Chapter Text
In the third year of the war, Zoro received word that Arashi had died.
It came with a report confirming their loss against the Humandrills. An additional missive from a page-boy who couldn’t be older than ten, hailing from the palace. The boy delivered the news with trembling hands as Zoro’s squire assisted him with his armor.
Zoro’s tent was larger than the rest, opulent with its draping silks and thick furs. He stood amongst his most trusted soldiers, and this far into the camp, Zoro could still smell blood. It ignited in him the irrepressible urge to cut something down.
Arashi had been the king. The thirty-fourth in their bloodline.
They hadn’t been particularly close. Once old enough, Zoro was sent to campaigns to defend their borders and the neighboring kingdoms they’d pledged allegiances to. But he could remember the pride on Arashi’s face when he’d proven himself suitable to lead the army, the cadence in Arashi’s voice as he’d proclaimed Zoro his general and heir. Zoro, at seventeen, had carried the golden pin bearing the family crest with pride, pinned to his shoulder at all times.
At twenty-one, the pin was often a negligible weight. But Zoro took notice of it now, glinting against his armor.
“Will we be able to return to the citadel on time for his funeral?” Zoro asked, addressing no one in particular. With Arashi’s untimely death, he had to consult with all the advisors for their next move. The enemy was advancing. They weren’t the type to spare them time for a funeral.
And a coronation, came the belated realization.
He waited for grief. For anything to resemble loss. His voice sounded detached and impersonal, and still he waited. But none came. His grip tightened on the hilt of one of his swords.
“The kingdom awaits the return of the new King,” the page said, carefully avoiding Zoro’s eye. He only spoke when the silence became obtrusive and unbearable. And probably out of turn, something he seemed to realize belatedly as his voice trembled over the rest: “And await his orders.”
Zoro must return to Shimotsuki. There was nothing for him here in Shikkearu—this was a barren wasteland that the Humandrills had long taken for themselves. Defending it had been a course borne out of pride, and one that Zoro had hoped wouldn’t be futile with his presence. But he’d been too late. The lands were overrun.
“Treat the injured,” Zoro said. His words held more weight now, and he felt it with the way the men now stared at him. He was the King. “Cull the rest of the troops and inform them that we’ll convene at Yotsuba before heading back to the capital.”
He turned to the page who flinched when their eyes met. The boy cast a pointed look at his own feet, a gesture of meekness that Zoro found distasteful. He knew of his reputation. In the capital, he was feared. Word had long spread that his own father had sent him to wars because he couldn’t be controlled.
“What’s your name?” he asked the page.
The boy swallowed. “Piiman. Your High—Your Majesty.”
Zoro knew that name. He had to spare himself a few moments to think, and when it occurred to him, he wondered what this boy had heard about him in particular that made him tremble like this.
He’d have to ask Usopp. The bard had some explaining to do once Zoro returned to the palace.
“Take some of the provisions before heading back to the palace ahead of the army,” Zoro offered, letting his squire finish fastening the cape to his shoulders.
He said the next words evenly. “And let the palace know that their King is returning.”
The page nodded, promptly excused himself, and scurried out of Zoro’s tent. Outside, Zoro heard the men moving: dismantling posts, herding what remained of the cattle, and dousing out fires. The camp stood at the edge of Shikkearu to the northeast, and Zoro waited until his squire took a step back before he headed outside.
His eye searched for a redhead. Her tent ought to be fifteen to twenty paces away from his. Each step crunched against the gravel, the scabbards of his swords clinking against one another as he made his way to where Nami was supposed to be.
After an indiscernible number of minutes, he found Nami in her tent, which was erected in a location farther than he expected. She was gathering all her maps and rolling them as fast as she could, albeit careful not to leave any creases.
Nami looked at him like everything was his fault. “Heading back just like that.”
She didn’t sound accusatory. Perhaps surprised—it was uncharacteristic of Zoro to accept defeat like this: with grace and without a fuss.
“We’ve lost,” Zoro said. They’d been defending this wasteland for five months. Nami had the entire terrain mapped out and memorized, but not even with her acumen could Zoro perform a miracle. “Their numbers are too many. Falling back is the only way I can keep my army.”
“Most of it,” Nami said ruthlessly. Then she sighed. “I heard that you’re the King now.”
“Will you bend the knee?” Zoro asked, eyeing her curiously.
“You can command me,” Nami said evenly. Like she didn’t mind either way.
Zoro eyed the state of her tent. She always wanted everything to be in their proper place, even going as far as prohibiting the attendants to touch her personal effects. It was in disarray now, like a storm had been unleashed here. Nami was the one person he’d insisted to accompany him to this backwater prefecture. He’d thought that with her knowledge of the terrain, he’d be able to do the impossible and reclaim this land from the invaders.
“Pack only what you need,” Zoro said instead. “And meet me outside in fifteen minutes.”
He pivoted on his heel and was on his way out when he heard her speak.
“Zoro,” Nami called out, and Zoro spared her a glance over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. For your father’s death. For this loss.”
Regret was accompanied by frustration at her words, and Zoro realized that the grief he was waiting for was felt because of another loss. Not because of Arashi’s death. It brought an inexplicable, frigid sort of detachment that he had no idea how to dissect.
He settled for a stiff nod before taking his leave.
His squire met him outside, a hand on the reins of Zoro’s horse. Zoro stroked the horse’s neck in greeting and the mare shrugged. Zoro then mounted, holding his head high, and his squire offered him the reins.
One of the infantry men approached him, bowing in greeting. “Your H—Majesty, the scouts are reporting the possibility of an ambush if we take the eastern passage.”
