Archive of Our Own ^beta

Plato lets the dead choose what life they will lead when next reborn. 

It’s taking Odysseus a long time. Of course, it is. He’s looking for an uneventful life. 

He’s finding so few to choose from.

–Keith Leonard, More Frank

i.

Somewhere in the realm between reality and unreality, Sanji meets Roronoa Zoro.

He watches as the embers before him pop and float upward toward the sky like fireflies. Besides Sanji himself and a crackling fire which he diligently tends to, nothing else exists in this blurry world of dreams and waking.

It’s an appreciated reprieve from Olympus. Right now, Luffy’s otherwise sunny grin would only grate on his nerves and Usopp’s amusing tall tales would only irritate him.

As timeless as the gods are, it’s been a long day. Graveyard dirt clings onto his skin, and though he could just magic it away with a sharp snap of his fingers, he can’t quite muster up the energy. Nothing wears him out like having to bury a child. It’s the sort of loss that leaves behind an empty cavern in the home where there should be laughter and the pitter-patter of feet.

By default, it hollows Sanji out as well.

The girl had been a young princess. For days, the keening and wailing of the countryside were all that Sanji could hear as they mourned her. Sanji had glimpsed her a couple times before when he descended from Olympus, gazing up with those stern eyes at the temple of Hestia.

Her country had been good to him. They held festivals in his honor, sacrificed the first portion of their meals to him, paid their respects, and asked for his guidance. In turn, he had been good to them, and had blessed the country with happiness and harmony. Foods touched by hearth-fire were always richer than they would naturally be. Invaders found themselves heeding the call to return home.

Now he pays his respects to their dead. There is no higher honor than having a god dig your grave.

Sanji summons a cigarette, presses his index finger to the end, and lights it with the oven fires of a household hundreds of miles away.

He takes a drag. Exhales. Breathes in. Exhales. Lets the white smoke wisp toward the infinitely high sky.

He sets the cigarette to the side when he senses a ripple in the fabric of space somewhere in front of him, ready to snap Usopp’s caduceus in half when out steps a green-haired boy dressed in black. He can’t be more than eight.

And he’s a son of Ares.

That’s the thing about Shanks, Sanji thinks wearily. The god can’t keep it in his pants. He’s just popping out random colorful-haired children like nobody’s business. The worst part about his offspring is how they all crave carnage. It’s distasteful and tragic all at once. They can’t help it; it’s in their blood but as the god of home, Sanji has no love for war—all it does is steal good men and ruin families.

The boy rubs his red-rimmed eyes, raises his head, and strides toward the blaze, giving Sanji a split second to decide how he wants to appear to the kid. A fox, an old man, or a child. Or himself, as he is.

Because Sanji is a bit of a bastard, he settles for the old man, letting his back hunch, snapping his bones, and allowing wrinkles to dig into his skin. As a final touch, he wraps the fabric of the night around him, creating a hooded cloak. It’s not his most intimidating form, but it is his creepiest. While he’s hardly going to turn anyone away from the warmth of the flames, he’s not in the mood to talk much either.

Second-hand grief still has his throat between his teeth. He thinks of little girls who look too small wrapped in shrouds. Of hands reaching for the heavens, the chants of why why why echoing in his ears.

Ares’s brat stands before him. The orange glow of the fire illuminates his cheeks, still round with baby fate and they catch the film over the boy’s weary but determined gray eyes.

“You’re a god,” the boy says. His voice is raw from what Sanji suspects is crying. From his mourning garbs, he too must know about the princess's passing. Maybe he even knew her, how she had her breakfast in the morning, what kind of books she liked to read, whether she was headstrong or delicate. Maybe this boy even saw who she would have been, and pang of sympathy hits Sanji straight in the chest. He sighs.

“I am,” Sanji croaks. The flames lick upward into the void. He waves a wizened hand, summoning a second wooden bench. “Sit and rest.”

The boy studies him carefully. “You’re Hestia,” he states instead of asks. “God of home and the hearth.” 

“That’s one of my names,” Sanji agrees. “May I have yours?”

Immediately he realizes his mistake, opening his mouth to retract and reword his question when---”

“Roronoa Zoro,” the boy says.

A name freely given is a powerful thing, and either no one taught Zoro that or Zoro simply doesn’t care.

Sanji doesn’t blame him. Among the vast array of human emotions, love and loss are the messiest. Death can be a piece of shit. Not that he’ll ever tell Law that unless he wants a sickle to the face.

No, that’s the thing about being immortal: loss is such a constant that eventually, it stops hurting. Mortals, on the other hand, feel strongly about everything—it’s insane.

A disagreement between two men leads to one of their heads on a chopping block. The laughter of a child when she sees her father after months. The chatter over supper, the singing of songs, the stamping of feet.

Sanji loves humanity, loves creating a sense of home.

Before he was Hestia, he’d been human once. It had taken him a long time to figure out what home was.

“You shouldn’t be so generous with your name,” Sanji warns. “Especially not to someone like me.”

“I don’t care.” The boy crosses his arms and looks away. “Kuina is gone. Nothing else matters.”

Kuina. That’s a familiar name, but Sanji can’t recall from where. Gods rarely remember the names of mortals, unless they become legends and those are rare and far between. It doesn’t matter right now. He has a disillusioned kid to deal with.

He snaps his fingers, and the darkness gives way to a warm living area and a kitchen, cast in a cozy brown hue. Shedding his disguise, he makes his way to the kitchen. “What do you want to eat, hm? I’ll make you something.”

“Father says I’m not supposed to eat the food of the gods. Apparently, it burns us up. Poof.” He sounds bitter, and Sanji wonders exactly what his relationship is with his father. His eyes flicker to Zoro’s mourning clothes then his shaking fists.

Sanji snorts. “Other gods, maybe. I’m not trying to murder any children today. On Styx, you’ll be alright.”

Zoro watches him, lips pursed, fists clenched with mistrust. “Why were you so wrinkly earlier? And why do your eyebrows look like that? I thought Hestia was supposed to be a woman.”

Sanji stops himself from saying something sharp. That’s another common mistake mortals make: they can’t quite wrap their heads around the fact that Hestia and Aphrodite and Zeus are all titles, passed down from predecessor to predecessor. The original Hestia has long returned to the sleeping void of creation and rebirth that is Chaos. That’s where he'll end up too, eventually.

Sanji is the fifth Hestia.

“Careful, brat,” he says in lieu of that very complicated explanation, selecting a basic fish dish. Another wave of his hand and all the ingredients appear at his whim. “I’m a god, remember? I can look however I want. Make sure that the fire doesn’t go out. It’ll be freezing otherwise.”

Zoro grabs the poker Sanji left there for him and starts just stabbing uselessly at the fire. Clearly, no one’s taught him how to tend to the flames. He watches in amusement until Zoro drops the poker and swivels in Sanji’s direction.

“Is this a dream?” Zoro asks, meeting his gaze head-on and holding it.

No one’s done that in a long time. It almost makes him feel human again.

“No, I kidnapped you and decided to make food for you for fun,” Sanji deadpans. “What do you think?”

“I heard Hestia was supposed to be nice,” the kid snipes back. “Or generous or whatever. You’re sort of mean.”

“Thank you, I try.” Sanji cannot believe he’s having this conversation with someone whose voice hasn’t even dropped yet. He has things to do. Tributes to take. People to bless. He wonders how Shanks would react if he complained about his snappy green-haired spawn. Probably slap Sanji on the back and ask how Zoro was doing.

“If this is a dream, then nothing I say here is real?”

“If that’s how you want to think of it, then sure.”

Zoro scans the room thoughtfully. “Alright, yeah, this is definitely a dream. No one has eyebrows like that in real life.”

Sanji lets the bonfire flare warningly. Zoro doesn’t even flinch, head tracking the way the inferno leaps, then subsides back down like it’s a particularly interesting firework.

“I said you’re mean. Not scary,” Zoro explains slowly like he’s talking to a particularly daft child and it’s not the other way around.

Sanji just rolls his eyes, returning to his sauce which he pours over the fish. “Piece of advice: don’t say that to any of the other gods. They can be real dickish about being respected. Might turn you into a cow.”

"Let them try. I'd beat them in a swordfight." Zoro considers Sanji. “Bet I could beat you in a swordfight.”

He humors Zoro, turning over the fish. “That’s nice. You’re welcome to try.”

Whatever Sanji’s said, the words or the tone, he has no clue, cause Zoro to deflate. “Okay, so I’m not good enough to go head-to-head with a god yet. But watch your back because I will be one day.”

Was Sanji ever like this when he was a child? No, he was relatively well-behaved. Then he recalls Zeff’s furious roars and being chased down the hallways as Zeff waved a rolling pin at him, and pauses. Huh.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Sanji says, unfreezing and checking on the dish. It’s about done. Could use some more rosemary, though.

