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The Spadille is angry; she's angry and stuck and everything is too much. She's been stuck for so long; ever since the shipwrights of the Moby fixed her, but her Captain refused to sail her anymore. Ever since he'd chosen Stricker when he went to hunt down that traitor. Stricker? That young brat that barely manifested a spirit instead of her!
And now she's stuck and in a war, the Moby is taking hit after hit after hit and the Old Lady won't be able to make it much longer, her Captain is crying on a scaffold, afraid-drying-praying and she has had ENOUGH.
The Spadille is angry.
The thing is she always was.
Ever since Captain got her in a bet, ever since he poured his love to tend to her, ever since she got to know Deuce and Banshee and Skull and Mihar and them. She's always been angry; because she loves her crew even if they chose another captain and another ship - and that still hurts, but the Moby is an old lady who protected her, nurtured her and the Spadille cannot be angry with her - but her Captain was angry when he got her. An angry child that grew in an angry teenager hiding his anger with a veneer of politeness and now he is an angry young man dying for the sins of another.
And she is his ship.
So she is angry. Angry and stuck in a war and she refuses to remain stuck anymore. Not when her captain is in danger. Not when his little brother is falling from the sky to save him. And if that means she has to shed her body of wood and metal, give up on it, perhaps forever, all for one day where she can maybe change everything, well the Spadille will make that sacrifice.
Breaking away from her skeleton is hard; she doesn't hurt because a spirit can't hurt. But she feels the wrongness in bones she does not have, in muscles that would have torn in a human being. Her railings creak and her mast groans, her sails tear the more she forces her spirit away from her husk. She will be unsailable after this, she knows; no shipwright, no matter how talented will be able to patch the holes in her soul.
Her feet step on the Moby, away from her hull, away from her core. Step by step by step, leaving behind a ship without a soul, a ship that will never have a soul again.
The ice keeps the Old Lady trapped; she hisses, angry, feral and jumps, shatters it as if a real ship had fallen on top of the ice. Not enough to fully liberate the Moby, not by far, but enough to let her move, to let her protect herself at least a little.
The Sea churns around her.
She doesn't swim; she doesn't need to. Her Mother lets her step on top of her waves. Step, step, step, unseen by any but the spirit of the Moby hovering back in her crow's nest, looking far and wide. She is anger. She is fury. She needs someone that will build her fire, not quench it. Someone strong enough to break the chains of her captain. To set him free.
And then she can rest.
For a moment her eyes stop on her Captain's brother. He is angry yes; angry that her Captain had been chained, angry that he is not free as he is supposed to be. But above all else he is sorrowful. He has tasted loss and will taste loss still. He is a child of her Mother, free and untamed, one that seeks freedom above else. He is merely angry at the lack of it, at the chains shackling his brother, at the chains that ripped away his nakama from him. There is too much Sun in his bones and too little Salt for him to be a proper vessel. But he could be one, if she can find no other.
She moves on. The magma one throws an attack in her direction - not towards her no; the Spadille knows she cannot be seen. Towards the Old Lady instead; aims to sink her, to kill her. The Spadille won't allow it. The Moby deserves better than a burial at Sea among enemies.
She steps on a plane of ice. Her Mother rises it, up, up, up, an almost tsunami that should not have been, not when the waters are calm. But the Spadille asks for it and her Mother answers. Magma hisses when it meets salt water, when it meets the soul of a ship that moved away from her body. It hisses and cools, nothing but rock now sinking in the bottom of the ocean. Her arms have burns. The hull she left behind must be scarred now too. It doesn't matter.
She walks on.
There's a lot of anger to be found in war. Spadille knows, of course, even if she has never been in a war before.
There's anger in weakness, in being so weak that you know nothing you can do is of consequence. There's anger in powerlessness, in trying your best and it not being enough. Anger in love when those you care for the most are cut down before you. Anger in betrayal, in disappointment, in dismay.
There is the anger of those who had never been angry before. The anger of those who had always been angry. The anger of those who pretend to be something else to not acknowledge their own feelings.
There is a lot of anger. She would thrive in it if only she found the right host. Perhaps the old man standing powerless next to her Captain. Or the Warlord playing at being crazy and hiding so much anger in his bones he could burst with it. Even the swordsman is angry in ways he cannot truly explain, not to himself.
But no, in the end there are but two options. There is none angrier than a family member and the more he fights, the angrier the little one gets. Her captain's brother with sun in his bones and a smile on his face. He has not yet learned to be angry, not properly. Not like she needs. Not in the way adults do, but rather in the way of children and beasts, unfocused and untethered. He will in time.
Her Captain's Pops on the other hand.
His Captain, his father, he is truly angry. Ready to give it all. Even to the end, just like her. He will be her vessel.
