Chapter Text
O salty sea, so much of whose salt
Is Portugal’s tears! All the mothers
Who had to weep for us to cross you!
All the sons who prayed in vain!
All the brides-to-be who never
Married for you to be ours, O sea!Was it worth doing? Everything’s worth doing
If the soul of the doer isn’t small.
Whoever would go beyond the Cape
Must go beyond sorrow.
God placed danger and the abyss in the sea,
But he also made it heaven’s mirror.- Fernando Pessoa, "The Message"
The first time he hears the chords of the guitar creating the melody is while resting in Shakky’s bar after docking at Longtown to load and spend a day reminiscing and fighting with Raylight, the old fogy. Shanks is in that mood he always finds himself after talking about Captain — happy yet sad, angry yet fond. It starts slow and almost inaudible, sheepish in a way. That is why when the singer’s poised voice fills the room he stills and it seems the whole bar does the same, the chatter and the clattering dying one by one.
“When my man goes to sea, he steps so high and free,”
The song is a new one, a pleasant surprise since after all these years afloat he cannot remember any other ones besides those he learned aboard the Oro Jackson. He can recall with clarity the memories of the parties, the booze and the warmth he felt, basking in the company of his crew with Buggy and himself not yet lads, running on the wooden floors and misspelling the sea shanties the adults already carried deep in their throats.
“I think I know as I watch him go, that he has no need for me, for me.”
He finds himself immersed in the sound of the cheery tune, captivated by the contrast of the somber lyrics. Shanks is tired, hasn't slept in a few days, so the dim orange lights and the constant rhythm are luring him to sleep resembling the gentle rocking of the Red Force on a peaceful night. And while he knows he shouldn’t, he cannot help but compare this setting to a more desirable one.
“And when my man comes home and waits a while to roam,”
He’s incapable of stopping craving for her. It hasn’t been a year since they departed from the unknown port on East Blue and Shanks’s heart still yearns for that modest bar decorated with the little trinkets they brought, each time delighted by the elated look on her face when they returned, countering her beliefs. The problem was that on every occasion it made it more painful the thought of saying goodbye, the intervals between the visits becoming longer, and Shanks couldn’t say that he wasn't anything but a pirate.
“I think I see when he smiles at me that he's dreaming of the foam, the foam.”
Makino didn’t deserve to be tied down to someone such as him. Who was to say Shanks was going to still be breathing a week from now and not with the fish at the bottom of the sea? He chose to live a life that was full of dangers, but that didn’t mean that he was uncaring of what he could leave behind or that he was pursuing a chance to hop aboard the Flying Dutchman at any time. Maybe that’s why he falters when compared to Roger. Captain was many things, but mindful wasn’t the way he would be described.
“I'm not a pious worshiper and I do not go to mass,”
Shanks didn’t want to be the next Roger — that was a heavy burden to bear and he already carried more than he should in this life for the name of a dead man — but, most importantly, he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the eye if he turned Makino into a new Rouge. Sweet Rouge, who saw all that was Captain and never once tried to turn his wildness down. Bold Rouge, who was alway by his side, despised the barbs, despite the violence, despite the uncertainty of a future. Poor Rouge, who died young and alone with no one there to see her cry — with no lover to clasp her hand & no father to swaddle her child.
“but I pay to Father Neptune to let him safely pass.”
And sometimes, out of the blue, Shanks would be overcome with a need to know. He would imagine what it would be like asking her if it was worth it, if loving his Captain was a regret she carried at the end of her life. And most of the time, he fears what her answer to this question would reveal, because he doesn’t know if his own reply would be the same — regardless of what it may imply.
“I sing to the god with the three-pronged rod and the whiskers wild and free,"
Yes, it was best to wait. He and Makino are still young, even if Red Hair sometimes feels like his bones are failing him and if his heart still stutters when he lets his thoughts wander for too long. Even if he finds himself forgetting important things, like the sound of Captain’s laughter, the smoothness of Oro’s wood or the shade of Buggy’s hair. He shouldn’t feel so old when he looked at Luffy, the kid so naive that it makes him look younger, but he can’t help but imagine if Roger felt the same when he scooped the two of them off that godforsaken island. Were they that small? He can’t believe it, though it would make sense — he and Blue were malnourished at the time, after all.
"That I’ve got a man with a beard and a tan and a passion for the sea.”
Shanks has ten years to make the best out of his adventure. He made a promise to his lass, and while he is many things, he isn't a recreant nor a liar. Shanks is a pirate, nothing more, nothing less.
And maybe that's just the way things are menat to be now — he on the sea longing for the land, and she on land, dreaming of the sea.