Chapter Text
The last thing you remembered was a ship – your ship, you realized – groaning, splitting apart under the immense pressure of the harsh storm, and the screams of your crew swallowed by the sea. Now, there was only the rhythmic hiss of foam on sand whispered against your ears. A cruel, cruel lullaby.
A dull throb pulsed behind your eyes, a relentless drumbeat against the inside of your skull. You quickly realized you were fading in and out of consciousness. You felt the rough texture of sand against your cheek, the biting chill of the wind, and an unfamiliar warmth that wasn’t your own. There was also something else; a low murmur of voices, like distant bees, penetrated the fog that was your thoughts. You tried to open your eyes, but the lids felt impossibly heavy, glued shut by exhaustion and the crust of dried salt.
“Look at her, poor thing,” a soft voice whispered, close enough to feel the puff of breath against your ear.
Another voice, deeper this time, rumbled, “Still breathing. Barely though. What happened out there?”
A gentle hand, surprisingly calloused, brushed strands of wet hair from your face. A wave of nausea rolled over you, and you coughed, a dry, rattling sound that tore at your throat. Your body convulsed, every muscle screaming in protest. You felt more dead than alive.
“She’s waking up!” a younger voice exclaimed, excitement winning over fear.
“Careful, Haru. Don’t startle her. She’s badly hurt.” The deeper voice again.
Slowly, after several attempts, you forced your eyes open, a sliver at first, then wider. The world swam into view, blurry at first, then your eyes caught sight of blue sky, green hills, and concerned faces all looking down at you. They were kind faces, weathered by sun and toil, framed by straw hats and simple scarves. Villagers. Not marines. Not pirates. Just… normal people.
“Where… where am I?” you croaked, your voice only a faint reminder of what it once was. Your throat felt like raw sandpaper.
A woman with kind eyes knelt beside you. Her face was a canvas of fine wrinkles, but her gaze held a deep, maternal warmth. “You’re on Sphinx Island, dear. We found you washed ashore.” She offered a small, wooden flask. “Here, drink this. Slowly.”
You lifted a trembling hand, fingers clumsy and numb, and took the flask. The water was cool, sweet, and pure, sliding down your parched throat. You drank until it was completely empty, feeling a fragile thread of strength return.
“My ship… my crew?” you asked, the words catching in your throat. Hope, a tiny, flickering flame, ignited in your chest. You weren't particularly close to your crew, your relationship with them more that of business partners than friends, yet you still hoped they were safe at least.
The villagers around you exchanged uneasy glances. The kind woman squeezed your arm gently. “There was no ship, dear. Just you. The sea… has been rough these past few days.”
Your heart sank, and that's when fragments of the last moments on your ship came back. The storm. The splintering wood. The endless, frigid water. They were gone. All of them. A cold, heavy stone settled in your gut. It wasn't exactly grief, not the kind they were thinking you were currently experiencing, but still… they didn't deserve an end like this. You truly hoped it had been a quick and painless one at least.
“We need to get her to Marco,” the deep voice urged, belonging to a sturdy man with a thick beard. “She’s got a nasty gash on her head, and who knows what else.”
“Marco?” you echoed, the name unfamiliar.
“Our doctor,” the kind woman explained. “He’ll fix you right up.”
Strong, gentle hands carefully lifted you. Pain lanced through your side, a sharp, white-hot agony that made you gasp. You bit back a cry, refusing to show weakness. You were a pirate and you had your pride, so instead you just clenched your teeth and hoped no one would look into it more. The world swayed, and you clung to the consciousness that threatened to desert you again. They carried you, a surprisingly smooth procession considering it was done by an older man and woman and a child skipping along beside you, across soft grass that smelled of damp earth and wildflowers. In your delirious state you could only make out Camellia’s and Jasmine’s among them, but they were beautiful. The air here was clean, untainted by the stench of sea salt and gunpowder you were so familiar with.
You drifted in and out, only managing to catch a few glimpses here and there of rolling green hills, small, simple houses, and the distant, rhythmic turning of windmills. This island was nothing like the bustling, chaotic ports you knew. It was quiet. So, so quiet.