Without Nami next to him, Zoro had to recall those late night meetings they’d had planning their defense. Through that passage was a crag, jagged and made of granite. It could be triggered to cause a rockfall, effectively trapping them. It was something he would do. The Humandrills had been difficult to predict; their strategy evolved depending on the enemy. Zoro had fought his share of battles before this, but those forms and maneuvers relied on regimens that he could study.
The Humandrills learned by copying humans. His own tactics had been used against him and while Zoro could defend himself against…himself, fighting against his own methods proved impossible. His constant, repetitive defeats, essentially, were by his own hand.
Zoro’s eye tracked the rest of the camp. They had wagons with them, overloaded with remaining provisions. Enough to last them the journey back home. Behind him are lines of exhausted, brave men, and he made up his mind.
“I need a small party,” he said, and he felt the air shift from embittered acceptance to determination, the men within hearing range all looking right at him. Like him, they thirsted for blood, for something to feel akin to victory, no matter how small. “We will raid the hillside to provide safe passage.”
A white mare trudged towards him, only stopping once Nami was close enough to pin him with a glare. She had her fur cloak on, snowflakes sprinkled across her pinched brows. In this weather, pink dusted her cheeks and nose.
“You are King now,” she reminded him. “You might want to consider delegating.”
Zoro hummed in contemplation, then he swung his horse to face hers. “Have the men segregate the contents of one wagon. Transfer whatever it is we cannot afford to lose to the others. Leave whatever we can sacrifice and pretend that you’re taking that passage without any precautions.” He eyed her pointedly. “There. That was me delegating.”
Nami wasn’t even a soldier. She was Zoro’s childhood friend and a member of his privy council. He’d dragged her here despite her complaints, and now she looked at him like she knew exactly what he was planning. She was a fairly decent rider—adept at running for cover.
“The diversion has to be ostentatious since we’re up against talented imitators,” Nami said. Then she nodded. “I’ll tell Jinbe. Anything else?”
Around them, a small party of the best riders had already gathered. Zoro exchanged a look with Kin’emon and directed his horse towards them.
“Yes,” he said, mostly to the men with Nami. “When the rockslide happens, ride as hard as you can. I’m prepared to lose a wagon but nothing more.”
“I thought you’d be out there to prevent the rockslide?” Nami asked, frowning.
The harsh, winter wind blew over them, their banners billowing. It was a dark green amidst the gray, bleak sky. The only touch of color in this place.
“That’s what I would normally do,” Zoro acknowledged. “And what they’re expecting.”
He kicked his horse into motion, and the rest of the men followed after him, hooves galloping across the muddy earth.
——
They lost a wagon and three men. To Jinbe’s assessment, it could’ve been worse. The cliffside bordering the eastern passage was littered with corpses of Humandrills, and Zoro scrunched his nose at the acrid scent permeating the air. Enemy blood drenched the earth, yet there was no semblance of victory.
He made orders for the rest of the troop to ride towards Yotsuba where they could set up camp in the old fortress there and get a bit of rest before making their way back to the capital.
By the following week, Zoro was back in Shimotsuki. There was a gathering of civilians welcoming the army as they entered the gates, but there was an absence of smiles. It felt more like a funeral procession than a welcoming march towards the palace.
There was a retinue composed of his late father’s most trusted advisors gathered at the palace’s entrance, all bowing their heads in greeting the moment Zoro disembarked from his steed. It had been four days of grueling ride towards home, and it was Robin who first stepped forward to approach him.
She had been Arashi’s personal aide. She’d started as an emissary from Ohara who later sought refuge in Shimotsuki after her home had been destroyed by raiders. Arashi had offered her a position after she’d proven herself capable of handling royal affairs and all the politics that came with it. Zoro supposed that she was now going to be serving him.
“I bid you welcome, Your Majesty,” Robin greeted, her eyes downcast. Since she stood taller than Zoro, the gesture seemed exaggerated. “The council awaits you in the throne room.”
Zoro tossed the reins to an attendant who led his horse towards the path to the stables. “I’m not talking to any of them until I’ve slept.” He pitched his voice lower, quieter. “Where is he?”
Robin inclined her head, shadows obscuring half of her face. “They’ve been tending to his body in the preparation chambers adjacent to the family crypt. They await your word if you intend to see him.”
Zoro breathed in the scent of home. There was a faint trace of lilies and chrysanthemums in the air. In the past, after each campaign, Arashi had personally greeted him by the palace’s entrance: his kingly presence and the domineering scent of sandalwood permeating Zoro’s nostrils. It had, Zoro was only realizing now, been a source of welcome and its absence was jarring.
“Take me to the crypt,” he told Robin, and she nodded once before leading the way.
——
The Shimotsuki ancestral crypt was an edifice carved out of marble, towering the eastern side of the palace compounds. It was surrounded by artificial ponds covered in lilies, littered by multicolored fish. Flamingoes occupied one pond while the other housed a hen and her ducklings, and attendants lined the steps leading to the crypt in welcome as they paused in their work. They lowered their heads in greeting and obeisance, and Zoro settled for the barest of nods as a passable acknowledgement.
He hadn’t been to crypts since Kuina’s passing.
Kuina’s father, Koushirou, hadn’t been the same since. Koushirou had been the king before Arashi. But after Kuina’s death, he’d abdicated and gone to a self-imposed exile in a temple somewhere in the mountains, and Arashi had been selected by the council to replace him. Tera, Zoro’s mother, had long succumbed to an illness by the time Arashi had been crowned king.
And now Zoro was on his way to view his father’s body. All that remained of Arashi while war persisted, encroaching on their borders and terrorizing their people.
Zoro ascended the marble steps leading to the crypt with heavy steps, Robin trudging somewhere close behind him. The attendants inside scurried to the sides upon his entrance, and one of the high priestesses introduced herself with a graceful bow, the shade of her hair reminding Zoro of wheat. That had been growing in abundance once in Shikkearu.