Zoro bites his lips, focusing in on Sanji who just raises his eyebrows as he taste-tests the broth. “Hm?”

“My sister died today. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.” Zoro’s face is hidden by shadows, despite sitting so close to the light. “I don’t get it. Why did she have to die? She was supposed to be strong.”

So Kuina is his sister. Perhaps she was the princess which would make Zoro a prince. Not that it matters; what is royalty to a god? 

The boy's somber words ring in his mind, Sanji tries to think about how he learned about the inevitability of death, then discards replicating that conversation. It had been more showing and less telling anyway. Still, he tries his best. “All things die. Animals die. Plants die. Stars die.”

“What about gods?”

“Even us.” The fish sizzles in the pan and Sanji fishes it out, pairs it with some rice, garnishes it with some herbs and appears before Zoro. “Here, eat.” When Zoro doesn’t so much as twitch, Sanji quips, “If it makes you feel better, you can pretend this isn’t real.”

“People have gone down to Hades and taken souls out—”

“None of those stories have happy endings,” Sanji snaps, thinking of Mihawk’s cold depressing realm and the last Orpheus. Poor sucker. “Don’t even think about it. Haven’t you learned from the stories? Carry her spirit with you in your goals, but don’t tempt Fate, and don’t fuck with the Underworld.”

“How am I supposed to carry her spirit with me?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Sanji retorts. “I’m not you or her. That’s up to you.”

Zoro reaches for the spoon, a pensive expression still stamped on his face. “Carry her spirit with you.” he echoes thoughtfully again. Then with more conviction. “Yeah, you’re right, creepy old man. Thanks.”

“I should turn you into a moss ball,” Sanji snaps, but relief washes over him as the boy dumps a small portion of the meal into the flames for Sanji. He takes a bite of food, then begins shoveling the whole thing into his mouth. “Or maybe a floating piece of algae.”

“You won’t,” Zoro says with stuffed cheeks. There’s a grain of rice on the corner of his lip. “You’re not like that.”

“Don’t presume to know the gods,” Sanji tells him wearily. “You’d be surprised by our cruelty.”

He turns to look at the fire. When he looks up, Zoro has vanished back into the world of the living, leaving behind only an empty bowl and a single grain of rice. He vanishes those away, and waves his hand, creating a portal to return to Olympus.  

He doesn’t think of Roronoa Zoro for fifteen years.

ii.

The summer beats down on Shimotsuki, the country's capital, and heat wars with the cool sea breeze that washes over the town. Children scurry around him, laughing and chasing each other. They jump one after the other, attempting attempt to snag one of the ribbons flapping in the air. Around him, the chatter of mothers, fathers, lovers, the elderly, and the young wash over him in the town center.

The sound of bartering dominates many stalls lining the streets as merchants dish out their wares, from ceramic plates to special cakes only sold for festivals like these. Sanji wanders toward the bakers, donning a plain white chiton and a simple spell to detract attention from his blonde shock of hair.

Call him biased, but there’s nothing better than the smell of freshly baked goods. Sanji would know—he grew up around the kiln and now it is his dominion. Sanji lives for this, a little bit literally. He haggles with merchants for fun, pressing gold coins in their hands that’ll probably feed them for months. What use does he have for money? It doesn’t hurt to distribute the wealth.

A particularly plump roll catches his attention. He inspects it closely, admiring the freshness and the glossy exterior before sliding over what he thinks the piece is worth. The merchant puts both hands up and steps backward. It’s too much, he insists and Sanji huffs.

“Keep it,” Sanji pushes, tucking the roll into his basket rife with breads of different grains and consistency. “What’s the cause for all the bustle?”

“They’re appointing Roronoa Zoro as General of the Eastern Front,” the man explains, tongue loosened by his newfound wealth. “They say he’s a demigod. The king, Koshiro, took him in as his own, but he’s not your typical prince, that’s for sure.”  

“No?” Sanji probes, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. Volunteered to defend the borders six years ago, think he musta been seventeen or so and been there ever since. Heard he’s a fiend on the battlefield though.” The man tacks on, grinning broadly like he knows Zoro personally. “I’d rather have a fiend on our side than on the enemy’s, if you get what I mean!”

Roronoa Zoro. The name rings like a silver bell, bouncing off of Sanji’s brain. Roronoa Zoro. Roronoa Zoro.

It is Sanji’s and it is not Sanji’s. How peculiar.

“That’s fair,” Sanji acknowledges, as smoke rises from the majestic building where the ceremony is taking place. The smell of burnt meat descends upon the city. He closes his eyes, inhaling as the first portion of the sacrifice is dedicated in his honor. “I’ll extend my well wishes during the procession after the anointing then.”

The pottery section of the market is next. There’s a lot more cheek pinching here, jolly women who croon over Sanji’s good looks, asking him whether or not he’s gotten someone sweet, and if not, would he like to meet their daughters?

He laughs good-naturedly. “Sorry,” he always. “She sounds lovely, much like her mother, I’m sure, but I won’t be any good for her.”

“Nonsense!” they say, beaming. “Come home with us. Let her make you a meal, and then you’ll see.” They always let him go with a light ruffle of his hair, and Sanji wishes upon them long and prosperous lives.

One young girl peeks at him behind a stall corner, silently pointing at her own hair and eyebrows then pointing at him. She can see through the spell. Most young children can.

Sanji puts a finger on his lips. When he walks past her, he lets candied sweets pop up in his footsteps which she and her friends fall upon gleefully.

The sun begins to slowly sink, weighty and sagging on the horizon and the small oil lamps begin to flicker on one by one, illuminating the city with warm candlelight.

Music starts playing, loud joyous tunes, and women and men alike cheer, stomping their feet to the beat.

Sanji allows himself to be twirled around by a couple of gorgeous ladies. The singing begins, and chariots begin to line the streets, rumbling the ground as they move as a unit.

“It’s him!” A little girl yells. “The demigod is here! The general!” Soon people are lining the streets, gawking as soldiers flank the edges of the street in perfect lines and uniforms. Between them all, rising above their iron helmets stands the stern king, Koshiro, who smiles serenely, waving at the people around him with a strange empty look on his face.

It’s unsettling, but all kings are unsettling. It comes with the job.

Behind him, in a separate chariot stands a younger man. Staring stoically forward, he radiates a conqueror’s power, regal with a hint of danger simmering beneath his veins.

Green hair swept backward, strong jaw, grey eyes, he is adorned in a chlamys with purple-dyed edges. Unlike the king, he stares straight ahead, head tilted upward crowned by a wreath of laurel. The oil they’ve smeared on him shines in the glow of the lamplight. He’s a sight to behold. Franky might as well have hand-carved him from a block of marble himself; he certainly looks like something Hephaestus would create.

“Oh,” a woman beside him sighs. “He’s so handsome.” Sanji really hopes that she doesn’t faint because he’d catch her naturally, but the ensuing conversation regarding why she swooned is going to be uncomfortable for them both.

But yes, even Sanji can admit it. The general is objectively handsome.

Right as Sanji thinks this, Zoro turns his head, steel gaze scouring the crowd, honing in on the god hidden among the throng of people.

Ugh, right. The three things disguises can’t fool, from most to least annoying: demigods, cats, and small children.

As their gazes lock, he swears the general’s eyes widen. Sanji allows an amused smile to twitch his lips upward before someone walks between them, blocking the view.

Taking the opportunity presented to him, Sanji teleports to the edge of a roof swarmed with parade watchers, snickering as the mosshead cranes his head toward the empty spot Sanji was standing just moments before. A heartbeat later, Zoro readjusts, straightens, and returns his steady gaze forward.

Someone grabs Sanji's hand, pulls him into another heart-thumping dance. The air is warm, the people are happy, the food plentiful, and the alcohol flowing.

Sanji thrives off the energy. The power fills him like honey being poured into a potted jar.

Eventually, hours later, he stands up, pats the dust off his chiton, and spirits himself back to the throne room in Olympus, where the fire crackles happily at his return.

“Welcome home, Sanji,” Robin, the fourth Athena calls, as Franky, the fourth Hephaestus, walks beside her.

He’s reminded of how there is no such thing as a delineated path. In this cycle, Athena loves Hephaestus. Boa, or Aphrodite, has the hots for Zeus, not that Luffy ever notices. Zeus’s supposed wife, Nami, is head over heels for Artemis, who goes by her mortal name Vivi.

There are universal laws they cannot violate, but those are far between. Vows made by their predecessors, on the other hand, are not vows that they have to hold on to.

“It’s good to be back,” Sanji responds, unable to hide the residual traces of contentedness from his voice. “Come sit by the fire if you’ve got nothing else to do. I’ll whip you both up something to eat and drink, yeah?”

He tries not to think of Zoro. Home and war, after all, are diametrically opposing forces.

.

As it turns out, he’s forced to think of Zoro regardless of whether or not he wants to. He’s talking with Poseidon because unlike the Poseidons before him, Jinbei enjoys being in the company of other immortals. Go figure.