Finally, they carried you into a small, unassuming house, sitting lonely on top of a small hill. The air inside was cool, smelling faintly of herbs and something sterile you couldn't make out. They laid you down on a cot, the rough fabric scratching against your skin. Your head lolled to the side, and that's when you saw him.
The first thing you noticed was that he was tall. Incredibly tall. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his frame dwarfing the villagers who had carried you. He wore a simple, light blue collared shirt, unbuttoned at the top, revealing a dark blue tattoo on his chest. His trousers were dark, rolled up to his calves, exposing bare, hairy shins and feet clad in simple sandals. He had a weird hairstyle you couldn't quite explain, a bright blonde faintly reminding you of the shape of a pineapple. Small, rectangular glasses rested on his nose, and behind them, his eyes, a dark brown almost fully black, regarded you with an almost unnerving calm. He exuded an aura of quiet authority, yet his gaze held no judgment, only a deep, assessing focus. He was… striking. In a weird way, that was the first impression you ever had of him.
And he looked eerily familiar, but you had no idea where you had seen his face before.
“Move aside, everyone,” his voice was deep, carrying a casual, almost sleepy cadence with it, yet it commanded immediate attention. He moved with an unhurried grace until he approached the cot, his presence filling the small room immediately.
He knelt beside you, his immense height still making him tower over you even as he bent. You felt a flicker of something in your chest, a strange mix of apprehension and… something else. Admiration? Curiosity? Whatever it was, you were far too dazed to put a name on it. He reached out a hand, his fingers long and surprisingly delicate, and gently touched your forehead. His skin felt warm against yours.
“Her fever’s climbing,” he murmured, more to himself than to the villagers. His eyes, though calm, missed nothing, scanning your form with a professional intensity. Despite the predicament you found yourself in right now, you felt a blush creep up your neck. You were a mess, bruised and battered, and this man, this giant, was examining you with an unflinching gaze that made you quite nervous.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low.
You swallowed, your throat still raw. “It’s… Y/N.”
“Y/N,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “Alright, Y/N. You’re in a bit of a pickle, aren’t you?” A faint curve touched the corner of his lips. It wasn't a smile, not exactly, but a hint of dry amusement.
“I’ve been in worse,” you shot back, a spark of your usual defiance flickering to life. It was a lie. Objectively speaking, this was pretty fucking bad.
He chuckled, a soft, rumbling sound that vibrated in his chest. “I’m sure you have. But for now, you’re on my table, and I’m the one calling the shots.” He pulled a small, silver instrument from a leather bag at his side and began to examine the gash on your head. You realized once again that he was very gentle with you. “How’d you end up in this state?”
“Storm,” you managed, wincing as he probed a particularly tender spot. “Ship went down. Everyone… everyone else is gone.”
A silence befell you two, thick and heavy. The villagers shifted uncomfortably. Marco’s expression remained unreadable, but his hand paused for a fraction of a second on your temple.
“I see,” he said, his voice softer now, devoid of its earlier dry humor. You appreciated that he wasn't asking any more follow-up questions. “A pirate, then?” His gaze flickered to the remnants of your tattered clothes, the faint outline of a skull and crossbones emblem on your belt buckle, now mostly obscured by blood, grime and sand.
You nodded. “Yeah. Was.” The past tense hung in the air, a bitter taste on your lips. No matter how close you were with your crew, without them you were nothing more than a lonely soul all alone on the open sea.
“Well, was or is, you’re a patient now,” he stated. His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. He moved to your side, carefully peeling back the soaked fabric of your shirt. You hissed as the cold air hit the raw, bloody skin beneath. “Looks like a few broken ribs, maybe a concussion, and a whole lot of scrapes and bruises. Standard fare for a rough sea journey, I suppose.”
“You say that like it’s a normal Tuesday,” you muttered, trying to shift away from his probing fingers.
“For some of us, it is,” he replied, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. There was a depth in those dark eyes, a weariness that betrayed his calm exterior. You found yourself staring, momentarily forgetting even the worst pain. He was older than you, perhaps ten years, perhaps more, but the lines around his eyes spoke of experience, not age. He had a strong, defined jawline, and the faint stubble of his beard gave him a rugged edge. He was a man who had seen things, done things, lived a life far beyond the peaceful confines of this island, you could tell.