It was the high priestess who led him to where Arashi’s body lay. Robin, he realized, had remained by the entryway in an attempt to offer him privacy. Zoro dismissed the high priestess with a shake of his head, and he waited for her delicate footsteps to fade down a corridor before he lifted his head to look at his father’s corpse.
He’d passed in his sleep. Color had long drained from his aged face. The body was surrounded by chrysanthemums and carnations in various hues and sizes, but with each whiff Zoro was reminded that this was all that was left. His father’s distinct scent was gone. Arashi looked as though he was asleep, but Zoro would never catch a hint of pride from him again. Not even the silent disappointment that he’d come to expect, only to remember that Arashi was dead.
Zoro traced the edges of the sarcophagus that now housed his father’s body. Slowly, the weariness from riding and battle caught up to him, and he let out a breath. He hadn’t slept in days.
“They’ve taken Shikkearu,” were his first words. Arashi remained motionless, and Zoro thought of the last time he’d given his father a report in person.
It was six months ago when he’d driven back the Humandrills from Isshin. Not a total victory, but a taste of it after years of fighting. Zoro had lost an eye but had been filled with determination, and he’d sought Arashi’s permission to send him to Shikkearu in hopes of reclaiming it.
Arashi had relented after the third time Zoro asked.
“Then go,” were his words. “And take back what’s ours.”
Failure was a heavy, leaden thing. It left a nauseating aftertaste that Zoro wanted to do away with alcohol, except there wasn’t any. Not here. All he had in this place were ghosts of his ancestors and his family, listening to his every breath, every word that was in admittance of a harsh, bitter truth.
“I couldn’t drive them back,” Zoro continued. “Not with Nami’s help. Not even with Jinbe’s strength.” His hand went to Wado’s hilt, its grooves a familiar sensation against his thumb. A final source of comfort. “They knew every move I made. They learned them when we clashed in Isshin.”
The priests and priestesses had prepared the body. Lathered it in oils and drained it of fluids, and the longer Zoro looked at it, the less it resembled whatever he could remember of his father. Arashi’s body didn’t retain the vigor evident in every expression, the authority that accompanied every word. This was a husk and it was all that remained.
The more Zoro spoke, the less he expected a response. He walked around the sarcophagus and the shadows on his father’s corpse shifted, yet none lent it the illusion that Arashi was merely asleep.
He was gone. Zoro was truly on his own now.
“I will have them put you beside Mother,” Zoro said, detached. Wherever Arashi was, it was somewhere Zoro couldn’t reach. Whatever wisdom he might’ve had for Zoro had disappeared along with him. “When I visit Kuina, I shall see you both as well.”
He strode towards a vase that housed a few blooms, plucked one, and left it next to Arashi’s corpse. Despite Zoro’s disbelief over a higher power, he followed Shimotsuki’s custom. He was King now. Everyone was watching his every move.
When he left, he didn’t look back. He retraced his steps and made it to the corridor that led to the inner, labyrinthine crypts. The statues of his ancestors greeted him and he saw Kuina’s down the hall—smaller than her counterparts.
He heard Robin clearing her throat somewhere behind him. Zoro turned, found her looking at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher.
“I have no wish to talk to any of my father’s advisors,” Zoro told her.
Robin’s expression did not crack. “They’re your advisors now. But I will let them know on your behalf. Do you wish to return to the palace?”
Zoro took one last glance at Kuina’s statue. From here, he could almost pretend that she was alive and merely waiting for him.
“To my chambers,” Zoro said. “Without running into anyone important.”
Robin inclined her head. She knew the entire palace like the backs of her own hands and could move in it mostly unnoticed. It was only her scent that often gave her away.
“As you wish,” she said. “Your Majesty.”
——
Zoro slept for an entire day and a half. He was woken by Nami around midday, throwing a towel at him along with a set of new clothes. Zoro allowed himself a moment of petty annoyance before getting up and heading to the adjacent bathing chamber.
An attendant showed up to help him dress, all while Nami was giving him an assessing look that he didn’t understand the reasons for. There was so much finery now: he was shoved into an embroidered tunic dyed black, then a black jacket that accentuated the width of his shoulders. The woven gold patterns on the collar and on the hems of the sleeves complemented Zoro’s only accessory. A velvet cape as dark as the entire outfit was pinned to his left shoulder, the length running past the backs of his shins. It was purely decorative and served no real purpose. He was made to wear breeches that hugged his thighs uncomfortably, then a pair of leather boots that nearly reached his knees.
He felt overdressed and stuffy.
“Why did you wake me?” Zoro finally asked. He could’ve slept for another half a day.
“Your father’s council wants to speak with you,” she informed him. “I did my best to hold them off with Robin’s help, but they intend to have you crowned before the week ends. Your father’s internment in the family tomb is tonight.”
He looked at her then, at all the evidence of her fatigue: the pinch between her brows, the shadows under her eyes. Nami hadn’t been sleeping. She’d been micromanaging his kingdom for him along with Robin, all to give him a moment of reprieve.
She’d reached her limit. The advisors must’ve been pestering her since their return from Shikkearu.
“Have the guards open the gates at sundown,” he said as the attendant withdrew. “Let the people see their former King and pay their respects.” He caught Nami’s eye in the mirror and she nodded. “Take me to the throne room.”
“It’s your throne room now, you realize?” she asked once the attendant had excused themself and it was only her and Zoro making their way out of Zoro’s chambers. “The nobles and courtiers will all line up to pay their respects to you and offer your condolences. You have to sit through each and accept them with grace.”