Sanji likes Jinbei. When the sea god laughs, it comes from somewhere deep in his chest and reminds Sanji of the ocean lapping at the shores, barely knee-high, and sun-soaked warm. 

The point is, he’s having a fantastic conversation with Jinbei when he feels something ball up in the middle of his chest, and he coughs, spewing out a cloud of log fire smoke. It’s like swallowing without chewing it first.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, slamming his fist against his sternum, hard.

“Not to worry. Are you alright, Hestia?”

“Perfect,” Sanji responds. “Do you mind if I get back to you? It looks like I've got to check up on one of my worshippers.”

This is how Sanji ends up back in Koshiro’s city at midnight, floating grumpily in the middle of his temple over not one, but two whole charred calves.

“What the fuck?” he grumbles. Normally, people give him the first portion of their meal. People kill whole cows for him during the Festival of the Home, but this is an average night, and for lack of a better term, overkill.

Standing before the altar is Zoro with his arms crossed, waiting. The man is out of his procession clothing, wearing the most basic of garbs. “What the fuck,” Sanji enunciates. “I was in the middle of a conversation. What do you want?”

“To talk,” Zoro says. “Gotta say, though, out of all the gods that I’ve called on, your entrance is pretty underwhelming. No trumpets or blinding lights or anything?”

“Some things never change. Your lack of respect, for one,” Sanji huffs. “You called me to talk, so let’s talk.”

Zoro scrunches his face. “You want to talk from up there? Suit yourself I guess.”

Sanji scoffs but he lets himself float to the ground, sandals barely making a noise against the white marbled flooring. 

He hates this place. It’s cold, frigid, and unwelcoming, save for the fireplace in the middle of the room that is never allowed to go out. He has Hestia Three to thank for the design. 

“You were at the ceremony,” Zoro cuts in. “Why?” 

“Why not? Am I unwelcoming in your city, General?” 

Sanji’s words reverberate in the room. The centerfire flashes erratically. Zoro takes a step back but doesn’t seem phased. “Cut it out. That’s not what I’m saying. I just wanted to know why you were at the ceremony when I haven’t seen you for years.”

“Careful. Most gods would put you down for your insolence.”

“Sure, but you’re not most gods.”

What am I then to you? Sanji wonders. “Fair,” he relents. “If it makes you feel better it’s nothing personal.”

The city continues to glow like a fire-beetle, soft and gentle pulses that tremble in the wind. The moon rises higher, and one by one, the lamps start to go out until there are only the stars twinkling in the sky. Sanji walks to the edge of the temple and takes a seat on the topmost step.

“Demigods and gods are a messy combination. It’s use and be used and then politics gets involved and it’s just…unsavory. So, I just do my job and keep my distance. But—” He shakes his head. “—I don’t know. This place called to me, so I came. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Zoro inclines his head toward the seat beside him. After a brief moment of consideration, Sanji nods. Zoro sits.

It’s nice, the normalcy of two people just sitting together. The years are fast, but weigh on you without you even noticing; they scratch away at who you are like water dripping onto stone.

“Think you might be a little too late to be uninvolved,” Zoro says. “After the dream, you know, when I was eight, I went to this temple to ask one of the priests what it meant. Apparently, I gave you my name so our fates are intertwined.” His face twists into something ugly. “What’s done cannot be undone or some shit. The Fates are a pain in my ass.”

“The Fates are a pain in everyone’s ass,” Sanji tells him. Zoro guffaws, genuine, and Sanji’s caught by the desire to pluck his chuckle out of the air and keep it in a bottle.

“I can’t just give you back your name? Like, oh famous general, I bequeath you your name.”

“Yeah, no. Once something is given, it can’t be taken back. Fuck knows why.”

“Of course, it is. Nothing comes easy when you need it to.”

Zoro snorts. “You can say that again.”    

“Hm,” Sanji hums. “Alright then, mosshead, if there’s nothing we can do, I’ll keep your name safe and sound for you. Don’t you worry your green little head.”

“Oi,” Zoro growls, not sounding particularly put out. “Don’t call me that, curlybrows. Anyone tell you for a god, you’re weirdly human?”

Sanji considers how he wants to play this. Despite this being their second meeting, there’s some level of trust between them, even though really, no one should ever trust anyone who has golden ichor for blood. “I was once.”

“And I'm guessing you had a different name then.”

“Yes, fantastic deduction,” Sanji replies. “I wasn't always called Hestia. Color me impressed, general.”

“Huh.” Zoro extracts two clay flasks from who knows where, handing one to Sanji. “You learn something new every day.”

He doesn’t push for details, doesn’t ask questions, and somehow, without even saying anything, Sanji knows that Zoro will keep whatever secrets Sanji tells him all the way down to Hades.

Still, he seals his mouth shut. Reaching over, he clacks their drinks together. “To the General of the East.” Sanji teases. “May he remember to practice basic hygiene after battle.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Zoro snorts, raising his flask to the sky. “To Hestia. May some divine deity deck him in the face.”

“I’ll deck you in the face.”

Together, they watch the sunrise.

It’s Sanji’s turn to vanish first.

.

From then on, Zoro makes a small sacrifice at the end of the month, even if he’s stationed at the Eastern front. Sometimes Sanji doesn’t answer, preoccupied with a million other tasks, but most of the time he does.

“I’m starting to think you have too much free time on your hands, mosshead,” he always snipes.

Zoro sneers back. “Could say the same about you, swirlybrows. Don’t you have fires to be poking?”

“Don’t you have people to be poking with that sword of yours?”

Their relationship is a give-and-take. Sanji banters with Zoro to reprieve him from a society that doesn’t understand what it means to be a demigod.

Between the gossipy nature of the court and the respectful but subordinate attitudes of his troops, there will always be an otherworldliness about the country’s beloved stern general that makes him untouchable, and that very dissonance that will ensure his loneliness simply by the nature of his existence.

Sanji’s presence helps soothe that, helps him ignore the feeling of unease when begins to prickle in his bones in a world not meant for him.

Conversely, Zoro reminds Sanji that you can still be human even if you wear a god’s skin. He forgets occasionally but Zoro always manages to pull him back just by being here.

Neither will admit it. but they’re both exactly what the other needs. As loathe as Sanji is to admit it, perhaps the Fates were onto something.

A year goes by like that. Then another, then a third. He makes a habit of just popping by, living for the split second of delight that Zoro can never seem to mask before the expression morphs into a more competitive smirk.

There will come a time when he will have to choose between love and duty but that comes later, not that Sanji knows it at this moment.

Instead, he savors these blips of happiness he unearths in Zoro’s presence. His joy isn't hurting anyone, and so he basks in its temporary warmth. It’s enough for him. Hestia has never asked for much, and neither has Sanji.  

Then the war comes.

iii .

Where there are people, there is bloodshed. It’s another common misconception that the gods treat war like a betting pool, supporting one side over the next, rooting for their favored team. Perhaps the original gods did, but Sanji doubts it.

The terrible truth is that not everyone is on Shimotsuki's side of the war. Olympus has split down the center. It’s a terrible thing, hurting those you call family, but it’s one of the many caveats of being immortal.

The role of Hestia has always taken on a neutral stance in conflict—it’s the only rule that they’re bound by. The only one that they can’t break. Most soldiers, no matter which side they’re on, are fighting for the chance to return home.

While he doesn’t get the brunt of the splitting headaches that plague Shanks or Robin or even Jinbei as millions beg for their support, tearing their psyches into shreds, he still finds himself being run ragged as he zips from house to house.

He makes the fires a little warmer. Lowers worried eyelids into a restless sleep. Reinforces his influence over his temples which remain sanctuaries in times of conflict.

In the North and the East, legions upon legions of soldiers from a bordering nation march toward the state boundaries.

Zoro calls him, making his same sardonic-laced quips, but Sanji notices the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the worry lining his jaw.

“You look like shit,” Sanji tells him on the worst of days. “Are you going to keel over on me?”

“Not yet, but you nearly fooled me. Thought you were Thanatos with those eyebags.”

“I’m a busy man,” Sanji dismisses. “I’ll kill you if you die though. I’m not busting my ass on the home front for nothing.”

“Aye aye.”

Sanji clonks him over the head, ignoring Zoro’s indignant yelp.

Here’s the thing about mortals: they're delicate. You blink once and they’re already a foot in the grave. The thought of Zoro weathered and fragile, or worse, Zoro bloodless and hacked to pieces, bothers Sanji, more than he’d like to admit. This is why gods don’t remember the names of the little people walking on the earth; they get attached, and then what?

What’s left except time slipping through the cracks of your fingers? What’s left but a reminder that you are utterly alone, and you will remain utterly alone until Chaos or Lethe take you into their fold?

Nothing but memory.

.

Zoro asks him whether he can fight once and only once.