He pulled a small bottle of clear liquid from his bag, the scent of antiseptic strong and sharp. “This is going to sting.”
It did, immensely so. You bit your lip, a low groan escaping despite your efforts to hold it in. He worked with a practiced efficiency, cleaning your wounds, applying salves, and then, with surprising deftness, wrapping your torso tightly with bandages. His large hands, though powerful, were incredibly gentle, never pressing too hard and immediately backing up whenever you tensed. You watched him, fascinated by the quiet intensity of his movements.
“There,” he finally said, stepping back. “That’s the worst of it for now. You’ll need rest. A lot of it. And food. Good, proper food, not whatever dried fish you must've had on your ship. You're quite malnourished.”
“Hey,” you protested weakly, “we had some excellent rations.”
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure you did.” He turned to the villagers. “Thank you for bringing her in. Haru, can you fetch some fresh water and a clean cloth? Mika, a bowl of that broth you made this morning, please. And everyone else, give her some space. She needs to sleep.”
The villagers nodded, murmuring their agreements, and began to disperse, leaving you alone with Marco. The silence in the room stretched, punctuated only by the distant chirping of birds and the gentle creak of the windmills.
He pulled up a small wooden stool and sat beside the cot, observing you quietly with a steady gaze. It made you feel exposed, almost vulnerable, lying there under his scrutiny.
“So, Y/N,” he began, his voice soft, “do you know where you were originally headed?”
You sighed, trying to recall the events that happened before the storm, but… nothing. “I don't know. Right now, my head feels almost empty when I try to recall these things…”
He hummed, and then it was quiet for a while. You followed his eyes that were now lingering on the outside and found yourself, once again, appreciating the nice scenery. Eventually, he began speaking again.
“The Grand Line is a vast place,” he mused, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He seemed tired, you realized.
“Many pirates have found their journey cut short by its whims.”
“We were a small crew,” you continued, your voice barely a whisper. The words felt strange on your tongue. Not because they hurt, but because they didn't.
You searched for grief and found only a dull heaviness inside you instead. “We weren't exactly... close.” Your gaze drifted toward the window again, toward the rolling hills beyond it. “Most of us ended up together because it was convenient. Safety in numbers, you know... We shared supplies and goals, but that was it.” You let out a quiet breath. “Nobody was sailing under some grand banner of friendship.”
The admission felt almost cruel spoken aloud, especially now that they were gone.
Still, it was the truth.
You remembered countless arguments over food, over routes, over treasure that never even existed. Long stretches of silence broken only by the sound of waves against the hull. Nights spent keeping watch beside people whose favorite color you didn't know and never thought to ask.
Yet somehow, despite all of that, the realization of what happened to them settled deep in your stomach. They hadn't deserved to die like that. Your jaw tightened.
And through it all, Marco watched you, his expression unreadable. He didn’t offer platitudes, didn’t try to comfort you with empty words. He simply watched and you found yourself finding comfort in his silence and warm gaze.
“Well,” he finally said, his voice gentle, “you’re safe here. For now. Sphinx is a peaceful place. We don’t get many visitors like you.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Especially not ones who wash up half-dead on our shores.”
“I’m not staying,” you said, your voice firm despite the weakness in your body. “As soon as I’m strong enough, I’m leaving.”
Because you loved the sea, always did. The freedom to go wherever you wanted… and yes, you had been lonely even while sailing with a crew and didn't even want to imagine how it would feel being all alone on the water, but still… you had to return. You've never lived a different life after all.
He nodded slowly, a thoughtful hum escaping his lips. “I understand. But you won’t be going anywhere for a while. Those ribs need to heal. And that head wound… it’s deep. You’ll be lucky if you don’t have a headache for a week.” He stood, his imposing height casting a shadow over you. “For now, rest. The villagers will bring you food and water. I’ll check on you again in the morning.”
He turned to leave, but you reached out a hand, a sudden impulse taking hold. His gaze flickered back to you, a question in his eyes, but he was patiently waiting for what you had to say.
“Thank you,” you said, the words feeling inadequate for all he did for you, but at least they were meant heartfelt. “For… for saving me.”