Zoro gave her a look, something Nami weathered with ease. “I don’t suppose your presence will be welcome there.”
“No,” Nami said with a firm shake of her head. “The elders weren’t shy with their disapproval over me answering for you these past few days. Unless you promote me as your personal aide, I’m not sitting through that. I want to sleep.”
“Would you accept it?” Zoro asked hypothetically. “If I offer you such a position?”
Nami faux gagged—the witch. “My job has always been getting you to where you wanted to go. Robin’s far more suited for that kind of work. There’s a reason your father kept her by his side since her arrival here.”
Zoro relented with a brief nod; he already had Robin in mind. There was no one else. Nami’s job was to survey the lands in preparation for battle and to offer him insight on the terrain so he could win the war. As the army’s general, Zoro was expected to have someone like her on his privy council.
But as the King, he couldn’t have someone like her hold a position too powerful. It would cause an imbalance—a power vacuum that none of the elders would sit by and let happen. His trust in her already raised a couple of questions, perhaps giving birth to baseless speculations while Zoro had been asleep. He could imagine her: a beta commanding a room full of aged, prejudiced alphas, with Robin lingering by and seconding her every decision.
They reached the throne room, and even from here, Zoro could sense the unrest. The dissatisfaction and mockery that overshadowed grief. None of these council members truly mourned Arashi’s loss. They mourned Zoro’s unprecedented rise to the throne: to them, he was an uncontrollable, young King who only knew battle and not diplomacy.
Nami cleared her throat and Zoro turned to her. She rearranged his cloak over his shoulders and tapped on his chin so he could hold his head high. Even without the ability to be guided by the scents permeating from others, she always knew how to read him.
“Robin is already inside,” she informed him. “Let her talk through most of it but don’t fall asleep. This will be a long meeting since it’s way overdue. Once it’s done and you’re still pissed, I’ll make sure I’ve located Luffy so you two can spar.”
“Thanks,” Zoro managed to grit out, and Nami smiled.
“Walk like you always do,” she told him as she stepped back. “Like you know that you’ve won wars for these men who only sit together and talk over your achievements like they could’ve done it themselves.”
“Except I’m supposed to go over there and listen to them talk,” Zoro said, eye narrowing.
Nami’s gaze dropped to where Zoro’s swords were: strapped to Zoro’s waist by a sash that held them tightly together. “I might’ve been asked to remind you to leave your swords,” she said thoughtfully, and there was a shrewdness in her eyes that left Zoro amused. “Something about the throne room not being a battlefield. It slipped my mind.”
The elders didn’t approve of a warmonger as a King. They’d had no choice with Koushirou’s sudden abdication, but a repeat of it was distasteful. They knew of Zoro’s reputation on the field—of Asura. He’d appear less intimidating and capable had he not carried his weapons with him, but they’d told the wrong person. Nami knew of their significance, their importance to Zoro. How these blades had long been sources of comfort and stability given who he was.
She’d never let them forcibly take them from him.
“They’ll call you incompetent because of that,” Zoro said, and it earned him Nami’s shrug.
“The both of us, then,” she said with a slight bow. “Good luck.”
She then gestured to the guards who promptly moved to open the doors, and Zoro saw the empty throne for the first time, surrounded by a small gathering of aged men he’d known since his youth.
——
Zoro wasn’t the type to listen to the council members’ usage of flowery words but he tried. He tried for Nami’s sake, only because she’d done so well on his behalf and he didn’t want to waste any of her efforts. He tried for Robin, who somehow managed to understand his thoughts with a single look. It was Robin who often cleared her throat to dispel the beginnings of a heated discussion about the differences between Arashi’s way of holding court than Zoro’s.
He wasn’t built for diplomacy. In his youth, it was something his own father had realized about him: swords fascinated Zoro to no end and he enjoyed fighting. He grew up protective over his own people and loyal to the kingdom, but he wasn’t the type to excel at governance. Zoro had skipped countless lessons on etiquette and history, and it was beginning to show—the elders couldn’t mask their disdain for his supposed impassiveness over the mourning period of the kingdom.
Zoro knew of the traditions. After his father’s internment, it was customary for the kingdom to observe a week of mourning. Celebrations would be withheld, gatherings would be postponed. Zoro intended to follow said tradition, except it overlapped with the annual Moon Festival.
Tradition dictated that kings took precedence. But Arashi had told him that the people did, that a king was nothing without the people he ought to serve.
“The people can visit his tomb all year round,” Zoro reasoned, finally using his voice when the discussions grew tedious. He needed a drink. Not the cool refreshment they were serving him at present, but a tankard of the kingdom’s finest ale. “Let them celebrate the festival. Give them something to focus on instead of the Humandrills advancing towards us.”
The elders looked amongst each other, and with the lingering gazes Zoro understood that they were shifting the blame onto him. Had he returned victorious, they wouldn’t have such a problem. That perhaps Arashi’s untimely death was also Zoro’s doing; the war had been going on for too long.
“The council will have to convene before making an announcement to the public,” one of the elders—Mitsuhashi—said. “But we strongly advise you against this, Your Majesty. Honoring your father is something the people need to see.”
“Because I’ve been away from the kingdom for too long and they merely know me as a bloodthirsty demon with no sense of filial piety?” Zoro asked calmly. These were the same people he was risking his life to protect. Surely they weren’t as shallow-minded as the council was making them to be.
“The late King had many achievements to his name,” the elder Shirayanagi interjected, “and it’s tradition to honor them. Will your first command as King be to stray from such traditions?”
“Or he can be engineering change,” a voice drawled, as unfamiliar as the rest to Zoro, but sounding younger compared to the other council members. “The young Prince was away for too long and his kingdom doesn’t know what to expect from him. Perhaps allowing the festival to proceed can also be a way to endear him to the people he’s sworn to protect.”
