The sea wind tasted of salt and iron as it worried the pilings.
The Oro Jackson's silhouette sank at last beneath the horizon, swallowed by a boundless blue.
Only Kael and Gaban remained on the pier, their shadows drawn out thin and lonely.
A moment ago the quay had roared with laughter and shouts. Now there was only the slap of waves against wood, a single, ceaseless beat like time's own pulse tapping at an empty heart.
"They are gone," Gaban said hoarsely. Behind his sunglasses his face gave nothing away, but the great axe on his shoulder seemed heavier than usual.
"Yeah. Gone," Kael answered, still watching the blank seam of sea and sky.
A home shared for decades had scattered.
The feast they had believed would never end had reached its last song.
They stood a long time without another word, until the sun climbed overhead and heated the planks beneath their feet.
"Drink," Gaban said at last, turning on his heel and breaking the choke of silence.
"Alright."
The town was small, shabby even. Its lone tavern was rough as driftwood.
The door screeched. A sour mix of cheap alcohol, sweat, and food rose to meet them.
Inside, gamblers cursed, drunks rambled, and the proprietress scolded with a voice like a broom on brick. It was vulgar and vivid and very alive, the perfect counterpoint to the stillness of the pier.
They found a corner and ordered two of the cheapest ales.
The yellow froth looked coarse. Gaban took a long pull and slammed his mug down.
"Clack."
"Ugh. Swill," he growled.
Kael only smiled. He sipped, winced a touch, and said nothing.
He watched townsfolk quarrel red-faced over a handful of beli. He watched a vagrant knocked out on his arms. His eyes drifted.
They had conquered the greatest sea on earth, glimpsed the world's secrets, crossed blades with legends.
Now they sat in a dive, drinking bad beer like two men with no road ahead.
"Hey, Kael," Gaban said, wiping foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Where are you going next?"
Where?
No one had ever needed to ask while Roger was aboard. The Oro Jackson was their compass. The captain's laughter was their bugle.
Now the bugle was quiet and the ship was bound for its end. Those left ashore felt like duckweed without roots.
Kael turned his mug, watching the ale lap the wood. He did not answer at once.
"Decades," Gaban went on, that rare thread of uncertainty in his voice. "With the captain it was cutting, sleeping, throwing a party, repeat. Suddenly standing still, my bones itch."
He clenched his fist. Knuckles cracked. A flash of old savagery lit his eyes.
"I heard there is a place called Elbaf on the far side of the world. Giants, born fighters. I want to see whose bite is worse, their fist or my axe."
"Mm. Elbaf would suit you," Kael said. "Have fun. Try not to end up as roadside décor."
"Ha. We will see who is the decoration." Gaban barked a laugh. The knot in his chest seemed to loosen with the sound. "And you? You always had the tricks. Already picked some lazy, happy path?"
Alright, let me sort the threads.
Roger would go to the South Blue, Baterilla, to wed Portgas D. Rouge and vanish into ordinary days.
Rayleigh to Sabaody, coating and quiet, with Shakky's bar for company.
Gaban, well, off to caverns and scraps, to stake a claim as the world's toughest man.
Great. All of you sow wild oats then retire to hearth and home, yeah?
So it is just me left an old bachelor, huh?
Kael shoved the nonsense down and looked out past the grime-streaked window, out to the open sea.
"Me," he drawled, a crooked smile riding his lips, "I will keep wandering."
He paused, voice dropping as if for his own ears. "That bastard Roger's illness. I want to keep looking. You never know. This world hides its miracles in places no one thinks to search."
Gaban's laughter died. He looked at Kael, parted his lips, then tipped back the rest of his ale instead.
"And after that?"
"After?" Kael's eyes regained their familiar glint. "Find some fun. A sea this big is always birthing upstarts. Someone should teach them a few of the ocean's rules."
He flicked a finger against the tabletop.
At the next table a drunk was bragging with windmilling arms. He knocked his mug and sent ale flooding across the plank.
Just before it spilled to the floor, the liquid hitched, then turned nimble as a living thing, drew a wavering silver line along the table's edge, and dropped in a neat ribbon into the man's open mouth.
"Burp." The drunk belched heroically, wiped his lips, and blinked at the empty table and his damp beard, none the wiser.
"Pfft." Gaban nearly sprayed his drink, then gave up and roared. "Still the same wicked taste."
"What? Waste is a sin. The injured party did not complain."
The trick washed the weight from the air. They traded mugs like old times, as if they were back on the Oro Jackson's deck, drinking under stars and surf.
Night gathered after three rounds.
They stepped into the street and stopped at the town's lone crossroads.
One way led back to the pier. The other disappeared into the island's interior.
"Then this is it," Gaban said, setting his axe to his shoulder again, his swagger restored.
"Yeah," Kael said.
There were no extra words. No embrace. No glance over the shoulder.
Gaban raised his huge fist. Kael met it.
"Thump."
Two weathered knuckles touched, a short, solid beat like a single heartbeat.
"Do not die, idiot."
"Look who is talking, fool."
They grinned and turned away at the same time, each striding toward a different horizon.
One went to the harbor to meet new gales and fights. One walked inland, his figure swallowed by the path that wound into the dusk-dark trees.
Neither looked back.
Pirates say their farewells like that. Always.
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