He paused, a faint, almost shy smile gracing his lips. “It’s what I do, Y/N. It’s what we do here. I hope you recover soon.” He gave you a small nod, then turned and left the room, the door quietly falling shut behind him.
You lay there, alone in the quiet room, the scent of herbs and antiseptic still lingering. The pain in your body was a dull ache now, overshadowed by the exhaustion that pulled at you. But something else lingered too: the image of his calm, dark eyes, the gentle strength of his hands, and the unexpected kindness in his voice. Marco. The doctor of this island.
The name echoed in your mind once, twice, then settled there like a stone dropped into still water. It sounded so familiar, but…
Your tired eyes snapped open.
No. It couldn't be. Or could it…?
For a long moment, you simply stared at the ceiling, your pulse suddenly louder than the distant creak of the windmills outside. That face. That calm, unreadable gaze. The strange blond hair. The tattoo peeking from beneath his shirt.
You had seen him before. Not in person, of course. You were just a small, unknown pirate after all, not even remotely comparable to the weakest man of his crew.
No, you had seen him on a wanted poster.
The memory came back slowly at first, then all at once. A worn piece of paper pinned crookedly to the wall of a tavern somewhere along the Grand Line, half-hidden between bounties of other powerful men. You remembered glancing at it while nursing a drink, barely paying attention until someone at the bar muttered his name with the kind of caution usually reserved for monsters.
He was Marco the Phoenix, former First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates.
Your stomach tightened. The man who had just cleaned your wounds with gentle hands, who had wrapped your broken ribs and told you to rest, was not simply some quiet village doctor.
He was a legend. A man who just buried his Captain and Portgas D. Ace, son of none other than the legendary Pirate King Gol D. Roger, a year ago, and then led the remaining crew to fight against Blackbeard and his crew in the so-called Payback War. They had lost, and now he was here...
A wave of understanding, heavy and cold, washed over you. Marineford. The war that had shaken the entire world. The live broadcast that had played in every tavern, every single town square with a Den Den Mushi hookup. You hadn't been there, but you had watched the feed, seen the sheer, deadly chaos, the raw power of the strongest men in the world clashing. And Marco, in his phoenix form, battling admirals, desperately trying to protect his family.
He had fought like a demon. He had lost two of the most important people in his life. The grief, the sheer, crushing weight of it, must have been unbearable. You remembered the silent, stoic way he had stood beside Whitebeard’s body, then Ace’s, his face a mask of profound sorrow.
Now, he was here. On this quiet, unassuming island. A doctor. The thought was so heavy, every single detail making your head spin. How much he must have endured. How much he must still be enduring. The peaceful calm he exuded in the room, the gentle humor… it was a shield. A carefully constructed wall against the storm of emotions inside of him.
A gentle knock brought you back to the present. The door creaked open, revealing the young boy from earlier, Haru, with wide, curious eyes, clutching a wooden bucket and a folded cloth. Behind him, the older woman, Mika, held a steaming bowl.
“Marco said to bring you this, Y/N-san,” Haru said, his voice soft and light, untouched by the heaviness adults felt. He approached the cot, setting the bucket of water down carefully. The scent of clean linen filled the small space.
Mika placed the bowl on a small table beside your cot. “It’s clam broth. My special recipe. It’ll help you get your strength back.”
You managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Mika-san, Haru-kun.” The names felt strange on your tongue, a stark contrast to the rough aliases and titles you were used to exchanging with your crew.
“You’re really a pirate?” Haru asked, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of awe and apprehension. He glanced at your tattered clothes, then at the bandages around your head.
You chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “I was a pirate, Haru-kun. Now… I’m just Y/N, I guess.” The words felt heavy, even to your own ears. A core part of you for years was now nothing but a discarded shell.
“But Marco-san said you still are a pirate,” Mika corrected gently, her voice warm. “He said you’re a patient now, but that doesn’t change who you are.”
You looked at her, surprised. “He said that?”
Mika nodded. “He understands, Y/N-san. More than most, I think.” Her gaze held a knowing depth. She probably knew exactly who Marco was too. Everyone on this island must; after all, this had been Whitebeard’s home island, a place that had been under his protection for decades.