Zoro turned to the direction of the voice and found a middle-aged blond he’d never seen before. The man had shoulder-length, wavy hair akin to spun gold, a fringe obscuring his left eye. He sported a peculiar set of brows that had Zoro frowning; he’d only ever seen them in an old history book chronicling some of Arashi’s successful campaigns.
He felt like he ought to know who this person was. The man certainly acted with a particular air to him—confident yet easygoing, lax but not lenient. The longer Zoro looked, the more intrigued he became; he’d never heard of an omega serving in his father’s council.
He turned to Robin, who answered him with a slow blink as something seemed to occur to her. Then she leaned towards him and dropped her voice to a whisper when she spoke.
“I’ve invited your father’s privy council to the meeting as well; I thought it’d be prudent to settle all pressing matters in a single day,” were her words. Then she followed his line of sight and angled her face away so her subsequent words for him couldn’t be discerned by their audience. “Your late father’s concubine, if you remember.”
Zoro could feel his brows rise. He hadn’t heard of Arashi having a concubine. And he most certainly hadn’t seen this blond in his life.
Robin withdrew, but now a furrow was present between her brows. Then she lifted her head to face the council. “His Majesty calls for a brief recess; he hasn’t broken his fast yet.”
One by one, the council members made their obeisance and departed the throne room, and when the blond man moved to follow, Zoro shook his head.
“Stay,” he said, addressing his father’s concubine for the first time. Then he faced Robin once more. “Have the attendants bring food for three people.”
Robin inclined her head in acknowledgement, gesturing towards the attendants. Zoro watched the blond man who eyed all proceedings with an expression that betrayed nothing.
He was of a medium build, possessing a collection of muscles that his white, embroidered tunic failed to hide since he left the first three buttons undone. He wore a corset on top of the tunic, accentuating the taper of his waist, and he had legs so toned it was obvious in his breeches. He wore knee high boots fit for riding, and he had most of his hair resting over his right shoulder. He wasn’t as ostentatiously dressed as the rest of them, and he stood perhaps a couple of centimeters or so taller than Zoro, and Zoro caught a whiff of rose petals and raspberry blossoms with each inhale.
Nothing enticing, yet nothing intimidating either. He’d met omegas with scents sweeter than this. He tried to search for something familiar like a lingering trace of Arashi’s scent on the man’s person and found none. From Zoro’s vantage, he could see the unmarked neck and the more he didn’t understand.
When Robin resumed her position by his side, he tilted his head in assessment.
“We’ve never met,” was what Zoro decided on; he had no idea how to address someone whose existence only became known to him mere minutes ago.
“No, Your Grace,” came the man’s acknowledgement. “I was never permitted to see the then-heir apparent. But I’ve heard of you and your exploits. Your victories. Every skirmish you’ve successfully won in the name of the late King. I’ve seen your portraits in the Royal Hall.”
“Robin said that you’re Father’s concubine,” Zoro said, watching that face with rapt attention. “I’ve never heard of him having one.”
The man waved his hand vaguely, a gesture exaggerated by the frills on his sleeve. “It was eleven years ago. You were ten. He thought it was best that you didn’t know.”
“He’s dead,” Zoro said, and the only response he received was a blink. “Surely there are other places for you to be now that he’s gone.”
Next to him, Robin cleared her throat. When Zoro turned to her, she leaned towards him. “Your father valued his input. He’s not officially a member of the council, but his opinions often have merit, hence his presence in these meetings. Sending him away so soon will give off the impression that you’re overly eager to do away with your father’s legacy.”
Zoro’s gaze drifted towards the blond man, who merely offered him a cryptic, close-lipped smile. He looked conniving. Like he knew exactly what Robin said despite him standing a few feet away from the dais and out of hearing range.
“Am I now exiled, Your Grace?” the man asked. “Whatever role I played during your father’s rule ends with him, I imagine. To where, then?”
He looked as though the prospect didn’t bother him. That banishment was something he looked forward to, even. Zoro didn’t understand. Here was a member of his father’s court that he’d never known until now, siding with Zoro instead of against him, yet he seemed eager to get himself out of here just as Zoro was.
“I’ll have your name,” Zoro said, willing his features to give nothing away. “Then I’ll decide what to do with you.”
The man made his obeisance: superfluous yet executed so fluidly. Practiced. “Sanji, Your Grace, from…what was once the Germa Empire. Your father was responsible for my liberation and” —his voice hinting at a smile— “subsequent promotion.”
Germa. Before Arashi’s unprecedented inheritance of the throne, he’d been the General of Shimotsuki’s Royal Army, pledged to serve the then-King, Koushirou. Arashi had been the one who’d expanded Shimotsuki’s borders, liberating surrounding prefectures from the Germa Empire’s tyranny. Zoro had read about his late father’s victories but there was not a single chronicle about any of the spoils.
He eyed Sanji unabashedly now, trying to place those eyebrows. The stance that hinted at youth spent in a palace, the demeanor that reeked of royalty. This had been a Prince, once. Perhaps one of Germa’s own, at least until their defeat against Shimotsuki. Zoro briefly considered that Sanji was a prisoner of war, but he took into account Sanji’s words earlier: liberation and promotion.
Sanji didn’t dress ostentatiously. The elders earlier had their shares of accessories, flaunting their family’s crests on all the rings on their fingers to remind everyone of who they were. Sanji didn’t look pampered, but he kept himself well-groomed. There was a distinct absence of jewelry on his person, and aside from the finery that he wore, there was little else that hinted at his status.
This was no ordinary concubine. Arashi had to have had a reason why he’d kept this man’s presence secret from his own son.