The question is posed by the general as he braces himself over sprawling yellowing maps, shoulders hunching inward. Stress radiates off of him, filling the room. He’s tired in the way that anyone who regularly leads good people to their deaths would be tired. He doesn't push, just confesses: “Hate to say it, but we could use some divine firepower.”

Sanji peers at him from where he’s reading a book on modern battalion strategies. Chews on the bottom of his lip, quiet for so long that Zoro raises his head.

“Hestia can’t engage in active warfare,” he finally admits. “We can retaliate in self-defense if our temples are desecrated, but beyond that, we’re bound to a non-violence pact.” He pauses. “Does that make me useless to you?”

(What good are you? Niji is jeering as Sanji lays on the floor, curled up on his side, hands covering his head from the brutal kicks raining from above. Useless coward! No wonder Father doesn’t think of you as a candidate for ascension!)

“Don’t be stupid,” Zoro had replied, dragging a hand down his face. “If I’m being honest, the fewer people who are dragged into war, the better.” He runs a hand through his short hair.

Then quieter: “People like me, we can’t help it. We’re born craving violence.” 

There’s a resigned edge to his words like he recognizes that his bloodlust is something to be ashamed of, but there’s nothing he can do. It hurts Sanji a little, a deep ache in his core that pulses in tune with his heart.

In truth, he likes Zoro, all of him. Tired and bloody, dressed in armor. Quick-witted and beaming, chiton fluttering in the wind. Of course, he doesn’t say that. Instead, he just tilts his head and snaps the book shut.

“Huh. What would you want to do if you weren’t Ares’s son?”

It occurs to Sanji that he’s never imagined Zoro as anything other than a general, but there must be a different lifetime, somewhere out there, where he isn’t bound by his lineage.

Zoro pulls out a wooden stool and takes a seat. “I dunno,” he says, voice barely audible. “For a long time, I thought I’d just live and die on the battlefield. But now, I think that I’d like a quieter life.”

“That doesn’t sound bad,” Sanji agrees, a good deal gentler than their normal ribbing. “Mind me asking what a quieter life looks like?”

Humming, Zoro gently picks up the fireplace poker and begins tending to the fire. He’s improved considerably from when he was a child and the fire blazes healthily under his watch. “A small house by the sea, maybe. You probably already know, being a god and all, but East of Shimotsuki, there’s a beach. It’s lined with these white cliffs. Every evening, you can see the sun setting, and every night, the sound of the waves on the shore puts you to sleep. I’d probably go out in a boat during the day, fish, and come back to guide the ships home.”

It’s lovely. Sanji swallows hard, his own mind spinning images of the place Zoro is describing. “There would be no bloodshed.”

Zoro exhales. “None.”

“Well. There’s nothing stopping you from doing that once this war is over.”

Zoro smiles, the first genuine grin since the war started three months ago. A pang of want spears through Sanji and he closes his eyes, listening to Zoro’s voice. “I guess not.”

.

The next time that Sanji sees Zoro, the man is grimacing, hand over his bandaged eye, which he quickly drops when he notices Sanji. It’s too late, and Sanji strides across the room to where Zoro’s perched on his duvet.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Sanji snaps, unsuccessfully trying to mask his concern. “Besides the missing one eye.” He’s heard rumors that Mihawk himself paid Zoro a visit, curious about the Demon in the East. How Zoro’s alive after fighting Hades, he has no idea, but he’s relieved all the same.

“Battle happened,” Zoro grunts. “It’s nothing.”

It’s nothing Sanji’s ass. The man has no depth perception. Blood soaks through the bandage and Sanji suddenly feels terrible and a little terrified all at once. Having no vision on one side tends to be a liability in combat.

Every day, it seems like Zoro’s treading closer and closer to the Underworld.

“Here,” he says, ignoring the alarmed noise that Zoro makes, and resting a hand on his cheek. He slowly swivels Zoro’s head in his direction and can somehow just sense that it’s impossible to salvage his eye. “Shit. Yeah, it’s gone.”

This confirmation doesn’t appear to be news to Zoro who just shrugs. “Thought as much.” His face burns under Sanji’s palm.

“Did you clean the wound? You’ll lose more than an eyeball if that gets infected,” Sanji warns. Zoro bats his hand away, although perhaps bat is too strong of a word. It’s more of a weak tap.

“The medics took care of it. Quit fussing, yeah? It’s alright. Promise.”

Sanji sucks in a breath, then lets it out through the cracks between his gritted teeth. “If you say so. So, do you have anything you want to discuss today, mosshead?”

“You, I guess.”

Sanji startles. “Me?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. I don’t know anything about you besides the stories, and even then, there’s not much. And you said it yourself. You were human once.”

That conversation feels like ages ago. “It’s not exactly the happiest story,” he tells Zoro.

Zoro huffs, partially in understanding. “Most people who have ichor running through them have shitty lives.”

“You included?”

“Yeah.” Sanji doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

Instead, he procures two thin hand rolls of tobacco smokes, offering one to Zoro. With a smoldering finger, Sanji lights his own with a quick tap, then reaches over and presses the ends together. This close to Zoro’s face, he can feel each warm exhale float over the bridge of his own nose.

Satisfied that the ember has caught, he draws back, taking one long drag and blowing it up into the heavens in a perfect smoke circle.

“My shitty birth father was descended from Ares,” he continues. From the way Zoro’s face twists in disgust at the family implication, he’s quick to tack on, “Not directly. His great-great-great grandfather was Eris, who was a daughter of Ares in the beginning. Look, it’s complicated but trust me when I say your father is ten times more tolerable than the god that spawned my father.”

Gods no. He thinks that Shanks would rather chop his dick off than be associated with Judge.

Zoro doesn’t seem like he entirely gets it, but looks relieved to hear that he and Judge aren't half-brothers. Which, honestly, fair. 

“Alright. You don’t look thrilled talking about him,” Zoro says.

“How much do you want to know?”

“However, much you’re willing to tell me.”

“It was hell,” Sanji replies, which Zoro accepts with a slight nod.

Hell was an understatement. Sanji used to live house of people desperate to find a way to claw their way into godhood by any means possible, a family of Icaruses flying too close to the son.

From birth, Sanji was the runt of the litter, cast aside like scrap metal, only to be pummeled and kicked and bruised whenever they felt like it.

It was inevitable that in their quest for power, the family began conducting forbidden rites to replace the current Ares by force. Ascension, they called it. All their attempts failed, one by one but they just kept going, fueled by hubris. Their tenth attempt had been their last.

Judge bled out. Ichiji stopped breathing. Niji vanished. Yonji burned. Sanji doesn’t know what happened to Reiju.

“Anyway, I was taken in by the man I’d actually like to think of as my father. And things were good, I guess. Then there was a war caused by another child of Ares. They did happen to share the same father as you, but that’s not important. Point is, they ravaged the city, I died protecting some innocents, the gods were impressed, and here I am.”

It’s the bare bones of what truly happened. Sanji’s still got skeletons deep in the closet that no one needs to know about him. Here’s the full story, tucked deep in the ridges of Sanji’s spine, making up his person:

Zeff took him in after finding him wandering the streets, covered in the ash of what was once his family home. Taught him how to bake, how to cook, how to worship the Olympians instead of Chaos. Eventually, people flocked to Zeff’s bakery for Sanji’s dishes, including the fourth Hestia, who’d heard rumors of his skills all the way up in Olympus.

She saw the way he left no one unfed, no matter how poor they were. She liked that about him, liked that he had a backbone of steel and how he remained kind despite a past that tried to crush it out of him.

He’d been happy.

Sanji was twenty-six during the war. His war, not Zoro’s. He remembers how the invaders torched the town, the screaming, the sound of metal ripping flesh. He remembers defending a temple full of weeping innocents, one against two dozen.

With a god behind him and the advantage of the upper ground, he managed to repel the enemy, but he’d taken a javelin to the chest in the end and gone down without a sound.

The fourth Hestia’s last act as a deity had been to burn the enemy in the city to a crisp. It was sacrilegious—she overstepped her dominion in a last-ditch violent suicide of hellfire.

And now she was fading for her violation of the universal laws.

She scooped Sanji, bleeding, gasping, into her arms. She’d grown weary of being a god anyway; the years had weakened her, sapped her of will to continue enduring in a world that would exist for eternity, and she felt herself losing the will to care about anything.

And she saw someone who cared too much for everyone and everything.

How would you like to protect those who cannot protect themselves? she’d asked the dying man in her arms. How would you like to keep the fires alight when all that remains is the endless night?

And Sanji had agreed. The River Lethe stole her away, snatching her from Chaos to face her punishment for her sin.  

Here’s the irony of it all: in the end, one of the Vinsmokes did become a god—the failure, the weakling, borne from war in a different way than his father but borne from war nonetheless.

Sanji has remained Hestia ever since.

“And here you are,” Zoro echoes. “Are you happy?”