Haru, meanwhile, dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out before offering it to you. “Here, for your face. It’s cool.”
You took the cloth, pressing it to your forehead. The coolness was a gift from heaven against the throbbing. “Thank you, Haru.”
“Did you fight monsters?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, leaning in conspiratorially. “Sea Kings? Marines? Did you find treasure?”
You closed your eyes, a small sigh escaping you. “No monsters, Haru. Just the sea. And… sometimes, other pirates. And the Marines, yes.” You opened your eyes, meeting his eager gaze. “Treasure? Only the kind you find in stories, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” His shoulders drooped slightly, but then he quickly perked up. “But you sailed the Grand Line! What was it like?”
“Haru, give Y/N some peace,” Mika interjected, a soft reprimand in her tone. “She needs to eat and rest.” “It’s alright, Mika-san,” you said, a genuine smile forming. The boy’s innocent curiosity was a welcome distraction from the heavy thoughts swirling in your mind. “The Grand Line… it’s a beautiful place, Haru. But also very dangerous. It’s vast and wild, and it doesn’t care about your plans or your hopes. It gives you incredible sights, islands you can barely dream of, but it can also take everything from you in just a matter of seconds.”
You paused, a distant look in your eyes. “It teaches you to be strong. To rely on yourself. And sometimes… it teaches you how lonely you can be, even surrounded by others.”
Haru’s eyes remained wide, absorbing every word. Mika, too, listened, an expression you couldn't quite place on her face.
“So you were lonely, even with a crew?” Mika asked, her voice soft.
You nodded. “More often than not. We were a crew of convenience, as I told Marco. We navigated the sea, fought when we had to, celebrated small victories. But we never… truly connected. Not like a family.” You thought of the Whitebeard Pirates, of Marco’s unwavering loyalty, his desperate fight to protect his captain and brother. That was a different kind of crew. A different kind of family.
“That sounds… sad,” Haru said, a small frown on his face.
“Sometimes it was,” you admitted. “But it was my life. The only one I knew.” You pushed yourself up slightly, the movement sending a fresh jolt of pain through your ribs. You winced, biting back a gasp.
Mika immediately moved to assist you, gently helping you sit upright. “Here, let me help you with the broth.” She held the bowl to your lips. The warm, savory liquid was surprisingly delicious, its comforting warmth immediately spreading through your chest. You ate slowly, savoring each spoonful.
“Thank you,” you said again, feeling a little stronger with each sip.
“You’re very welcome,” Mika replied, a gentle smile on her lips. “We don’t get many visitors here. It’s nice to have a new face, even if you did arrive in such a state.”
“I’m sure you prefer the ones who arrive on purpose,” you said, a hint of your usual dry wit returning.
Mika chuckled. “Well, those tend to be less… bruised. But Marco-san always says everyone deserves care, no matter how they arrive.”
“He’s a good man,” you stated, the words feeling probably understated for a man of his caliber, but true nonetheless.
“He is,” Haru agreed, nodding vigorously. “He saved my grandfather when he fell from the cliffs. And he always has sweets for us children after our check-ups.”
You managed a small smile. “Sweets, huh? Is that his secret weapon?”
“Maybe!” Haru giggled. “He’s always busy, though. Always helping someone.”
“He seems to carry a lot on his shoulders,” you murmured, thinking of the burden of Whitebeard’s legacy and the responsibility for this entire island.
Mika’s smile softened, a wistful look in her eyes. “He does. He tries to hide it, but we all see it. He lost so much. But he never stops giving it his all and caring for us. This island… it would be lost without him.”
You finished the broth, feeling a significant improvement in your strength already. “I need to rest now, I think,” you said, feeling the exhaustion pulling at you once more.
“Of course, Y/N-san,” Mika said, taking the empty bowl. “We’ll leave you to it. Just call if you need anything.”
Haru, after a moment of contemplation, placed a small, smooth seashell on the table beside you. “For good luck,” he whispered, then scampered out after Mika,.pulling the door shut behind her.
The room was quiet again, save for the distant creak of the windmills. You reached for the seashell, tracing its smooth, cool surface. Good luck. Well, you thought, you certainly needed some of that.