Sanji straightened, pushing some of his hair back as he raised his chin. Not in arrogance, but perhaps to showcase a lack of docility. Zoro didn’t quite know what to make of it. He’d never encountered an omega openly flaunting that he was unmated.
“How old were you when you came into my father’s court?” Zoro asked.
“Twenty-one,” Sanji answered, “but that wasn’t his court then. It was Koushirou’s. I was made to serve the war council since my arrival here. That was nineteen years ago.”
Forty and unclaimed despite remaining by Roronoa Arashi’s side for nineteen years. Zoro maintained his reservations towards Sanji; this man might be duplicitous. Arashi might’ve kept him away from Zoro for Zoro’s own benefit.
“And yet he named you concubine after eight years,” Zoro said. “When he ascended to the throne.”
Sanji’s lips thinned. “Semantics, perhaps, just to officially give me something to do. Likely the chief reason why your father’s council couldn’t do away with me despite their prejudice; it’s only the King who may issue such a command.”
Nami was a beta and yet the council had looked down on her despite her ability to delegate in Zoro’s stead. This man had survived nineteen years of playing mind games with Arashi’s advisors and still retained enough wit in him to make himself seem interesting. Zoro was intrigued; Robin was against Sanji’s immediate dismissal from the court, citing consequences that would be irrelevant in the coming months. Zoro was the King; there were bound to be changes.
Zoro faced Robin then, who only offered him a smile. “By the laws of succession, anything that was Father’s now belongs to me, yes?”
“Yes,” she echoed. “Your Majesty.”
“He never spoke of you,” Zoro said next, addressing Sanji. “Not once. Not in any of those private audiences and late nights spent together while speaking of strategy. I was under the impression that he never looked at another after Mother’s death.”
“Far be it from me to comment on the recently deceased’s reasoning,” Sanji drawled, “but what I had with the late King was…an arrangement. Something not too different from what he offered Robin-chan here.”
Robin was an alpha. Tradition dictated that she could hold a position of power, provided her secondary alignment was the same as with the rest of the council. Sanji wasn’t afforded the same privilege, but perhaps Arashi’s decision to name him as concubine made him more powerful than anyone could’ve expected.
Since he was the King’s, he couldn’t be touched. He was given leave to attend these meetings as the King’s companion, but it was apparent that Sanji didn’t let himself be decorative amongst a congregation of alphas. He had a presence here—a voice. Something the elders earlier had been loath to acknowledge but couldn't do anything against.
“And what sort of arrangement was this if Father never put a claim on you?” Zoro asked.
Sanji’s demeanor shifted at the word ‘claimed’, abruptly losing the easygoing way he carried himself. He stood a little straighter and he looked at Zoro through narrowed eyes.
The attendants then entered the throne room to assemble a table and some chairs, some already carrying plates of food. They were quick and methodical with setting it all up; it only took a few minutes and the three of them were on their own once more.
“Pleasure need not be so carnal, Your Grace,” Sanji said, putting emphasis on how he addressed Zoro. “The late King was content with whatever I could offer. If he didn’t see it fit to inform you of such, I don’t see how I could tell you.” Then he gestured towards the meals between them. “But His Majesty did like my food.”
One of Zoro’s eyebrows quirked. He couldn’t understand why his father would elevate a cook to Chief Concubine, why someone who had a talent in the kitchens was made to attend council and war meetings.
“Did you make these?” Zoro asked. From here, he could smell them: a myriad of spices mixed to create something flavorful and filling. He hadn’t eaten in nearly two days.
“The late King only trusted the meals I made,” Sanji said after a moment of consideration, which was no answer at all. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something as he gave Zoro a small nod. “I wasn’t informed of your favorites, Your Grace. But I imagine these are more than suitable, still.”
“Rice,” Zoro said as he descended the dais to take a seat on one of the chairs prepared. “Sea King meat. Sake and anything that pairs well with it.”
Sanji looked briefly appalled, and a part of Zoro felt satisfied at being able to surprise the man.
Then Sanji recovered, inclining his head. “Does my liege extend that trust towards me as well? On the first day of our meeting?”
He sounded amused. He looked amused: an upturn of the corner of his mouth, a glint in his exposed blue eye. Zoro sought for a trace of mockery and found none, instead saw something that might be mirrored in him as well—curiosity.
“I don’t know what to make of you yet,” Zoro admitted, gesturing for Robin and Sanji to take the remaining seats and join him. “But until I do, you’re to remain here and resume the duties you fulfilled by Father’s side.”
Zoro took note of how this man carried himself and how he spoke. This was someone who harbored no fear. Someone who spoke his mind without holding back, but remained careful enough to choose every word. Someone who existed not for anyone’s pleasure but perhaps his own.
“As my King commands,” Sanji said, lowering his gaze momentarily, but easily finding Zoro’s once more.
Zoro held it as he began sampling the food. Then the burst of flavor hit his tongue and his lone eye widened, and he didn’t miss Sanji’s expectant smile.
They spent the rest of the meal in relative silence, interrupted only by Robin’s lavish praises and gratitude for all the care and love that went to the preparation of the food, something Sanji graciously accepted.
——
When the council reconvened, Sanji remained somewhere in Zoro’s right, direct in his visual field but not standing out amidst the council members. Sanji leaned against one of the posts, Shimotsuki’s banner hanging a couple of feet above his head, and he watched the proceedings like he was waiting for something to happen.
The elders mostly squabbled amongst themselves, at least until Zoro stood firm on his decision to let the people of Shimotsuki hold the annual Moon Festival as soon as Arashi’s burial rites concluded. It sparked a wave of discontent so evident that the very scents accompanying the elders radiated disapproval.
