over his mouth.
"You'll be the death of me, kid," he mumbles into his fingers and that is what makes Law finally look at him properly, noticing the strange mix of fond exasperation, worry and something that looks a lot like pride on the older man's face. "Not that I ever expected you to stay on Swallow your entire life but…" The hand on his face drops back into his lap, Cora's rust-red eyes meeting his own. "Piracy? Really?"
"I sure as fuck won't join the fucking Marines," Law snaps back petulantly because he'd rather crawl back to Doflamingo or willingly put all the Amber Lead of Flevance back into his own body before ever considering becoming one of the people responsible for everything that's happened to him. Without the World Government and the Marines covering up their own fears, their own damn failure to help an entire country, there could have been others like him, other survivors, other natives to carry the Flevish tongue and heritage in their blood and marrow and bones.
"Language," Cora chides, then sighs as a shadow passes over his expression. "You know I used to be a Marine, Law."
"Used to be." Law shoots him a glare. "Are you seriously saying you'd go back to them? After everything?"
Another sigh. "… No."
Rationally, Law has known that. He's known ever since Minion Island, since hearing Cora's Marine code said out loud and his subsequent apology for lying, as if Law hadn't had figured him out long before that already. He's known since settling on Swallow and watching his caretaker all but longingly stare at his old transponder snail whenever it rang but never answering a call, eventually releasing the poor thing into the wild.
But hearing it said out loud, acknowledged between them, settles something inside Law's chest that he wasn't aware of, like a coiled spring finally releasing tension kept for years. His shoulders, having crept up towards his ears, drop an inch although he doesn't relax fully, not yet.
He picks at the loose thread again, waiting for Cora to continue speaking. Law isn't good with words or feelings, never has been. Seas only know why Cora — and Shachi and Penguin and Bepo, by extension — has chosen to stick with him; he sure hasn't made it easy for him, any of them. It wouldn't come as a surprise if this plan of his is the final straw to break the camel's back… no matter how much he hopes that it isn't.
Law isn't good with hope, either.
Cora sighs again, heavier than before, and goes to light a third cigarette. Law throws him a withering glare (they talked about the chain-smoking and what it does to Cora's lungs, damn it!) but doesn't comment, ready to put out any potential fires but for once, Cora manages to actually not light himself on fire a whole two times in a row; his personal best is three and Law doubts it will ever get much higher than that. Ex-Marine spy or not, the clumsiness is part of him as much as his red eyes or the abnormal height.
"I can't say I'm particularly excited about this plan of yours," he mumbles around his cigarette, inhaling deeply. Despite himself, Law tenses up again. "Although I also can't say I'm surprised." Cora's lips twitch into a small smile, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Much as I would prefer you stay here and continue apprenticing with the village clinic, I always knew you'd get restless eventually. Frankly, I'm surprised you managed to keep still for a whole three years."
Law scowls at him. "I'm not an idiot, Cora. I knew I had to get stronger, first."
"Taller, too." Cora's smile grows, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Small shrimps don't make good pirates, you know."
"I'm not — you— the Amber Lead stunted my growth, you asshole!" Law feels his ears go warm and shoves Cora roughly, throwing his entire body weight into it. Even though he could have easily dodged it (or ignored it entirely, Law still isn't very strong physically despite the training and the recent growth spurt), Cora lets himself be pushed, laughing as he goes down into the sparse grass. "Stop laughing!"
Cora does nothing of the sort, continuing to laugh until he almost inhales his half-smoked cigarette, resulting in a brief coughing fit. Only then does he take another drag, grinning up at Law from where he lies on the ground.
"There you are, kid," he says, voice warm with affection. "I was wondering where you went."
"I've been right here the entire time, you clown!" Law glowers at him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Cora hums as he breathes out more smoke.
"Physically, maybe," he allows. "But your mind was half a Blue away. This is better, don't you think?"
And Law — doesn't know what to say to that if he's honest. He still feels distantly irritated with Cora for being teased about his height and there's still a leftover sense of worry but… he's not as tense anymore, he realizes suddenly, not as anxious and lost in his own head.
He heaves a sigh, running one hand over his face in a mirror of Cora doing the same earlier. Even their mannerisms are starting to look the same, damn it.
"… Maybe," he concedes, looking anywhere but at Cora. He gazes back at the ocean, noting that the seagulls have moved on by now, no longer fighting over fish. "You're not going to talk me out of it?"