You closed your eyes, the image of Marco’s calm, dark gaze returning. Marco the Phoenix. A legend, a doctor, a man burdened by unimaginable loss. And yet a caring, gentle man underneath it all. The contrast was stark, almost unbelievable. You, a minor pirate, washed ashore, saved by a man who had stood on the world stage. The irony was definitely not lost on you.
Sleep pulled at you quite fast. You remembered the Marineford war, the sheer, impossible odds Marco and his crew faced, the pain etched onto his face even through the grainy broadcast. He must have carried that pain, that grief, every single day since. And yet, he healed. He cared. He was here, on this quiet island, doing good and protecting his beloved captains and brothers last resting place.
Your last conscious thought before sleep finally claimed you was how much he must have endured, and a strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through your chest, briefly overshining even the dull ache of your injuries.
—
The next morning, you woke to the gentle rays of sunlight filtering through the small window. The pain in your head had dulled to a persistent ache, and your ribs still throbbed, but the suffocating exhaustion had lifted. You felt… human again.
You sat up slowly, testing your body. The bandages around your torso felt snug, supporting your ribs. The air in the room was fresh and carried the faint scent of baking bread and blooming flowers. You pushed yourself off the cot, wincing slightly. Your legs felt wobbly, but they held you this time at least.
You found a simple, clean tunic and trousers folded neatly on a nearby chair. Someone must have left them for you. You shed your torn, grimy clothes, feeling a sense of liberation as you pulled on the fresh garments. They were a little too big, but comfortable.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” you called out, your voice still a little hoarse, but stronger and clearer than yesterday.
The door opened, and Marco stood there, a small, knowing smile on his face. He held a tray with a steaming mug and a plate of something that smelled delicious but had no idea what it was. He wore the same light blue shirt, but this time it was buttoned up, hiding the cross tattoo. His glasses rested on his nose, his dark eyes observing you with that familiar, calm intensity.
“Well, look at you,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Up and about. Feeling better, I hope?”
“Much better, thank you,” you replied, a genuine smile touching your lips. “And thank you for the clothes. They’re a definite improvement.”
He set the tray down on the small table. “Haru’s mother left them. Didn’t think you’d want to wander around in rags.” He gestured to the mug. “Herbal tea. Good for healing. And some fresh bread with local honey.”
You sat back down on the cot, feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze. “You didn’t have to bring it yourself.”
“Thought I’d check on my patient,” he said, pulling up the wooden stool and sitting opposite you. “See if you’ve been following doctor’s orders.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “You’re looking less like a drowned rat, at least.”
You snorted, a small laugh escaping you. “High praise from the legendary Marco the Phoenix.”
His eyes widened fractionally, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before settling back into their usual calm. A faint tension entered the room.
“So you know,” he said, his voice still even, but the casualness had somewhat left.
You met his gaze directly. “It’s hard not to, isn’t it? That hair, that tattoo… and the sheer number of wanted posters. You’re not exactly an unknown man, Marco-san.” He leaned back, a small, dry chuckle escaping him before he could stop it. “Guess not. Though I try to keep a low profile these days. Not much use for a phoenix in a quiet village, is there, yoi?” The last word, a distinct verbal tic you knew he possessed, solidified your recognition.
“Depends on what you need a phoenix for,” you countered, taking a sip of the herbal tea. It was warm, earthy, and surprisingly soothing. “Healing, I suppose. And protecting.”
He watched you, his expression unreadable. “You don’t seem… surprised. Or scared.”
“Surprised, yes. Scared? Why would I be?” You took a bite of the fresh bread, the honey sweet on your tongue. “You just saved my life. And you’re a doctor now, not a pirate.”
“Still a pirate,” he corrected, his eyes holding yours. “Once a pirate, always a pirate, Y/N. It’s in the blood and the soul. It’s just… some of us have different priorities now.”
“Different priorities,” you repeated, a sad smile playing on your lips. “I understand that more than you know. My priorities just changed a few days ago, when the sea decided it was apparently done with my crew.”
A moment of silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken understanding. Once again, he didn’t offer comforting words. He just watched, his gaze doing all the speaking as he watched you empathetically.
“You’re taking it well,” he finally said.