Zoro ignored them, and in turn, some of the council members began whispering amongst themselves. Zoro waited, then finally, one of them elected to speak.
“Your Grace,” the Chief Steward, Sawabe, said, bowing meekly. Zoro recalled that the man was from Deul, one of their northern prefectures. “With your father’s untimely passing, he failed to leave a will for any of us to act upon. Anything that was his is now yours, and if you permit it, we’d like to address the fate of some of these…belongings.”
Zoro’s gaze inevitably flitted to where Sanji was, and he saw no crack in that cool façade. If anything, Sanji seemed bemused. Like this was what he came here for.
“Belongings,” Zoro repeated.
Sawabe nodded. “Your father’s Chief Concubine, for instance. He took Sanji in after his victory against the Germa Empire and he served in the war council under King Koushirou’s reign. When your father ascended the throne, he promoted Sanji. As the late King’s only concubine, he’s been afforded a life of luxury and granted audience to the council’s meetings.”
“I’ve heard,” Zoro said. “We’ve only met now, but you’re not telling me anything of note.”
“Pardon the introductions then, my liege, as I wasn’t aware that they were already unnecessary,” Sawabe said immediately. Then he looked towards the rest of the council members and inclined his head towards Zoro once more. “We have our concerns regarding his continued participation in these meetings.”
“It’s to my understanding that I inherit whatever belonged to Father once I assume the throne,” Zoro said. “Or is that tradition now obsolete?”
There was a particular glint in Sanji’s exposed eye at those words, but it was gone in a blink.
“Sanji is yours to deal with as you wish,” the elder confirmed. “He’s a reminder of Shimotsuki’s might prevailing against the evil that was once Germa. But while your father seemed to favor him, none of us are expecting you to regard him so similarly. Especially not when there are alliances to be made.”
Zoro was an unmarried, unmated King. He had no doubt that these elders had told their own relatives about his status, and were thus clamoring to earn his favor. Shimotsuki needed a Royal Consort. And the more powerful the family they hailed from, the better.
He wasn’t eager to marry. He handled his previous ruts just fine; it was a matter of finding someone willing to lie with him for a few days, someone who could handle him and not make a fuss about it. But being King meant that he couldn’t settle for dalliances anymore. Everyone’s eyes were on him now. If he was to bed someone, it had to be someone high-ranking.
Zoro hummed, then he met Sanji’s stare evenly. “And what do you want, curly?”
It earned him an arch of the peculiar eyebrow.
“Curly?” Sanji echoed.
“The eyebrows are distracting,” Zoro said lightly, smirking when Sanji gave him a withering look. “But I asked a question.”
“As the Chief Concubine, his duties included providing support to the sovereign,” Uesugi, the kingdom’s Marshal, supplied. “He is free to resume such duties, but as King, Your Grace has the final say on how involved in these matters you want him to be.”
It was, essentially, a stern reminder that it was enough for this court to listen to Sanji’s opinion on matters of governance, and nothing more. They didn’t afford him the same respect, no matter how sound his judgment might have been in the previous discussions. Sanji’s own desires were of no consequence in the presence of the King and his trusted advisors.
“And I want to hear what he has to say before I make up my mind,” Zoro said as he jerked his chin towards Sanji. “Well, curlybrows? What will it be? Do you wish to do as you did during Father’s reign? I suppose I might be inclined to honor whatever arrangement you had with him.”
Provided Sanji remained useful, went unsaid, but Zoro could see the understanding settling between them. Sanji looked at him with thinly veiled amusement, as though it was an utter waste of his time to be incensed over such frivolities.
“I’m sworn to the King of Shimotsuki,” Sanji said matter-of-factly. “I shall abide by the King’s wishes.”
Performative, flowery words that sounded like obedience to the untrained ear, but this hall had seasoned elders. They looked at Sanji like they’d heard such things before and feared the outcome.
Little by little, it dawned on Zoro how well-versed Sanji was in such things. This was nineteen years of lip service coming into play against him, a twenty-one-year-old King who was yet to be crowned. Sanji’s move against a green, untested monarch, awaiting a countermove. A challenge laid out.
Zoro regarded him for a terse moment, then he turned to the elders.
“He stays,” he decided. For now, remained unsaid. At least until Zoro found out why Arashi had kept Sanji secret from him all these years. “I will entertain no more concerns over this matter.”
Uesugi took a reluctant step back, and Zoro’s eye swept over the hall, taking note of the disgruntled, dissatisfied expressions on the council members. He gestured for Robin to take over, and it was her who opened the discussion on Zoro’s recent defeat in Shikkearu.
“Of the two thousand cavalry and infantry men His Majesty brought with him, less than half returned,” Robin reported. It was a mere reiteration of the reports on paper, yet hearing it felt worse.
He came home after a substantial loss and instead of the command of the army being ceded to someone else, he was inheriting a kingdom. Zoro didn’t miss the dissatisfaction in the elders’ faces. They didn’t bother to hide any of it either. There were six of them trying to chastise him without words, the sublest shifts in their scents being the only giveaway.
“There should be consequences to a crushing defeat,” Uesugi remarked. As the kingdom’s Marshal, his words held more weight on matters of war.
And yet, came unsaid, there was no one to bestow such. Arashi was dead. Zoro was yet to be crowned, but the throne was his to inherit. He could punish himself in private all he wants, but these elders were asking for something grandiose and out in the open. Something that they could have over him: a momentary display of concession on his part.
“We cannot launch another campaign like this,” Mitsuhashi said, the kingdom’s current Minister of Coin. “At least not in the coming months. Not with the funeral and the ascension draining most of the Royal Treasury’s funds.”
They looked at him expectantly, all six pairs of judgmental, condescending eyes. Zoro weathered them evenly, at least until his gaze flitted to a limpid blue one that watched him without sympathy.