Sanji jolts. What a strange question. “I—my job isn’t really about me being happy. Preserving family, making sure that people have a home, whether they find it in other people or a place. Protecting. That’s what I’m meant for.”

“Yeah? And who looks out for you, oh great protector?”

“Other gods, I guess,” Sanji says, blatantly ignoring Zoro’s tone. “But what’s the point of godhood if you can’t look after yourself?” 

Zoro huffs. “Guess there’s some merit in that.”

“Don’t need your approval to know what I say has merit.” Then, caught in the mood, he nudges Zoro, the general’s tanned skin running furnace-hot. “Why, you thinking of covering my back? Sounds awfully close to admitting you care, if you ask me.”

Zoro doesn’t say a word. Just peers at him, lips set in a thin exasperated line. “For some immortal with years of experience, you’re sort of stupid.”

“It’s the human in me,” Sanji quips, and Zoro makes a visible effort not to roll his eyes. Probably still hurts.

Blowing out another smoke ring, Sanji asks, “How did you end up in Koshiro’s care? And don’t answer if you don’t want to.”

Zoro leans back on his hands, holding the cigarette between two fingers. 

“It’s good. Turns out a lot of people want to get their hands on a son of Ares. We make good war dogs. Ran away from home to save my mom the trouble.”

Sanji doesn’t know how to react to that, especially since Zoro is, in his own right, a war dog right now. The bile in his stomach churns. “Koshiro—”

“He gave me the choice. I went city to city knocking commanders off their high horses until this one. Couldn’t beat Kuina in combat, so I figured if they had someone as strong as her, then there had to be something worth fighting for. I promised her that I'd protect it. That we'd protect it.”

And that's the crux of it, isn't it? Here is Zoro, always striving for something greater than himself. Here is Zoro, who breathes and bleeds loyalty to a country he swore to protect all those years ago. 

Moonlight seeps through the window panes. Sanji soaks in the slope of Zoro’s jaw, his handsome bloodied face, and the tender look residing in his remaining eye.

While he’s still staring, Zoro’s hand reaches out and carefully tucks a strand of Sanji’s hair behind his ear. Sanji can feel himself soften under Zoro’s touch, becoming less than divine.

What a dangerous thing it is, to give someone your heart.

iv.

There’s a breathing period, where the world seems to come to a lull. Eight months into the war, a ceasefire is reached with the enemy. The schism between the Olympians, along with Zoro’s wounds, mend, and citizens slowly grow less fearful of leaving their homes.

Six months after no movement at the border, Zoro is called to the capital.

Sometime during his visit back, he summons Sanji.

“Come on,” Zoro says immediately when Sanji appears. “I wanna show you something.”

“What, no hello? No how are you, Hestia?” Sanji says, just to be difficult, but he lets Zoro lead him through the town, past the cliffside, back into town, and—

“Uh,” Sanji tells him when they pass by the bakery again. “Where exactly are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Zoro grumbles. “Stop complaining. I bet you don’t even get a lot of exercise with how you’re floating in the air all the time.”

“I get my exercise in just fine.” Sanji rarely uses his legs unless he’s on earth but that’s beside the point. “But usually, when I’m walking, I don’t walk for the sake of walking. I’m trying to get somewhere.”

“We are getting somewhere,” Zoro informs him.

“You know when I think of the word somewhere, it usually doesn’t include walking in circles.”

Zoro turns to him, reaching out to pinch a chunk of Sanji’s cheek and pulling. “Ow, what the fuck!”

“Shut up,” he says, jumping out of the way when Sanji lunges for his throat. He’s on the verge of cackling; Sanji can hear the little shit. “We’re almost there. Just be patient, yeah?”

After another loop around the town, which Sanji is getting more acquainted with than he’d like to be, Zoro finally manages to navigate them to their designation. Picking their way over the chunks of coral, then sliding into the sand from the undergrowth, they find themself at the seaside. The sunrays hit the water just right, creating the veneer of a thousand sparkling diamonds adoring the ocean. The scent of salt floods his nostrils, and as a gull caws in the distance, he feels himself relax.

A breeze rushes past him, and he closes his eyes to fully immerse himself in the beach’s beauty. When he blinks away the darkness, he catches Zoro waiting patiently for him. The wind whips at Zoro’s clothes, cloth fluttering on one side, pasting to his body on the other.

“Ready to go?” Zoro asks. The sun-warmed grains of sand burn even with the barrier of his sandal sole, but he follows the marimo anyway, letting the sun bake its rays into his skin. They hike up the cliffside until they come to a stop in front of a man-made formation of rock.

“It’s…a pillar of stone.” Sanji squints up toward the sun. “I can sense a fire up there, but it’s not a hearth.”

Zoro hums. “How good are you at climbing?”

“Why would I climb when I can fly,” Sanji deadpans. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

Zoro jabs at his ribs, causing Sanji to yelp. “Asshole.”

“Yep, that’s me. Start climbing, mighty god.”

The clamber up to the top is grueling, even when Sanji is, by all accounts, in peak physical condition. Each handhold protrudes from the wall, and he heaves himself up only to repeat the process again and again. Zoro pauses occasionally, looking down to check on Sanji’s progress, then continues on.

The edge of the platform is slippery, but Sanji manages to make it. Zoro nods in approval. “How was that?”

“Fine,” Sanji brushes off. “What is this?”

“It’s a lighthouse,” Zoro says. “To keep ships safe during storms. I come up here sometimes.”

“When you can find it?” Sanji teases. “Joking, I’m joking.”

From here, the view is more breathtaking than it was on the ground level. The sea stretches for miles upon miles, cutting off on the sharp line between the salt water and the sky. He’s seen similar things looking down from Olympus, sure, but he’s never had to work for those sights. He’s forgotten what it was like.

This, he recalls, is the reason people will hike up mountains only to get to the top and nothing else. Somewhere along the lines, he’d lost the ability to examine the world with the fascination it deserves. The monotony of living had dulled his joy, but Zoro has reignited that wonder.

“Pretty great, isn’t it?” Zoro asks, taking a seat. “This is the place I was talking about building a home at. You know, in another life. Thought you might like it. ”

Sanji turns to him. “Like it? You’re insane. This is amazing.” He spreads out his arms as if to embrace the sun. The draft up here is stronger, just the right amount to keep him cool and not blow him off his feet. “Hey,” he says, coming to a decision.

“Hm?”

Sanji lets his arms drop to his side. He walks until he stands in front of Zoro, shadow encompassing him before taking a seat right in front of him. “What would you say if I told you I’d be willing to give you anything within my power?”

This is the closest he can get to saying how he feels without metaphorically baring his throat. It means pretty much the same thing, though.

“I’d say that’s weird as fuck.” Zoro tilts his chin upward, letting the gale caress his face. “I’ve got everything I want right now, right here.”

Sanji stares. Could you want me? he wonders. Fuck it to hell. He’ll deal with the consequences later.

“I love you,” he whispers, and the wind carries his confession to the man sprawled a couple feet away from him.

“Yeah?” Zoro lowers his head so that he’s level with Sanji. The corners of his eyes are already crinkling with suppressed amusement.

Sanji scrunches his face. “Don’t tell me you already knew.”

“Had my suspicions for a while but thought it was too good to be true. Tried not to think too much of it. You’re allowed your secrets.”

A scowl mars Sanji’s features. “Don’t be cryptic. What’s your response?”

Zoro gently drags Sanji closer, uncrossing his legs so that Sanji kneels between them. Unsure of what exactly Zoro’s planned, he inches forward. “What’s going on?”

He holds Sanji’s hand, brings it up to his lips. “You know whatever heart I’ve got has always been yours,” he confesses. “As long as you want it. Even when it’s no longer beating, it’ll be yours.”

“Zoro.” The name like syrup, sweet on his tongue. No volcanoes erupt. Zoro’s eyes don’t change color. It’s a little underwhelming, but Sanji can’t help but be relieved. “Do you trust me? Do you need proof?”

He was serious when he’d promised that he’d do anything within his power if Zoro so wished. Besides his mother, Sanji’s experience with love always required collateral. His service, his cooking, his blessings. Nothing has ever been given freely to him, not then and not now. “Do you want my name?”

“Hestia?”

“Our human names,” Sanji clarifies. He withdraws his hand, unfurls his fist, staring at it, the creases, the flesh of his palm. Natural. No different than Zoro’s own. “The foundation of what kind of person we were. And what kind of god we’ve become.”

He has Zoro’s after all. And a god’s name means power. It means leverage. His fate, whatever it is, is already bound to Zoro but still, there is no going back from here. What is given cannot be ungiven. 

No one rational would turn down that opportunity, but Zoro just shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No. If you decide to give it to me because you want to, then that’s up to you. But I don’t need it. I don’t want anything that you don’t want to give me.”

That’s the problem, isn’t it? Sanji wants to give him everything. Still, he gets what Zoro means. Telling him his name now feels dirty, an act committed out of obligation rather than trust.

