Chapter Text
He told someone once, he can't remember who , that it's the ocean that decides if it ends with you or if it doesn't.
As simple as that.
Davy Jones is the true king of the seas . A wandering spirit that shaped the ocean as we know it. He is cold and ruthless most of the time but cloying and jealous of those who are worthy of his attention. Something that will be mistaken for kindness if you are naive enough.
His blessing is something to treasure, because the sea loves you and hates you when it wants to. You should never let your guard down at sea.
It doesn't matter how calm it looks.
Oddly enough, that's the first thing he thinks of when his eyes widen with the burning of salt water and the suffocating emptiness of turbulent waters. His previously oxygen-deprived lungs suddenly functioning. He looks around, trapped in the dense ocean in deep panic, silently wondering how he ended up here.
He holds his breath, even if he has nothing to hold on to and his chest burns. Burly arms move trying to maintain some control in the water even if he knows it is impossible, there is only desperation to get out of the chaos.
" The ocean loves you "
Someone tells him once with an exasperated laugh, but he can't remember who. He's on an oversized ship full of people he thinks are his crew and a blond, faceless man is holding a bottle of sake for him.
For some reason he also thinks about traveling in a rowboat with the same man and then everything fades into a cacophony of colors and screams.
He thinks it's ovation.
And he just feels sick as he tries to think of why.
It is disorienting as it is dragged through the waters. There is no stopping him, he knows it, he always knew it, but still he tries to give it a try.
There is no one to turn to.
"What is your name ?" He asks a familiar woman once, and the answer is nowhere to be heard.
"I love you," He says to someone with a full stomach and chest fluttering with butterflies, and the smell of hibiscus pollen tickling his nose. The beautiful laugh of the same woman echoing in the depths of her mind, making her rib cage ache from something other than lack of air.
The indistinguishable voice of two children is also lost over time.
He's drowning in the ocean. In the confusion of lost memories and love for people she may have never known, who never existed. He lets the waters wash over him, taking him at his pleasure to wherever they are going to leave him.
A voice tells him to go to rest, but something is revealed against the possible peace that death would bring. He doesn't want to die. But maybe he 's already dead. It is inevitable, but there is something that tells him that is not entirely.
David Jones. He asks. Where are you taking me? Where should I go?
There is no answer, only the roar of the storm in his ears, the fury of the sea, the burning in his neck, and the sudden glimpse of great blades about to seal his fate.
When he step out for air and the sight of a beautiful sunset greets him, he can't help but be grateful. He believes that the woman of his dreams would have loved it. Unknown feelings of nostalgia remain stuck before his memory problems, and he takes a deep breath trying to stay afloat, in the distance he sees an island that alarms a part he doesn't recognize of himself.
In the distance he remembers the name of an island called Loguetown , which ceased to be his home long ago.
He has no name.
But that can be fixed. Maybe in time he will remember, and maybe he never will. Maybe he just need to name himself.
"What is your name?" Then the woman answers, her voice intertwined with a beautiful southern accent, in a bar where before he had not had a clear answer.
" R---- "
He swims to the island with nothing but the clothes on his back and sheer determination. The water no longer feels oppressive, instead he feels strangely comforted at the unsettling situation.
He drags himself across the beach, the sand sticking to his wet clothes. Looking out at the sea, he lets it settle too easily into his gaze and breathes, feeling too aware of her surroundings to be human. There's something in his throat that he can't bring himself to cry out, not knowing the unrequited attention he might draw.
I Love you. He thinks waiting for the message to reach whoever it belonged to.
He tries to think about what happened but there is nothing.
A blank blackboard. Not quite, but enough to be no help at all.
Lost joyful memories and a hole in his heart as he feels the beginnings of a headache. And he thinks of missing indignant smiles, two nameless children and the smell of hibiscus. Tears fall in the waves of the ocean that receives them, that touches the tips of one of his toes as he does his best to get up.
There is no why. It is what it is . It is what remains, what he will keep as one of the most valuable things he remember from his old life.
He doesn't remember his age and he doesn't remember his name either. He is only sure that he is a man of the sea, a sailor who had very bad luck in the ocean, probably a poor bastard who was shipwrecked and was left as the last survivor of the incident, in addition to receiving a blow too hard on the head.