He feels her when she steps in his body. Of course he does; he is old and knowledgeable, has sailed the Seas with respect and learned her Mother's ways. He knows the rules and the customs, the taboos and the boons one can receive. And he is hurt, dying because of a son who betrayed him and another who did the same all for poisonous whispers and a grudge that her Captain was not even alive for.
"Young lady," his voice is her voice and her voice is his voice. It is odd to be addressed by the same voice that is now hers, but it's just as odd to be of flesh and blood and not wood and metal. To bleed and weep. Not to die; that's what the Spadille has been doing ever since she left her body. That had stopped being new the moment she tore her soul away.
'Not one,' not a lady. The Moby is one, the Old Lady that the Spadille holds respect and love for. The Spadille is an angry whisp of a thing, feral and fey like her Captain. She gives and loses, and rages and curses. She is no lady, but a wench, and yet that will not stop her.
'You must heal,' she tells him as if one can stop blood and stitch skin with will alone. And maybe not anyone can, but she can. She will. His wound closes. The blood remains just a stain on skin. His lungs clear when she forces the wind she had felt in her sails in his lungs. 'You must save him. Save them.'
Because her Captain is nothing without his brother just as the Spadille is nothing without her Captain.
"You should not have done this," his voice is a grumble echoed by waves and sea salt. Perhaps he looks like a fool to those around him, crazy with blood loss and illness. He speaks to himself they think, not knowing he speaks to her. But when his bisento comes up it is no longer trembling, when his hands pull and the world shakes they no longer quiver, when his Will bowls across the plaza it no longer falters. He is not young as he was, even the Spadille cannot fix the wear and tear of time, but he is now a fixed ship when before he was a sinking one.
'It is too late for regret,' as if she ever had any in the beginning. The Spadille had been a ship loved and that had loved. She has sailed with her crew until she grew too small for them and still they kept her, loved her, visited her.
And now she can give back. She knows her Captain understands what has happened. Up on that scaffold, his eyes grow wide and he no longer cries, no longer begs them to leave. He sees her in his Captain's eyes and for a moment the Spadille allows something that is so unlike her. A smile and a tear.
She is proud of him, so proud of her angry, hot headed, loyal captain. Proud of the boy he was and the man he's going to be. The magma one tries to attack again, against her Captain's Captain this time. His arm - their arm - rises. It's not haki that comes from it, merely a wave crashing from the marina, bypassing all else and hitting him, dragging him across the ground.
Water in his lung, salt in his throat and he gurgles. She Hates him so her Mother hates him with her.
"You're burning yourself out," her Captain's Captain grouses. He sees her in a way - just as she sees him. At the back of his - her mind where their bodies are now one. She wonders what he sees; a burning ship or a withering girl or a soul dimming away? Spadille knows what she sees. A man that should have died - would have died, were it not for her. A captain, a father, a brother, a friend. Someone who will save her Captain and her Captain's brother. Already he has made good of his renewed vigour, has gotten closer and closer.
The magma one does not get up, not yet at least, the water in his lungs gurgling, her Mother pressing and pressing and pressing until his lungs are more water than air. The light one is fighting with the blue bird, the one her Captain loves so dearly. There is no danger there. Each hit is parried, each wound is healed. Her Mother needs not interfere nor does she. As for the ice one; he seems unbothered. Doing his duty to the bare minimum. She cares not for him.
"Sea water doesn't burn." She remembers to answer him. He is worried; pointlessly, uselessly. She was naught as soon as she slipped out of the confines of her wood and metal body. Now she is one with her Mother. And as soon as her Captain is safe she will become the Sea.
"You're not water, girl, you're wood."
Ah, so he does not know. It makes sense; even the eldest would not know of tales that slip beneath the cracks because they are ludicrous to believe they would come to light. Not even the Oro Jackson had left her confines to save her captain when his head rolled and the masses laughed and jeered.
Why would a little caravel do so?
She does because Ace is hers. Because she is angry and small and has been overlooked her entire life. Because Ace took her and loved her and allowed her to be angry. Spadille offers her soul to the Sea and her body to the waves because her Captain deserves better than he ever got in life, but even if she can't give him that, she can give him two things - his life and his brother.
At the corner of his-their eyes she sees the man who betrayed her Captain's Captain. Not the first one, no, that one she would kill on sight. The second, tricked by poisoned words and a past that should have long been lost to the Sea. She turns towards him; his father may have forgiven, but she has not. Her Captain is still in danger because of him.
"Do not."
His - her - their hand rises, but does not go down as she would have liked. She scowls, but obeys him - these are his children anyway, even if she was the one to patch his wound. A blood mistake should not be forgiven so easily, but it is not for her to decide unfortunately. She only has eyes on her Captain - closer, closer, closer, his brother at his side, the blue bird and the fishman and another, particles of sand devoid of water. Desperate - angry so very angry - rage in his heart, in his soul - betrayal at the sight of her Captain's Captain. Yet he moves as one with the rest, comes her way, comes their way.