“Here,” he says instead, pressing a soft kiss to Zoro’s mouth. “Is this alright?” Zoro’s hand comes to rest above his hip bone, firm and solid.

“Yeah,” he responds, voice gravelly and horribly fond. He leans up and kisses Sanji himself. “What about that? Is that alright?”

“Stupid. How could it not be? Do you have any brains in that skull of yours at all?”

Laughter whirls from the top of the lighthouse. “You would say that right now, huh?”

Give and take. Give and take. No god or mortal or anything in between. Just two entities reborn under the midday sun.

.

In the past, if you asked Sanji, he’d tell you that he’d loved before, but if you ask him now, he’ll tell you that he’s only ever loved one person truly.

What was life before this? An endless haze, and understanding that he had to do what he had to do. He wishes he could slap his past self silly. You’ve been a cog in a machine for too long. Wake up.

In the bed beside him, Zoro’s arm wraps around his torso and pulls him closer. “I got you,” he says into Sanji’s hair, pressing a closed-lip kiss somewhere on the top of his head. “Let me take care of you.”

Make a home out of me.

And Sanji does.

v.

The revolting truth about life: rarely do good things last long.

Two months, three days, and five hours later, the ceasefire ends. Houses burn, people die, and the enemy marches on.

Sanji does the best he can, stealing away citizens in the cloak of night, strengthening barriers, but they leave the temple of the gods untouched, having worshiped the same deities. There’s nothing that Sanji can do, and he wants to rip his hair out at the injustice of it all.

Zoro summons him weekly, men dwindling by the day. Shimotsuki has the geographical advantage, but technologically and in terms of manpower, they are struggling. Zoro is a one-man army but everyone, from his soldiers to the gods to the enemy knows that it’s not sustainable.

“Come to escort me down to Hades?” Zoro always asks, morbid sense of humor the only way to make light of how dire their situation is becoming.

“Sorry. It looks like you’ve got some living left to do.” Then softer: “What can I do to help?”

“Just stay here. Tell me about your day.”

And Sanji will prattle on about this and that and Zoro will listen until something tugs at Sanji and he has to go, or Zoro falls asleep, or another battle begins. Sometimes, Sanji takes a stray piece of cloth and wipes away the blood on Zoro’s armor, his hands, his face. Zoro will always let him, closing his eye, humming softly.

They fall into a routine, and Sanji lets himself think, maybe they'll get out of this once yet. After this is over, they'll head to the seashore together again. Build a home. Zoro will want to construct it himself, the brute. Sanji makes the mistake of letting himself dream.

And naturally, this means that the end comes without warning.

.

They are bound to each other, their threads of Fate entangled with one another. Sanji had no clue what that meant until Zoro falls in battle.

There is no fanfare. One second, Sanji is confusing invaders by twisting and muddling the city roads. The next, he feels a cord inside him snap.

Like a string being cut.

It shatters above the left side of his ribcage, carving out an utterly empty abyss, not unlike the black hole the original gods sprung from. It’s the sort of hurt that screams to be filled, aching and raw and violent. He presses a hand to his chest, the lack of blood shocking him when he pulls away.

He expected to be grabbing at the shredded muscle of a torn heart.

Zoro.

With a glance behind his shoulder, he twists the streets in loops once again, letting the intruders walk in endless circles unless they begin breaking down walls, and flees to the battle.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen the kind of brutality so often associated with war. Men lay strewn around him like puppets, this one without an arm, that one lying in a pool of his own brains, some covered in so much red that Sanji doesn’t know whose side they’re on.

Law stands in the middle of it all, silent. A man lies twitching at his feet. With a grim swing of his scythe, he reaps his soul.

“Thanatos,” Sanji calls. The hollow hole in his chest burns, licking up into his chest, into his skull, all fire and ugly pain. He feels the heat igniting his feet, erupting from his cornea until all he can see is orange and red. “Where is he.”

“He? There’s so many of them. Husbands. Fathers. Brothers.” Death turns to him with sallow cheeks and insomnia-ridden eyes. “Ah, you’re talking about your general.”

“Don’t be smart with me,” Sanji growls. “Did you take him already?”

“Not yet. But I will soon.” He considers Sanji, who is halfway to blowing up. A mess of supernova and god and too much emotion. “You shouldn’t have given him so much of yourself,” he chides. “That’s what killed Aphrodite Two.”

“No one asked for your fucking opinion,” Sanji growls. “Where is he?”

Law points a bony finger west toward the setting sun. “Do you see that mountain of bodies?” he asks wryly. “That’s his doing. Roronoa Zoro is quite the monster.”

“Keep his name out of your mouth,” Sanji snaps. “Don’t you fucking touch him.”

Law’s mouth curls into a pitiful smile. “I have to take him eventually. Mihawk expects him, but I’ll stall for time. Go on.”

Zoro sits propped against the mass of corpses, breathing heavily. There’s so much blood on his front that Sanji doesn’t even know where to start. Arrows protrude out from his ribs and chest, but the damning blow is the spear protruding out of his sternum.

His eye flutters open. He fixes his gaze on Sanji, as if taking him in, one last time. The corners of his lips twitch upward as if to say You came.

“Stupid,” Sanji says, falling to his knees beside him. He cradles Zoro’s face carefully in his hands, and Zoro turns toward his touch even though any sort of movement must hurt. “Stupid idiot. My stupid idiot.”

Zoro blinks blearily at him. “Of course, I would be here,” Sanji mutters, reading the question in his furrowed brow. “You’ll be alright. You’ll be safe. I’m here to take you home.”

Even though he’s dying, the way that he looks at Sanji is soft beyond description. Where would my home be if not with you? and a wet chuckle rips out of Sanji’s throat.

“Rest,” he mutters, hand reaching down to grasp Zoro’s. “You’ve done all you can. I’ll be here.”

With what little strength he has, Zoro raises their enclasped hands, brings them to his chest to feel the last final beats of his life, as if to say, this is yours, it always has been, then lets it tumble back down.

The light in his eye vanishes. The tension on his face slackens. There is no heart kicking against the back of Sanji’s hand, and Sanji knows that he’s dead.

Law stands behind him. A cold hand lands on Sanji’s shoulder which he knocks off jerkily. “It’s time. He has a long road ahead of him.”

Sanji swallows and nods. He’s not supposed to hate, gods are supposed to be impartial, to love equally, but disdain begins to infect his soul, corroding it away. 

Law touches Zoro’s forehead, and takes his spirit away, leaving Sanji alone, kneeling beside the shell of the single man whom Sanji has given whatever humanity in him remains, who will never return to him.

Hands trembling, he reaches over and closes Zoro’s eye.

Miles away, Sanji can hear the enemy battering down city walls. 20,000 more men at least march to their aid.

Soon, give it a week or so, and Koshiro’s country will be overrun. And then what use will Zoro’s death be? This is what war is at its core—one home destroyed for another. A fucked form of auto cannibalism.

Rage floods him, white-hot and searing. It feels like so long ago that he denied Zoro assistance, too hesitant to overstep the boundaries paved out for him, but he thinks of the fourth Hestia and thinks what the fuck do I have to lose?

A ragged sob escapes him. His tears evaporate the moment they drip off his chin. Gods are not allowed to grieve. Gods are not allowed to do this. Gods are not allowed to do that. Gods are not allowed. Gods are not allowed. Gods are not allowed.

Sanji is a god. What use is power, though, if he’s trapped in an invisible cage, barricaded in by oppressive rules, unable to help the people that he needs to help?

Who looks out for you, oh great protector?

Hestia is supposed to be selfless. Zoro was the one thing that Sanji had bothered to be selfish about, and the world has stolen that from him.

A reminder: don’t forget your place. Don't forget that you live for the masses.

Hundreds of burning fireplaces suddenly sputter out. They gather below Sanji’s feet, pool into his hands, two miniature suns, and one boiling evaporating heart.

That day, the skies rain fire.

Hundreds of miles away, an entire military force on the verge of winning a war goes up in flames. The path to the Northern Sea is littered with black husks. It’s only after three days do the rains come and wash away the ashes of a fallen empire.

A stroke of luck. God blessed, Koshiro’s men will say, but Sanji can’t hear them.

Deep in the Underworld, Sanji’s memory is slowly being worn away by the constant lapping tides of the River Lethe.

The sluggish water plugs up his ears, and blocks his vision. Soon, he’ll forget everything, but for now, he’ll lie there, tethered to the riverbed until his mind has been wiped clean.

Roronoa Zoro. Roronoa Zoro, he chants like a prayer, if only to forget him last.

The price to pay for crossing over your godly dominion, for letting yourself become too human: absolute and utter effacement. 

interlude

A shade walks into the Courthouse of Hell. The funny thing is that he can remember everything and absolutely nothing. He was holding someone’s hand when he died, but he can’t picture the man’s face.

