PAGE TWO: It's okay, you guys can request again!

[op_fanforall]

ONE PIECE FAN-FOR-ALL

Or, free-for-all-fic, or fic free-for-all, or fic-for-all, whatever phrasing floats your boat.

PAGE ONE | PAGE TWO

Filled | Unfilled (BOTH posts updated to about half of page three, updated Sept 21, 11-something pm, GMT -5

Comments

Legacy - Part 1 continued

[anonymous]

"Teach me how to fight with a sword, Zoro!" Their little boat rocks with his energetic swing, and his new and only crewmate lunges, slaps him down, and wrests the stolen blade from his hand.

"Not a chance! Damn it, Luffy, just leave those alone."

Zoro's fingers stroke the grip of that sword like he's caressing a friend's face, and Luffy understands there is a boundary here he cannot cross.

Sitting cross-legged by the shallow mound of newly turned-over earth, three swords across his lap, memories playing across his mind, he starts to feel bad about the plan to leave them. They might've been as good as an extension of himself, but Zoro also loved his swords like nakama, and they were wielded by other hands before him. They're tools of battle, needing the clash of steel and taste of blood. They should be wielded by other hands still, not left to rust with a man who'll never use them again. Zoro, he's sure, wouldn't want that.

Luffy makes his decision. He will not leave the swords. Rather, he will find them a new master or masters. "You hear that, Zoro?" He pats the ground, like knocking for the sleeping swordsman's attention. "I'm going to take them away, but I'll find them all a place, even if one of them is cursed and tricky. I hope that's what you'd have wanted."

He waits, a little bit expectantly, but there is no sign of approval or otherwise from the silent dirt. He looks down at the sword both his hands are wrapped around. Wadou, Zoro's favourite. The one he's always been apprehensive about, even more than Kitetsu, down to the general feeling that, nakama, captain or not, he'd die quickly and efficiently if he messed with it.

It's both curiosity and reverence that drive him to partially draw the blade from its sheath.

The sense of unfulfilled longing and foiled desire sweeps through him. It feels as though he's pinned by a gaze staring out at him from the shimmer of light that catches on the polished blade. He doesn't hear the words, but he feels them in every fibre of his being:

"I need you to finish it for me."

And for the second time in the space of a day, nothing will ever be the same again.