“Something to say?” Zoro asked.
Sanji regarded Zoro like he was a piece of furniture that was newly placed in the room. Perhaps he was. “I believe His Grace wouldn’t like it.”
Zoro’s eyebrow arched. “I’ll decide that.”
He expected a mere regurgitation of the council’s words, perhaps another concern over the people’s impression of him once they see him crowned despite his defeat.
“Your Grace is the Lord of Isshin and Cocoyasi,” Sanji recalled. “And you also hold the lands of Rusukaina. Giving up one of them will help the Royal Treasury fund any further campaigns, albeit at the expense of thinning out Your Grace’s personal resources.”
It was a sound suggestion. Not only could it help the royal treasury, it could also satisfy the elders’ need to see him disciplined. Of those three lands, Rusukaina provided the biggest funds, having the geographical advantage over the other two. Had he been the Crown Prince still, its loss would’ve been a blow.
But he was King now and it was negligible, if only it wasn’t a blemish on his pride. Yet Zoro could sense Robin’s approval by his side and saw how the elders started nodding among themselves.
Zoro met Sanji’s gaze then, the expectation there. Sanji looked at him as though he was waiting for a stern refusal, a dismissal since it was a suggestion made so boldly amongst alphas. He looked at Zoro like the answer wouldn’t faze him no matter what it was.
“I forfeit Rusukaina to the crown,” he said without looking away from Sanji, whose only surprise came as a blink. To the council: “Must I be officially crowned to see this in effect?”
“It shall be carried out as His Majesty wishes,” the elders collectively assured him, which was their way of saying it would happen immediately. Come nightfall, during Arashi’s internment perhaps, the kingdom’s ledgers would be richer while Zoro’s personal funding would be cut by a significant percentage. Nami wouldn’t be pleased; she also handled his personal funds for him.
The discussions continued then, mostly about the technical aspects of managing an army so far from the capital. Zoro made the order to cull the troops, to report a final number of all their forces within two weeks. By then, Arashi would be in the crypt with the rest of his family and ancestors, Zoro would be King of Shimotsuki, and they could plan the rest of the war.
By the time the elders left the throne room, it was dusk. Upon their departure came the courtiers and dignitaries offering Zoro their condolences, just as Nami had warned. He sat through them and tried to accept them with all the grace he could muster, all while watching Sanji who elected to stay behind for reasons unknown.
He remained where he was, watching all the proceedings with arms crossed over his chest, back against one of the columns, his gaze assessing, cataloguing. Sometimes he exchanged a word or two with Robin, who only nodded in agreement. When it was all over, Zoro wanted a stiff drink.
Instead of searching for it right away, he addressed Sanji. Only the three of them remained here along with Robin.
“You stayed.” Then something occurred to him. “Should I have dismissed you? Was that how Father did it?”
“You mean, do I usually stay for these things and did the late King command me?” Sanji asked.
Zoro knew the answer; it was inexplicably revealing in the way Sanji regarded him. Sanji did whatever he wanted. He was untouchable since he had the direct line of reportage of the King. And perhaps Arashi had come to appreciate his wit rather than his physical attributes.
Not that there was a lack of them; even at his age, he remained attractive. But it was the kind of allure that was uncommon to omegas—nothing of the sweetness and docility that most of them used to their advantage. With Sanji, there was a sturdiness that only came with age, a confidence that suggested decades of him having his way. Zoro would call him spoilt, except there was a distinct absence of luxury on his person that might suggest just how much Arashi had favored him. Despite what the council members had said about him, he didn’t flaunt that he was the late King’s only concubine.
Zoro was beginning to appreciate Sanji in a new light now, even if today’s solution came at the price of him losing nearly forty percent of his personal funds. He didn’t know what to make of Sanji yet, but he understood why the council had wanted him out of the picture right away. Why it had become the first order of business after discussing Zoro’s inheritance.
This man was dangerous. He was infuriatingly clever and wasn’t shy about it. The type who, when faced with a problem, assessed it pragmatically and offered a solution that would satisfy a persistent, unrelenting party. Losing Rusukaina was something Zoro wasn’t expecting to happen today. But he understood the merit of it—he’d appear reasonable and contrite to the council members instead of the peremptory, truculent general who might lead the country to ruin thanks to his hubris.
With one suggestion, Sanji was able to save the royal treasury, please the elders, and rehabilitate Zoro’s image. It was too much of an accomplishment for one person.
And Sanji looked like he knew just what he’d done.
He didn’t gloat; he appeared too refined to do something so juvenile. But it was apparent in the way he carried himself—how he’d always been carrying himself. Sanji was all too aware of what he’d orchestrated.
“In two weeks’ time, there will be a meeting with the council and the most distinguished members of my army,” Zoro said carefully.
Sanji merely nodded. He’d been present the entire time; of course he remembered. “Does His Majesty have a request as to the meals these important people will be provided with? I can assure you it’ll remain impeccable.”
He was vexing as he acted like he didn’t take Zoro’s meaning, and Zoro snorted.
“I want you there,” Zoro decided. He was tired of games, of wordplay that he wasn’t well-suited for. He believed in being forthright. “You served in Father's war council, didn’t you?”
Sanji gave him the briefest of head tilts in approximation of a nod. “Yes.”
You know so much about me, Zoro didn’t say, when I know so little about you.
He had something for Nami to do, at least before the war council convened.
“In two weeks, I’ll decide what to do with you,” Zoro said. “After that meeting.”
Sanji’s smile was cutting, knife-sharp. Like he expected this.
“As you command,” he said, lowering half of his trunk in the perfect bow, his voice deferential. “Your Grace.”