Someone they didn't let into Davy Jones's locker.
Or maybe they did but they threw him back, he's not too sure.
It stops being, when in one of his attempts to stand up, he falls to the ground again with the feeling of nausea churning his insides. His throat burns raw as he spits out what appears to be an entire marine ecosystem in tiny size: Bits of algae; minnows that, to his horror, are still moving, jumping desperately on the sand; seashells too small and lots and lots of blood .
( Screams from a crowd go up as his head hits the ground, he's dead, he's sure of it but then he's not-)
Panic overwhelms him for a few seconds as he takes a clearer look at his own hands gripping with everything they have in the wet sand and keeping him from falling into the mess he's made.
Human nails replaced by claws. Mottled gray skin gleams in the light of the setting sun and it is devastating as he then realizes how he stayed alive all this time.
.
.
.
.
Because he hadn't.
The idea of being a lost of the ocean doesn't settle at all .
He have heard the legends. The reason and how he heard them forgotten in the depths of his memories. He knows what this means .
There is the possibility that he was part fishmen, but amnesiac as he is now, he has the unequivocal certainty that he was always human.
Maybe he could have ingested a devil fruit, but if so then how easily could he get out of the water? How did he not sink at all?
But if this is the case, it's understandable why he doesn't remember anything.
The lost of the ocean are those who love the sea, and die in the sea giving everything they have. The sea is one of the largest cemeteries in the world for a reason. The sea takes and takes, only giving back when it suits it but also being so fair about it that you can't even be mad at it.
Favored or cursed by the ocean, depending on the story, and who tells it.
For some it is another chance. A second chance.
For others, it is a curse, eternal suffering.
What the hell had he done to get Davy Jones's attention like that?
He loves the ocean, he is as sure of it as breathing. Even if he now realizes the impression of not needing to breathe at all. Weird, how he was drowning in the water minutes before but now on land he really doesn't gasp for air at all. The movement is almost automatic, by habit, too conscious to be natural.
What had he done?
Because it doesn't make any sense. From what little he remembers of his life, he had apparently been executed on a scaffold. And ocean strays can only form if they die in the ocean . He died on land and didn't have a death worthy enough for the ocean to have decided to take him as such.
He shouldn't have woken up in the ocean at all.
He doesn't remember what he could have done to have had such a gift from the seas. Though that depends on if it's a gift or if it's just the ocean cursing him for eternity.
.
.
.
Well, he can't look at a gift horse like that, either. Curse or not, he's happy to be alive.
Plus, he don't have time to panic.
He gets up on the wobbly legs of a fawn, falls several times, but manages to get up each time. The thick red coat is too wet and there are torn parts, with holes. The cool air hits his body, giving him chills. A black boot and a bare foot make the sand crunch.
No matter that he's a lost of the sea, he has not survived long enough in the cold of the ocean only to end up dying of hypothermia on the shores of this island. Even if he technically can't die anymore, he won't push fate.
If he dies again, it will be a dignified death, he owes it to Davy Jones.
Strangely the shores where the sea and its song fork wave at it with something akin to amusement, and he has a feeling he's said this before.
At some point he reaches a point where he won't fall to the ground like a sack of rice, and he takes the opportunity to take off his coat. And he squeezes all his moisture into the sand before putting it back on.
He gazes curiously and a little longingly at the boats anchored at the docks before he walks away, infiltrating the heat of the city with a practiced ease he doesn't quite recognize. He tries not to draw attention to himself even though that proves to no avail considering he literally looks like one of those sea monsters featured in horror stories. Dirty and with algae hanging from their feet.
Never mind that the countenance is possibly correct.
Nothing is familiar to him. The shops are full of people, sailors both fake and heart scattered about like moths chasing a flame. It's already dark and the lights of the lanterns begin to turn on throughout the port city.
He ignores the wet trail he leaves behind and how people's wary eyes follow him. Murmurs begin to spread around him, people moving out of his way in fear and concern. Some seem to want to get closer but back away at the last minute.