That had ended abruptly. One blink later, he was being led by another man clad in black, who eventually grabbed his arm and began steering him forward when he wandered off too many times. It’s not his fault; gods take roads that move and besides, everyone knows immortals have no sense of direction.

He was eventually dropped off at the end of a winding line. There were other souls around him, but they seemed confused, and it was boring as all fuck. The back of his mind itched, desperate for conversation, for—

For who?

He’d gotten onto a boat next, and a burly red-haired man took him in with a scowl.

“Huh,” Charon said, looking unimpressed. His mechanical arm whirled. “He gave it all up for you?”

They crossed Styx with relatively little trouble. Voices whispered to him in the depths, swirling, and he caught the faintest trace of a complete sentence. On Styx, you’ll be alright.

He'd known that voice. It was on the tip of his tongue, but the moment he reaches for it, it slips out of his grasp.

At the riverbank, he’d been ushered yet into another line that streams into an elaborate courthouse before being unceremoniously manhandled into the room, where the three judges of Hell now study him. He read about them somewhere, in a past life perhaps.

Kizaru chuckles the moment he steps onto the podium. Fujitora purses his lips, lacing his fingers together like a tent, while Aokiji lifts his head from where it had been lying on the half-circular table.

“Hm, curious, curious,” Kizaru sings. “I see your feats, but no name. Could it be that you gave it away?”

“A hero’s actions are still a hero’s actions, name or no name,” Fujitora interjects. “Are his accomplishments not worthy of a place in Elysium?”

“Sure, but are we forgetting how many people he butchered?” Aokiji drawls. “A hero to some is a devil to others.”

“Sometimes a man must become a monster to protect what’s most important to him,” Fujitora counters. “Whether that be family or friends.”

“Or his home?”

Kizaru throws back his head at Aokoji’s comment, chortling outrageously. “Every son of Ares we’ve talked to has led such tragic lives. It’s hilarious.”

“He doesn’t even know what life you’re referring to.”

“In that case, Asphodel, right?”

“What kind of precedent does that set for amnesiacs?”

“I’m literally right here,” the nameless defendant snaps. He’d wished he had his swords in his hand, but he left them somewhere in the mortal plane. “Look, if you’re going to toss me into Asphodel or Tartarus, can you just hurry up and say so?”

“Ooo, his charming personality is certainly intact.”

“I vote Elysium,” Fujitora finally says. “The past is the past, regardless of whether he knows it or not.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever’s easiest. Elysium.”

“My vote doesn’t even count then! Alright, take him away. Next!”

In five minutes, his fate has been decided. Thanatos appears at his side again. “Hades would like me to show you around Elysium. Afterward, he’d like to meet you personally. He was impressed by you in the battle where he took your eye.”

“Huh.” He reaches up and runs his hand over the scar that’s sealed his eye closed. “Should I be worried?”

“Imagine being summoned to the House of Hades and asking that sort of question,” Thanatos grumbles. “Must be nice to be so blissfully unaware.”

Elysium is beautiful in that false way everything eternal is, which is to say there is nothing beautiful about it. He takes in the crystal trees that morph into fall maples when he glowers at them as if trying to fit his expectations.

The river cutting through Elysium runs translucently as the air, burbling happily, and he sees heroes of old walking around on perfectly maintained lawns, nothing but contentment on their faces. Everything he could possibly want is here.

It should be, at least. There's no sense of elation. Just...apathy.

“Over there is the Isle of the Blessed, where souls go to be reborn.” Thanatos is saying. He tunes the Death god out, instead reaching down to examine the water.

He’s about to dip a hand in there when Thanatos clears his throat. “That’s the River Lethe,” he says. “Or at least a subsidiary of it. It runs into Lady Persephone’s gardens and irrigates her pomegranate trees. Touch it and you’ll lose your memories of your past life.”

Lethe murmurs, thoughts layered upon incomprehensible thought.

“What’s in there?” It shouldn’t be drawing him closer like that, he’s sure, and yet an invisible rope seems to latch on to the center of his jugular and yank him toward the bank.

“A god,” Thanatos says, unreadable poker face plastered in place. “Who overstepped his bounds in the name of love.” He spits out the last word as if it’s particularly distasteful. “He was a good man too, you know. But that’s what happens if you forget to keep your distance from humans.”

Charon mentioned something earlier, now that he thinks about it. He gave it all up for you?

And what was it that Kizaru had said? You have no name. Could it be that you gave it away?

He’s becoming more and more certain of what he needs to do. Ignoring Thanatos’s protest, he plunges his hand into the water. The river grabs him by the wrist and drags him in, submerging him completely.

Salt floods his mouth like the sea beside white cliffs. A memory.

The voice in Lethe whispers, familiar and deep. It calls his name.

And Zoro remembers.

.

Thanatos hauls him out, spitting and teeth bared.

“Why is Hestia in there? Take him out of there now!” Zoro demands once he’s reoriented himself.

Thanatos scrutinizes him like he’s a particularly interesting quarry find. “Instead of forgetting everything, you remembered everything. How interesting.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the damn logistics of my memory. Get Hestia out of the river.”

“Hestia’s not in the river,” Thanatos responds, voice bored. “Hestia’s in Olympus taking care of the Olympic flame. The man in the river is no longer Hestia. Is this making any sense to you?”

“The job title means jackshit to me. What is he doing in there?”

“Dissolving,” Thanatos tells him. “He stepped over his godly boundaries, and soon he’ll become nothing. Lethe will weather away at his mind first. Once he’s empty enough, it’ll start eroding his physical body and he’ll be part of the river.”

“How long has he been in there—forget that. Pull him out.” Zoro’s never wondered what the consequences for punching Death in the face are, but today’s a day for firsts, it seems.

The pasty fucker shrugs. “I can’t do that. Only Lord Hades can authorize an action like that. Speaking of which, the House of Hades is up next on the tour. Are you ready?”

Already, Zoro’s mind is spinning with plans, searching for loopholes. He’s found one, he thinks. It’s not one he would have ever considered, but what else is there left? “More than ready.”

Thanatos frowns. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”

“‘Course not,” Zoro lies through his teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Say, out of curiosity, where do you keep the swords in this fancy place?” 

Thanatos groans. “What did I just say?”

.

The throne room in the House of Hades is a cold place, and Zoro thinks it could use more fireplaces. Hades sits perched on the throne next to Persephone, who wears her pink hair in pigtails and lip tint so pink that it hurts Zoro’s eyes.

Persephone seems to have a penchant for the creepy and morbid. Her hat is decorated with cobwebs and he’s pretty certain he can hear screaming stemming from it.

Rather than the Hades and Persephone of legend, Zoro gets the feeling that these two just so happen to be inhabiting the same place and through time and close proximity, have learned to tolerate each other reluctantly.

“Oh,” Hades says, voice booming and quiet all at once. He’s pale, dressed in all black with sharp yellow eyes.  “Thanatos tells me that you have a request to make.”

“Damn straight,” Zoro growls. “Hestia, or the ex-Hestia, or whatever the man in Lethe is. Fish him out of there.”

Hades, who Zoro knows well because he’s fought him once, when he’d come personally to assess who was sending so many people down to his domain en-masse (surprise, it was Zoro), considers his request.

“I, unfortunately, cannot do that. There’s no telling how the river might react, and even if I were to let him go, what kind of precedent would that be setting for other gods who violate the laws set by Gaia and Ouranos?” He takes a sip of his wine.

“Fine. Then I’ll let him out myself,” Zoro says, unsheathing two of the swords he’d taken from Elysium’s armory. “Can’t be that hard to kill the God of the Underworld and take his place.”

A loud guffaw echoes in the halls. The fires pewter out, and the lost souls creep closer to hear the King’s next decree.

“I like your spirit,” Hades chuckles. “Very well. If you defeat me, I will give you full authorization to the Land of the Dead.”

“What does that mean? I don’t want to be your groundskeeper if that’s what you're saying.”

“Not at all. I will train you to be the next Hades, and when the time comes, you will be the new King of Hell and this realm will be yours to do what you wish with it.”

Well, those are certainly perks. Persephone, on the other hand, frowns. “It’s not a happy ending. This is supposed to be the greatest love story that the muses have ever sung about. Not a tragedy! This isn’t going to be cute at all.”

“Hush, Perona.” Hades rubs the bridge of his nose. He takes another swig of his wine, which Zoro respects. “Given the gravity of the situation and the effects this will have on the realm, this is the best I can do.”

“Hey,” Zoro calls. “Mind explaining whatever the fuck is going on?”

Persephone turns to him, crossing her arms. “You’ll be stuck here. And he’ll have to cycle through life after life until he’s finally more mortal than god. It’s the only way that this can work.”

“You’re saying that he can’t stay here.”

“The Underworld is awesome because it’s spooky, but it’s also annoying because it’s such a stickler for rules,” Persephone informs him.