Cora laughs quietly.
"If I thought talking you out of something would work, I wouldn't have had to kidnap your scrawny ass away from Spider Miles," he says mildly. "Once you make up your mind about something, it'll take a miracle to convince you otherwise."
A miracle — or the kindness of a former Marine whose stubbornness mirrored Law's own.
"So…?"
"So no, I'm not going to try and talk you out of it." Cora grunts quietly as he sits up again, folding his long limbs somehow into what passes for cross-legged for him and would be uncomfortable for anyone else, most likely. "But I'm also not going to sit around on Swallow worrying about you — so I'm going with you."
Law looks up so fast he swears he hears something crack.
"You're what?!"
"I'm joining you, obviously," Cora says as if they're talking about the pleasant fall weather and not the prospect of an ex-Marine becoming a pirate. "You didn't really think I'd just let you throw yourself into danger at the very first opportunity after I risked my life just to give you a chance at a life? Come on, Law, you know me better than that."
A heavy hand lands on Law's head, right on top of his hat. The gesture is so achingly familiar in its tenderness that it takes his breath away, even three and a half years down the line.
"But you — I thought…"
"I made my choice long ago, Law." Cora's voice is quiet and steady, brimming with all the warmth and love that Law still has trouble accepting fully. "I'll go wherever you lead, kid. And if your path leads you to a life of piracy, well… I guess it's a good thing the Marines still think I'm dead, huh?"
"Cora…"
Law is rendered speechless by the determination in his caretaker's eyes, by the affection and loyalty. He bites down on his lip to distract himself from the weird prickling in his eyes, the lump in his throat, not knowing what to say to all that. He never knows what to say when Cora is being so damn candid and emotionally open.
The heavy hand on the crown of his head remains there for another beat or two before it drops away again and Cora smiles at him, seeing right through him just like he always does.
"You said something about needing a crew strong enough for the Grand Line, didn't you?" He chuckles, taking a final drag of his cigarette before putting it out on the ground next to his heel. "I won't claim to be the strongest or the smartest out there but I spent most of my life on Marineford and have experience navigating the Grand Line, even if I'm no expert. But I'm happy to instruct and advise, if you'll have me."
Law swallows, glancing back at him. Cora looks… oddly relaxed for someone who has grown up being taught to uphold Justice above else.
"How can you be so calm about it?" he asks, not understanding in the least. "It's not just piracy I'm planning. It's taking down Doflamingo!"
Cora hums, fiddling with one of the black feathers on his coat as his smile dims, expression turning more somber, almost wistful.
"I'd be lying if I said that I ever want to see Doffy again," he says softly, head bowed just enough that his bangs hide his eyes, "or that he doesn't scare me. But… I always knew that I would have to face him again one day. When I went undercover, I was prepared to do whatever it takes to bring him down… I would never forgive myself if I didn't finish what I set out to do back then." He looks back up, gaze sweeping over the grey expanse of the North Blue in front of them, sea breeze ruffling his too-long bangs and rustling the thick feathered coat.
Law thinks of the old saying from Flevance about crows not being able to stay white for long and wonders if it applies to Cora, too, clad in black feathers and with his past about as unwilling to stay dead and quiet as Law's own. Birds of a feather, the two of them, two peas in a depressing pod.
"Besides," Cora continues, lips twitching into that same warm smile he always gets when he looks at Law, rust-red eyes sparkling with something like mischief, "someone's gotta look out for you and remind you to sleep once in a while. Or eat."
Law glares at him, giving him another shove. "Fuck off, you oaf. You're the one in need of constant supervision so you don't break your neck or light yourself on fire all the time."
Predictably, Cora just laughs. The sound makes the leftover anxiety in Law's chest finally settle properly, allowing him to take a deeper breath.
"… We can't take the others."
It's been just over three years that the two of them have settled on Swallow since that day full of snow and blood back on Minion Island. Law doubts he will ever forget it — and neither will Cora, after everything they both have been through together. Bepo, Shachi and Penguin have been around them for almost as long; Bepo first, soon joined by the other two and ever since, they've been this strange amalgamation of a gaggle of teens looked over by a human disaster of a twenty-something that Law doesn't dare call family but fails to come up with another word for regardless.