“Am I?” You scoffed lightly. “I’m alive. That’s about all I can say for myself right now. No ship, no crew, no direction. Just… me.” You gestured vaguely around the small room. “On Sphinx Island, with a legend for a doctor.”
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. It sounded manly and yet you could also tell he wasn't laughing often these days.“I’m just Marco, Y/N. Just a doctor caring for you right now.”
“I saw you fight at Marineford,” you said, the words coming out before you could stop them. “The broadcasts. You were… incredible. A whirlwind of blue flames.”
His expression hardened, and you knew you had overstepped a little. He looked away for a moment, his gaze drifting towards the window, a distant look in his dark eyes. “It wasn’t enough,” he said, his voice quieter now, a subtle shift in tone. “None of it was enough.”
“You did everything you could,” you insisted, your voice firm. “The whole world saw it. You fought admirals, protected your family until the very end. Nobody could have asked for more.”
He turned back to you, his gaze intense. “And what did it get us, yoi? Two graves and a shattered family.” He sighed, running a hand through his distinctive pineapple-shaped hair. “It’s a heavy burden, Y/N. To survive when others don’t. To carry their memory, their legacy, when you wish you could have just… gone with them.”
The raw honesty in his voice struck you. This wasn’t the calm, collected doctor from yesterday. This was the man who had lost everything. This was probably the first time he ever told anyone and it somehow made sense to be you. Because soon you would leave again.
“I know that feeling,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “The guilt. The ‘why me?’ The feeling that you should have done more, even when there was actually nothing left to do.” You looked down at your hands, remembering the icy grip of the sea, the screams of your crew. “It’s not rational, is it? But it’s there.”
“It is,” he agreed, his voice soft. “And it stays with you like a shadow.” He paused, then looked at you, a faint smile on his lips. “But you’re here now. And here, all you have to do now is heal and learn to live.”
“Learning to live,” you repeated, the words tasting foreign on your tongue. For so long, your life had been about surviving, about conquering the next wave. Living felt like a luxury you hadn't afforded yourself.
“Exactly, yoi,” he said. “So, for now, focus on that. And then, we can talk about what’s next for you.”
“What’s next?” You looked out the window, at the rolling green hills, the distant windmills. “I don’t know. I’ve always been on the sea. It’s all I know.”
He hummed, and you knew he must've had these thoughts himself once. “The sea will always be there,” he said, his voice calm. “But you don’t have to rush back to it, especially not when you’re still broken. There are other ways to live, Y/N. Other paths you can take.”
“Like being a village doctor on a quiet island?” you asked, a hint of sarcasm in your voice.
He chuckled. “It has its perks, yoi. Good people. Good food. No one trying to kill you every other day. And I still get to help people. Just… differently.” He paused, his gaze softening. “It’s a good life, Y/N. A peaceful one. Something I didn’t think I’d ever have.”
“It certainly is peaceful,” you admitted. “Almost… too peaceful for a pirate.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Or you won’t. But for now, you’re stuck here. So you might as well make the most of it.” He stood up, stretching his tall frame. “I have patients to see. Eat your breakfast. Haru will be back later to check on you.”
“Marco,” you said, stopping him as he turned to leave. “Why are you doing this? Why help a nobody pirate like me to this extent?”
He paused, turning back to face you. His dark eyes held a depth you couldn't quite decipher. “Because everyone deserves a second chance, Y/N. And because this is what Pops would have wanted. This island… it’s a sanctuary. For those who need it.” He offered you a small, genuine smile. “And right now, you need it.”
With that, he walked out, leaving the door ajar, letting in the gentle sounds of the island. You sat there, the mug of herbal tea warming your hands, the bread and honey untouched for a moment. A sanctuary. A second chance. The words resonated deep within you, and you smiled softly.
You picked up the seashell Haru had left, turning it over in your fingers. The smooth, cool surface was a small comfort. You were a pirate, or had been. You had lived a life of chaos and uncertainty. But here, on this quiet island, surrounded by kind strangers and cared for by a man who carried the weight of war, you felt something you hadn't felt in a very long time.
Hope. And a strange, undeniable pull towards the calm, weary eyes of Marco the Phoenix.