"Ace," her Voice cries out. She can feel herself fraying already, fading, diming. She wants to be here for him when he arrives. At the edge of her mind she feels another, a bigger ship, stronger, sturdier. Made of Adam Wood. Made for monsters and monsters are in her belly. But monsters putting on nice faces and loving more fiercely than another. She met Her once, this sister of hers in a snowy island. Met her Captain and took his measurement and found him acceptable.
Now he is furious - panicked - regretful, she can hear his Voice on the wind, fast-fast-faster. He should not worry; she made it so that he would be in time. The magma one rises one last time, spits to the side, angry and waterlogged. Vapours come off him, steam rising and he moves towards her Captain.
She moves. They move. This is no longer her Mother's battle but hers. She has never before swung a bisento, but does now. Never impressed her Will but does now. Never carved a man in half, but does now. He is a shattered ship by the time she is done with him and her Captain is safe.
Safe at this father's side, with his little brother held in his arms because the young one can no longer run and a sand made person that makes her vessel grieve. Hollow with something and she cannot understand quite what, but she gets the gist of it and it's enough. Humans are oh so strange, but she knows what she needs to tell his particular errant child of her Captain's Captain.
"You are who you are."
The words are hers not theirs because she can still feel her vessel quivering at the back of her soul, lost in regrets and guilt and what could have been, mired in doubt, trapped in a kaleidoscope of negativity that their son - for he is theirs for now - does not need. He needs acceptance; had always needed it. And freedom. Perhaps her Captain's little brother will be good for him in this way.
The sand one trembles at their side, sole hand pressed hard on the shoulder of his child that had been - should not have been, but was.
Crocodile had been her and now was him and it was simple as sailing for Spadille to understand. A ship was a ship regardless if she was a caravel or a dinghy. Should Striker have the temerity the next day to call herself a caravel, Mother would embrace her just as well because she remained a ship.
"You are our child," she tells him because the man who is her but isn't, still does not have words. But she is fading and it is not to her to solve decades of hurt. Her Captain is hers and he sees her just as she sees him; angry both, so angry, angry children raging at the world.
"Spadille?" He chokes, sputters and gasps, reaches and pulls back, tears in his eyes. "You - how?"
"Because I was angry."
It's an answer but isn't yet it's all she has. She lived angry and will die at peace and perhaps there is some sort of beautiful irony in it.
"What did you do?"
Her Captain asks, hands balled in fists at his side and he knows even if he doesn't understand how. She smiles wide - sad at her Captain who is still a boy, still so very terrified, having grabbed his little brother close and clutching him tight and he looks at her like it's the first time he sees her. The last time he sees her. She wishes it would have been possible for him to see her as his Captain does, at the back of his mind, fully herself and not a spark of something in another's eyes. Already she can feel her body that had been left behind with the Moby crumbling.
Broken wood and magma scars, water damage that should not have been, ripped sails and a cracked mast. Her soul is dimming and her body is dying with it, but oh she does not regret. She has him, her Captain, the other side of her soul, her alive, still kicking, still alive, so very alive and he will keep being angry at the world perhaps, keep setting it on fire without her, because now he can.
'Brave, brave little sister,' an echo comes to her, the Red Force's Klabautermann glancing at her from her position in her crow's nest. The Force's Captain is also there, trembling out of his skin with fury, another lost child that had to hide his anger, but he did so with drinking and parties. Oh, how would these boys have loved each other if they had known each other properly.
'You're fraying,' the Moby's voice reaches her, mournful, crying, the Old Lady crying for her, but the Spadille doesn't care. She'll die with her chin up, at peace, because she did what she was meant to.
"You were the best Captain I could have hoped for," she tells her Captain instead. She can't hug him - it wouldn't be right in this body not hers. She does not want his Pops to hug him, she wants to hug him herself, but can't. So she settles with the few words she has left to offer him.
"It's okay to be angry. I was angry." She doesn't think a ship's anger is the same as a human's, but even so. "You can still be angry. But be angry at the world not yourself. You're loved Captain mine. So very loved."
You were my everything, she wants to say, but doesn't because it would be cruel, a burden. She does not regret dying, but Ace will miss her, mourn her. She won't place more on his shoulders. Instead, she lets herself go, wood crumbling and soul falling in the embrace of the Sea, little droplets of water joining her Mother's expanse until all that is left behind is her Captain's Captain, old, but mended, worn down, but not dying, prepared to face off the traitor that had cut down one of his own.
And the Spadille fades away, at peace.