Shachi and Penguin, for all their shenanigans and bickering, are like the older brothers he never had; they annoy him on a daily if not hourly basis and Law has sliced them apart in a Room more times than he cares to count by now. Not that this deters them in the slightest — after the initial shock of it, they seem to have developed some insane betting pool on who can make Law snap the fastest (Penguin is currently in the lead due to being an obnoxious asshole). At the same time, he's never met anyone as fiercely loyal and protective as these two idiots were during his initial recovery, refusing to let him sulk in his room and dragging him outside, making him exercise and run around and be a kid with them instead of whatever Doflamingo has tried to mold him into.
After Flevance and so long with the Family, Law has nearly forgotten how to just… exist. Live instead of survive.
And then there's Bepo — sweet, fuzzy Bepo who reminds him of Lami so much sometimes that Law gets choked up just looking at him despite essentially being a polar bear and definitely not a human girl. The mink is painfully shy and way too apologetic and already towering over him despite being so much younger than Law but he's also incredibly kind and curious and smart so that Law never feels like he's talking to someone six years his junior. Lami would have liked Bepo a lot, he thinks, besides him being effectively a walking teddy bear; just like her, he gets excited about animals and fairytales and adventures, and Law cannot bear saying no to him, just like he once couldn't refuse his baby sister a single thing.
Beside him, Cora hums quietly.
"You think they wouldn't come along if you asked?"
"Worse," Law grumbles around a huff. "They'd come along even if I didn't. But…"
"But?"
"… Cora. They don't know."
"Ah."
And there it is, the crux of the problem. It's because of these three that Law has been sitting up here on the cliff overlooking the frigid waters of the North Blue, lost in memories and his own spiraling thoughts instead of joining his friends (his brothers) in their quest for securing dinner tonight. Because of those three that he hesitates to set his plans for the future in motion, too scared to reveal the truth and facing the consequences, the memories of being turned away by medical professionals across the entire North all too clear in his mind. Even if the white patches that have once marred his skin have faded to nothing but scars, barely visible now, he still can't shake the fear, the shame, the helplessness.
He doesn't want to be called a monster anymore, especially not by the people he calls friends.
"Law…" Cora's voice is steady, calm. He wonders if it's a byproduct of him eating the Calm-Calm Fruit or whether he's always been this serene. "These boys aren't like that. You know them as well as I do."
Maybe he does. Maybe Cora is right. But the doubts eat at him regardless, hollowing out his chest and his bones down to his marrow until he can barely breathe.
"I can't—" He stops, takes another breath. "I can't risk it. They're my… my friends." Family, he doesn't say but he thinks Cora hears it anyway. He always does. "If they looked at me like that…"
Bepo might not. He's from Zou, impossibly far away in the New World. But Shachi and Penguin are North Blue natives, have grown up here just like Law has and have heard the horror stories about Flevance and the disease that ravaged through the White City, the lies told by the World Government.
It's already a miracle that he hasn't slipped up in the past three years, despite the forgotten holidays marked on his calendar and the words of a dead language burning on his tongue. He misses Flevance with every cell of his being.
"You shouldn't make decisions for them preemptively," Cora tells him quietly, expression almost melancholy as if he's thinking of other people, someone he may have known long ago. "Who knows, they might surprise you yet. People often do, kid. Look at the two of us, for example. Where would we be without some faith?"
Law doesn't reply, looking over the sea again and listening to the waves below them, the rolling of the tides and the whispers of the ocean breeze. Loath as he is to admit it even to himself, he's afraid — of being alone again, of being shunned, of being abandoned by those he has just learned to trust. The thought of Shachi and Penguin and Bepo looking at him like the doctors in all those hospitals did years ago, of seeing the same disgust and fear in their eyes is almost unbearable.
But then he thinks of the man who supposedly hated kids so much that he threw them out of windows, of the same man who pretended to be mute for four long years to gather information, of the man who'd given up all that for the off-chance of curing a terminally ill feral gremlin of a child that had all but awaited his own death. Of the man who faced down his own brother to protect said child, who kept choosing him over and over again… and is now telling him to have faith.
Maybe crows never can hide their true colors for long, their plumage always betraying them in the end. And maybe Law never was a particularly faithful person, even before his home burned and burned and burned, his people's pleas unheard by the gods they worshiped. But if there has ever been something — someone — that Law believes in without fail, it's Cora.
"I'll see," he mumbles around another sigh, thinking of crows and the White City and legacies left to carry, for better or worse. Next to him, Cora hums again, shifting closer just enough that he can wrap an arm around Law's shoulders, the feathers on his coat rustling like bird wings in flight.