His laugh was just as she remembered it - loud and full of unbridled joy. "You found me."
She listened to the cry of kites circling high above, to the waves breaking on the shore. Smelled the sweet scent of flowers carried on a warm breeze.
"You waited for me." It wasn't a question. The answer was all around her.
"Not long enough," he said, and a shadow dimmed the light of his smile.
She placed a hand on his cheek - lending him strength. Her eyes never leaving him, she stood tall for both of them as he sagged into her touch.
"It was my choice," she said simply.
He understood. He always had understood her - as she had understood him. And yet, he hesitated, his silence heavy with questions he could not bring himself to ask.
"Ace," she said, the joy in her voice answering them all.
The fire returned to his eyes, all shadows burned away by his pride, his love. "Our child," he said.
"He is beautiful, and strong." Now she was the one leaning in, his hand tenderly wiping away the tears that had been waiting to fall from her eyes.
"He will live," he assured her.
"Free," she confirmed.
The ocean was growing brighter, indistinguishable from the sky.
Her arms went around him; his around her.
It was time. They would go, and leave behind their boundless love and sorrows - their hopes for the ages, and their child.
"No regrets."
They were ready. Ready for their last journey, together, across an ocean where no shadows fell.
The wanted posters have not gone unnoticed.
You aren't surprised. The boys always did talk about the sea. About freedom. The rules and noble ideals and corrupt core of Garp's Marines were not for them. They had their dreams, and not even their grandfather's fists could change those.
You aren't worried. Of course not. That's what you say to anyone who asks. They're not your responsibility - should never have been, except Garp's a baby-dumping, fast-running bastard.
You aren't worried.
No. Not worried.
There are no words for what you are. Not when the news reaches you, by way of a folded leaflet delivered by a panting, wide-eyed village youngster.
They are going to kill Ace.
The baby you held in your arms as he fell asleep mid-wail.
They are going to put him in chains on a platform for the world to see, and then they are going end his life.
After all the work you put into keeping him from ending that life on a regular basis as a little brat, it just doesn't seem fair.
That's what you tell all those who come to gawk. Those who whisper behind your back.
You curse the World Government. Even here, they can still reach you. Even after all this time, they can still shatter all peace, and turn childish dreams to nightmares.
You know how hopeless the situation is. You should be grieving already.
But you can't. Because somewhere in your heart, in the middle of that freezing storm of fury and despair, there is a tiny sliver of hope.
It shines through the blackest horror, and dries unshed tears.
You know how hopeless the situation is. And you know your boys. They are going to execute Luffy's brother.
If you worry, it isn't about Ace. It's about the rest of the world.
Garp was a master ignorer.
Take the problem of his son staging a revolution on a global scale. Sure, Sengoku got his panties in a bunch about that every so often, but - hey. What was a guy to do? Call him up and tell the brat to stop overthrowing local governments, or he'd be sent to bed without supper? Not even the fists of love had been able to keep little Dragon from following his heart - he must get it from his mother, Garp supposed.
And while he still had a bone to pick with that Redhair bastard for putting crazy notions into Luffy's tiny (and, after that fateful meeting, rubbery) skull, what Luffy and his brother were up after leaving home wasn't his problem. Like father like son - and if both grandsons were dead set on becoming pirates, well. Garp had tried to stop them.
On the whole, he thought he might actually have done the Marines a favor. If they weren't pirates, those two little brats would currently be giving some commanding officer the worst headache of his life. Not to mention, they'd probably break the spirit of all but the strongest of cooks.
So Garp didn't lose any sleep over what his idiot grandsons were doing without him. Not when that sly old bear Whitebeard got Ace to join him - not even when Luffy caused that ruckus on Enies Lobby.
But he'd underestimated how badly Sengoku would take it. Amusing as he thought it was, the government tended to frown on people breaking their Island of Justice.
And then Ace ended up in Impel Down.
And then Luffy punched a World Noble. (Those guys were even more of a nuisance than the fleet admiral.)
And Garp, to his great dismay, finally had two worries he could not ignore.
Monkey D. Dragon knew what people said.
That he was a man who had thrown away everything he had believed in for his burning conviction. That he had a will that would not bend. That he could take on the whole world alone.
It was a good thing for his followers to believe.
However, it was not entirely true.
He had the conviction, burning. He had the will of a D. But he could not take on the whole world alone.
And he had never given up belief in his friends.
Iva, Kuma, all the others. He could do it all because of them.
A streak of outraged fire and flailing limbs, and Marco finds himself grinning.
That kid. He's funnier than any other newbie he can remember.
Well. Technically the kid isn't a newbie as much as a thoroughly failed assassin who is too stubborn to know when to give up.
And that's exactly why Marco started thinking of him as "newbie" some eighty-eight - no, eight-nine, now - attempts on his captain's life ago. Because the kid's still here, and still trying, and the fire in his eyes still burns as strongly as that of his power.
Too bad he can't seem get over his pride or rage or whatever dumb emotion is driving him so hard he can't see what Marco already knows - that there is something holding him here, and it's more than his own fool quest to take Whitebeard's head.
Marco can see how much more he could be. Same as Whitebeard does, or nobody would bother fishing his sorry, extinguished, politely apologetic ass out of the drink every time he got kicked overboard.
And because Marco can see that, and because Marco isn't a testosterone-stricken brat with a chip the size of the Moby Dick on his shoulder; and because Marco likes the kid, dammit, he finally decides to do more than just watch the show.
Marco stops by the kitchen for a bowl of hot soup, and grabs a towel before heading out on deck. He knows how cold the sea can be.
He knows how lonely it can be, too, and it's about time that the newbie accepted that it doesn't have to be that way.
And when he does, Marco has a feeling that the kid will be even more amusing a brother than he was an enemy.