Hades takes a deep breath, which reverberates out into the vast hall. “There can’t be two Hestia’s at once. He will need to discard his divinity, or he will be constantly hunted by things demanding order. You won’t be able to see each other for the next thousand years. Perhaps more.”

It’s not ideal, certainly not a happily ever after, but it doesn’t matter. All Zoro wants is to make sure No-Longer-Hestia is safe. He never once thought he would get everything he ever wanted. He never has before.

“Sounds good to me,” he grins, brushing off the spasm of vain longing that spears through him. “I’ve been itching for a rematch.”

Hades stands, and from the shadows, extracts a long black blade, resembling a cross. “Wonderful. I see no reason to delay the inevitable then. Shall we?”

And the dance begins.

+1 restart

There’s not too much that Sanji is sure about anymore. He knows his own name. Knows the name Roronoa Zoro, though even that is slowly sliding out of his head like snow slush. He somewhat recalls the way that he feels for the man, but beyond those three things, not much else.

The water wears away at him like sea glass.

Cold. Unyielding. Constant.

His eyes begin to drift shut.

A sudden disturbance around him causes him to start. A blurry object extends down like a rope in a well (an arm, he realizes), grabs the front of his clothing, and drags him out of the riverbed, dropping him down on a wooden surface.

Sanji coughs, gasping in air, lungs recollecting how to breathe. A warm weight rubs his back soothingly, and he turns to see a green-haired man, who watches him with concern. “Done throwing up half the river?” he jabs, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Who are you?” Sanji asks, shouting hoarsely as the place around him explodes into a din of groans and weeping. The noise subsides a moment later but it’s enough to make the hairs on Sanji’s arm stand on edge.

“Who am I, huh?” The man just smiles a little wanly, the edges of his face soft but sad all at once. “You’d know that better than I would, dart brows. You’ve been keeping my name safe for me for a long time, you know.”

“Roronoa Zoro.” The vowels slip off his tongue like marbles. He’s glad that he was able to hang on to it before it was snatched from him too. “You gave it to me. I think.” When did that happen? “Can I call you that? Zoro? Or do you prefer Roronoa?”

“You can call me whatever you want,” The man called Zoro replies, devoid of any emotion. He picks up the oar, and it occurs to Sanji finally that they’re in a small rowboat. “Can you remember anything?”

“Your name. Mine. Not much else,” Sanji admits. Yet interestingly, Zoro’s presence makes him feel safe, an extra blanket on a cold winter night. “Did you forget anything when you pulled me out of the river?”Because that’s what the river did, right? Make people forget things?

“My sister’s face.”

Oh. Sanji wishes that he could dive in and fish it back, but he’s not sure how much of him would remain. The boat glides on. “Where are we going?”

“The Isle of the Blessed,” Zoro tells him. The water is now level with the riverbank, beginning to creep over the edges. “You can be reborn there as a human under the protection of the Underworld. Live a happier life than the one I dragged you into.”

A small part of his brain protests at Zoro’s insinuation that he was the cause of Sanji’s unhappiness. “I don’t think that’s right,” Sanji retorts. If anything, being around Zoro, in these couple of minutes has flooded Sanji’s chest with an airlight euphoria. “That doesn’t sound right—you dragging me into anything. You don’t seem the type.”

Zoro purses his lips.

“What about you?” Sanji asks when it’s clear that the other man has nothing else to contribute. “Are you also on your way to rebirth?”

“Nah, I’m staying here. This realm is now my domain.”

Sanji cranes his head around to take in the caverns of the Underworld, the purple gems that protrude from the walls, and the terrible loneliness that calls from its depths. “No offense to your domain, but it doesn’t seem like much of a home.”

This produces a small smile from Zoro. “My home isn’t a place.”

“No?”

“Nah, it’s a person. A bit of an idiot sometimes, but what can you do?” 

“They must be special,” Sanji says.

“He is.”

The boat hits the shore. Zoro hops out, drops the tiny anchor, and boots sloshing, extends a hand out to Sanji. He takes it, and together they walk up the hill, Lethe creeping behind them like a shadow.

“We must have known each other before. What were you to me?”

“A friend,” Zoro says. That doesn’t sound right.

“You’re lying,” Sanji snaps. “What were you to me?”

They aren’t family. They’re not friends either. He’s eliminated stranger from that list as well, which leaves so only many options left.

Zoro’s mouth gapes, then he shakes his head. “No one important,” he says like an inside joke but there’s nothing humorous about the way his eyes flit back and forth or the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as if swallowing brings him pain.

Sanji has never been stupid.

“Did I love you?”

Zoro’s head whips over toward him so quickly that he hears a crack.

“I did, didn’t I?” Sanji continues. “And I’m guessing that you loved me too. Don’t think I’m going out on too much of a limb here.”

In the middle of the Isle, a bright shining portal gleams and pulses with power. Implicitly, Sanji recognizes it as the gateway to rebirth. One to a life that’s supposedly happier, apparently, than his last.

They stop a few feet in front of it. Waiting. This is Sanji’s destination. This is apparently where he’s supposed to say his goodbyes.

Sanji thinks of walking forward, of potentially abandoning someone who potentially loves him without any closure, and can’t do it.

The truth is there, just out of his reach.

“I did something.” Sanji guesses, gauging Zoro’s reaction.  “Something terrible.” There’s a flinch, so minuscule that if Sanji weren’t looking for it, he would have missed it, but it’s all he needs to confirm his theory.

Part of him feels sorry for how his actions have hurt the man in front of him, this man who seems to have given Sanji the very core of who he is. He’s caught by an urge to cup Zoro’s hands in his face and take away his suffering and hurt. To spend his days relearning how to love him as he deserves. 

There is nothing he regrets more than forgetting the man before him, but Lethe has eaten all his memories up. “Tell me what’s going on. You owe me that much.”

Zoro just sighs. “You’re right. We were more than friends. Guess you could say lovers even.” Zoro drags a hand down his face. “And yeah, curlybrows, you did something that wasn’t great, broke some universal law, but you don’t deserve to be erased from existence because of it. So, I’m giving you an out.”

“Am I supposed to just leave you?”

“You can’t stay,” Zoro affirms. “I can smell the divinity still clinging onto you, curly, and it’s not natural. It’s like…rotting, wrong…the Underworld's got it out for you.”

Divinity? Was Sanji a god? “Is this one of those universal laws you mentioned earlier?”

“Yeah, the Lethe is a hungry by-the-rules motherfucker. Worst combination there is. Point is, you can wipe away your godhood over time if you’re reborn.”

“Just like that?”

Silence.

Dread skitters inside Sanji for unknown reasons. “How many lifetimes?”

“I don’t know,” Zoro admits, not meeting Sanji’s eyes. “As many as it takes.”

That’s hardly Sanji’s main concern. “And what about you? You’re just stuck here?” You loved me enough to pull me from Lethe. Who would I be if I just abandoned you here without a second thought?

“I—” Zoro sucks in a breath like it physically wounds him to speak. He takes both of Sanji’s hands in his own. “At the end of every life, I’ll be here waiting for you. And when it’s finally over, I’ll find you. I’ll be the one to welcome you home. It’s no house by the sea, but we can make it something. I’m sure.”

Sanji doesn’t know what he means by the house and the sea, but he does know that it isn’t fair. Then again, he’s getting the inkling that this world rarely is. There is no masking the strain in Zoro’s voice, the agony of letting a precious thing go.

If their positions were swapped, would Sanji be able to do the same? Maybe. Maybe not. But to leave this man behind with nothing but memory slashes at him. “Before I go, I have something to give you. Is that alright?”

The gateway winks at him. He looks down at Zoro’s large, scarred hands, steady despite their evident urge to tremble, and understands even now that this is a man who Sanji entrusts every fiber of his being.

“My name is Sanji Black. Keep it safe for me, will you?”

“Yeah,” Zoro’s voice breaks on that one word, so out of place from the man he’s just met that it tears Sanji apart. “I will. Consider this an oath sworn on Styx.”

With the blanks in his head, so many things have felt intrinsically off, but when he moves forward to press his head against Zoro’s, it’s like a piece of the puzzle sliding into its rightful place.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t say I love you. That belongs to another Sanji in a past life.

Maybe there’ll be a time in the far future where he’ll feel worthy of a love this unconditional, this self-sacrificing. “I’ll see you again soon. I’m sorry that I couldn’t remember you.”

“I’ll do enough remembering for the both of us,” Zoro says quietly and Sanji nods.

“I know you will.”

He breaks free and turns one last time to look over his shoulder. The River Lethe licks at his heels, hungry to set the world right. To devour the anomaly that shouldn’t exist.

Sanji turns to look at the man, at Zoro, one more time. “When this is done with, I think I could fall in love with you again if you’d give me the chance.”

Without even hesitating, Zoro replies: “Always. I’ll wait for as long as it takes.”

And with that, Sanji walks into the light.