"What the hell-?" The whisper is close enough for him to notice. The language is familiar, smooth and lively in a way that gives him glimpses of days running barefoot on the beach and giggling while holding his first stolen purse. He turns and looks curiously at an uncertain-eyed boy clutching the edge of his coat. "Uhm- kid, are you alright?"
Silver locks move in the wind. He doesn't realize how then the boy focuses on his face and pales, looking at him in the light of recognition as if he had seen a ghost.
"H-how?!" The boy yells, pushing him away and taking several steps back in horror, causing everyone to stop.
" H-how in hell are you still alive?! "
Unfortunately, that gets people's attention.
Despite the grime on his face and his being dripping with seawater, everyone seems to have figured it out.
"Oh my god-!"
"It can't be!!"
He blinks around anxiously as he is ambushed. He's suffocating. He looks around in a vain attempt to find a way out, but there is no place where people block his path.
It's trapped. It's like drowning in the ocean all over again.
"I-Is that who I think it is??"
"It 's Gold Roger !"
"B-But it's impossible!"
... Who?
He doesn't have time to even ask, as someone unexpectedly grabs him and pulls him away from the center of the crowd.
"Ouch for Davy Jones! You poor fool ! Look how you are!"
"What are you doing, Raoul-san?! It's Gold Roger!"
"Ah?" The man looks at the one who said that in disbelief.
"Are you talking about this one? Him? Gold Roger? Pfftt! You've got to be kidding me!" The stranger nonchalantly pats his shoulder and smiles at him like they're old friends, his ring-shaped earrings and large necklace glinting in the dark of night. The man was wearing brown cargo pants and pale yellow flannel and a purple beanie, he also wore glasses.
People look at them skeptically, and the man in the purple hat growls in annoyance.
" Roger was executed six months ago ! We all saw it, don't go spreading conspiracy theories around just for attention, brat!"
Raoul's laughter is convincing enough for the audience to calm down a bit, but the boy causing all this trouble persists.
"B-But- Y-they're almost exactly the same! Everyone look at his face!"
People are uncomfortable with that, and he stands behind Raoul in a vain attempt to escape prying eyes.
"H-He's even wearing the clothes he had on before during the execution!!"
The man doesn't have it, he stares out at the crowd, eyes steady as iron.
"Are you saying we don't have eyes?" His savior's eyes narrow searchingly. "That the World Government wouldn't have sent someone to investigate if Roger had somehow, in some impossible way , still been alive? Are you kidding me, boy?"
"Then how can you explain that!!"
"Do you know about the 7 twins theory?"
"W-what?"
He also feels confused and that does nothing to calm his nerves.
"Yes! Current studies have shown that we have 6 people almost exactly like us in the world! They may even have existed in other times!!"
... Okay.
That's a fucking excuse.
"Is right!" Someone from the crowd calls out, obviously a foreigner because of certain uncertainties in his pronunciation. "I have a brother who has a girlfriend who is exactly like him in every way except personality! They have the same face too! It's super weird, and scary , but I'm not complaining as long as they're happy!"
... What .
"Hmmm... sounds very convincing"
Are they believing it?!
"Yes! I have a friend who met a guy who had the same clothes and the same face too! That was crazy!"
Were they really buying that shit??
"This isn't Gold Roger, kid, it's just the someone who had the misfortune to look a lot like that ugly man!"
Sorry?
"Yes-"
"Oh no"
"You're right-"
"Poor guy"
He was thankful that he saved his skin, but still.
He was beautiful, thank you very much.
"Not to mention, Gold Roger wasn't part fish."
The assembled group falls eerily silent then. A lot of eyes are focused on what the man in the purple hat was pointing at, specifically, his hands that smelled horribly of raw fish just out of the water.
Somehow or another, they had all come to an agreement that he wasn't this Gold Roger and was just a poor guy who looked too much like the person for comfort. Something he couldn't help but suspect, and apparently the man had been executed as well, how much of it could just be coincidence? To explain his less-than-pleasant appearance, Raoul had fabricated this whole dramatic story of how he was a hapless merchant who had been the only survivor of a shipwreck due to a terrible attack by pirates circling the area.
Thing that maybe wasn't so far from the truth, technically he was shipwrecked here.
The people, when they weren't terrified by the idea of dead pirates rising from their graves, were surprisingly kind. Even if it was somewhat irritating their pitying looks, he had recognized their condolences.
The next thing he knows, it's that he's being dragged by the arm onto some uncrowded streets that looked like they'd seen better days.
In front of them was a sign that read: "Gold Roger's Bar."
What the hell was wrong with people with this Gold Roger? Was he famous or something?
His footsteps echo on the gravel, the man doesn't say anything at all so he doesn't do anything to break the silence either.
Later, they're inside the canteen, sitting across from each other at the bar, and Raoul takes a bottle of sake, apparently of good quality, out of the decanter and pours it into a small glass before downing it all at once.
"How the hell are you still alive?" The man's words cut through his thoughts like a knife through butter. Calm eyes staring at him and seeming to search for something he's not sure what it is.
I knew him.
"Who are you? Why did you help me?" He asks instead, taking a cue from the lady he can't name but who haunts his few memories of her.
"You do not remember me?" He seems a bit bitter about it.
"Should I?"
There is something in his gaze as he looks at his hands with sharp, non-human claws .
"Hmm... Maybe not."
"Who is Gold Roger?" He asks suddenly, Raoul looks at him with a gleam in his glasses, and a scowl on his face, as if he's wondering if he's being stupid. There is an awkward silence before the man seems to realize that he was serious.
That seems to be funny to him, as Raoul laughs. "You do not know?"
"I wouldn't be asking you if I knew, would I?
"Hmmm... I think I shouldn't be so surprised.. He was a pirate from the Grandline, very famous I must say, he was recently executed"
( He stays straight and firm in his steps.
The burning in his chest doesn't matter much to him anymore, he'll die anyway. He walks through the crowd with a smile on his face.
Smile and smile. He will not stop.
He only exists for this, for all the eyes that will come to witness his end. His neck burns and the world roars.
He smiles and tries to not regret anything.
He only regrets that he couldn't have told them that he loved them enough.
For not being able to see his son grow up. )
"Now they call him the King of the Pirates"
In his opinion, a silly and too ostentatious title.
Raoul hears him say that, and again he laughs.
They both do.
Since he had nowhere else to go, Raoul was kind enough to give him the honor of becoming his roommate (or rather, threaten him into staying, unless he wanted to be used to make sushi, something he obviously didn't want to be a part) , in exchange for serving as a part-time waiter at the bar.
"I'm Gold Roger?" He asks then, in new clothes under an overall, and a rag wiping down the bar, with vague interest but not knowing how to feel about it.
"Well, that depends, do you want to be Gol D. Roger?"
"Wait- D?"
"Ah, yes, the fools of the navy, they thought it too convenient to censor a certain part of your name, I hope you don't mind, but going back to my previous question..."
".. I don't know " He murmurs.
He must have been a very notorious pirate so that, even after his death, he would have remained something to talk about. If the cause of his execution was bad enough to warrant such popularity, he's not sure he wants to know what it was.
What he is undoubtedly sure of is that he wants to know about the people who were part of his life.
He wants to recognize that man with whom he liked to share drinks, he wants to know who his crew were.
He wants to hear the voices of those two children again.
And he wants to know why he misses the smell of hibiscus so much.
"Eh, that works for me too, yes, in identity, physically, technically , you are, or at least you seem to be"
When... Roger looks at him confused, Raoul replies with a sad sigh, "Look, kid, I met you when you were just a little rookie, and despite what you think, I haven't been in this bar all my life."
It feels like he's being put on trial again as the man looks at him. "You are a lost of the ocean , aren't you?"
The lack of response seems to be enough.
"Heh, I thought so, we have our own customs, and outsiders usually don't put so much weight on these things until after we get to the Grandline."
He knows what he means.
About silver coins and food thrown as offerings to the sea.
Intact but empty boats, without any passengers who return alive to their lands.
Bright-eyed monsters who make fair deals or cajole you into willingly going to drown in the waters with them.
" You're cursed and blessed at the same time, boy "
He was a dead man. That's what he was.