Three months after Crocus came aboard, the Oro Jackson had just wrapped up a very cordial exchange with a certain kingdom's fleet.
A line had already formed outside the infirmary, filled with howls in that special pirate key.
"Doctor Crocus, quick, I've got a bullet stuck in my tooth." Nozdon yawned his abyssal jaw. A dead round, still smoking, was wedged between his molars, equal parts ridiculous and horrifying.
"You idiot, who told you to catch bullets with your mouth." A vein jumped on Crocus's forehead as his forceps creaked in his grip, yet his hands were rock steady. Three deft twists and the dangerous cavity was out.
"Next."
Taro shuffled up with a limp right arm. "Uh, doc, pretty sure it is dislocated, and fractured in three places." In the fight he had decided his arm made a great flail.
Crocus's eyelid twitched. He practically roared as he shoved the man inside. "Do you lot treat your bodies like consumables. One day I will scrap you all and rebuild you in iron."
Shanks and Buggy were craning from the side. Buggy jabbed at an invisible red dot on his proud nose and yelped, "Doctor Crocus, here, I was grazed by the enemy's killing intent, I think I am dying."
Shanks clutched his stomach, solemn. "Blame Buggy. I laughed too hard and got a cramp."
"Both of you, go scrub the deck." Crocus's bark sent the brats scattering.
Leaning on the rail, Kael Grylls watched the chaos that somehow ran like a machine and could not help smiling.
Once, injuries like these meant days of bedrest and cancelled parties. Now, under Crocus's scolding and skill, everyone was back to full by morning. He had become the second surest comfort on this ship after rum.
Roger stood arms akimbo, taking in Crocus's bustle, and boomed a laugh. "Kūhahahaha. A partner to rely on."
Crocus shot him a look, especially when he caught Roger hefting a cask with a hand that was freshly bandaged. His blood pressure spiked. The harpoon in his fist creaked.
Night fell. The sea kept breathing.
No banquet tonight. After an afternoon of repairs, the crew wore the smell of medicine and savored a rare pocket of quiet.
By the fire, Roger glanced at Crocus, who was wiping his instruments. He set aside his usual grin and asked, steady for once, "Crocus, tell us. About Laboon, and about the Rumbar Pirates."
Chatter faded. Eyes turned to the doctor whose combat value rivaled any fighter aboard.
Crocus's hands paused. Firelight flashed on his lenses, hiding his eyes. He held silence for a long time, sifting dust from memory.
"They," Crocus began, voice rough with fondness, "were hopeless optimists like you, no, like us. A crew of joyful musicians."
He told the tale of music and a promise.
How a little whale who loved their songs followed a ship full of dreamers. How Captain Yorki and his friends, before entering the Grand Line, made a promise to the young Laboon. After one full voyage, they would return to Twin Cape to fetch him.
"They entrusted Laboon to me. They believed I would keep him safe, and believed they would come back." Crocus looked at his rough hands. "And I waited, more than twenty years."
More than twenty years.
The words hit like a stone on every heart.
"At first the kid behaved. After a few years he realized they would not be back so easily." Helplessness and ache threaded Crocus's tone. "He started ramming the Red Line with his head, trying to break through and go find them. Day after day, year after year, splitting his head, covering himself in scars, and never stopping."
Silence spread across the deck. Only the crackle of the fire and the far wash of waves remained.
Buggy's red nose twitched, his eyes reddened. He scrubbed hard and muttered, "Damn it, smoke's too thick."
Shanks gripped the hilt at his hip. His small face held a gravity beyond his years.
"Bastards." Gaban slammed his cup to the planks, a fire kindling in his gaze. "If you say you will be back, you come back."
"Yeah."
"What kind of promise is that."
Tempers flared. They might not grasp medical theory, but there were two words they understood better than anyone, promise and crewmate.
"Kūhahaha." Roger laughed again, yet the bravado had thinned. Something steadier rang in it.
He rose and walked to the bow, facing the wind with his back to them.
"Crocus," his voice carried across the ship, "I gave you my word. I will keep it."
"Listen up." Roger spun, eyes blazing as he swept every face. "From today, finding the Rumbar Pirates is one of our voyage's aims. We find them, dead or alive, and we grab them by the collar and ask why they made their friend wait decades."
"Ooooooh."
"Beat them senseless."
"For Laboon."
Blood ran hot again. The gloom shattered under shouts.
In the surge of vows, Kael did not speak.
He sat in the shadow and watched the faces lit with resolve, Crocus's shoulders shaking, Roger's back straight as a mast.
He knew better than anyone where the Rumbars lay.
It was not an ending you could scold. It had happened in the Devil's Triangle of the Calm Belt, an ambush and a plague, a slow collapse into death.
There had been no betrayal, no forgetting. Only loyalty to the end, and a farewell song played with the last strength they had, for a promise that outlived them.
They left that song in a Tone Dial, hoping one day it would cross the seas to reach the foolish whale who waited.
And now only one of those cheerful musicians remained, a skeleton kept walking by the Yomi Yomi no Mi, forever playing alone on a ghost ship in the fog.
A concert for the dead, one that would never end.
Kael lifted his orange juice and drained it.
Bitterness spread from tongue to heart. Looking at his friends swearing to demand justice for Laboon, he felt for the first time how heavy it is to know too much.
He could not speak that truth.
It would crush the last strand of hope Crocus held, and turn his friends' blaze into a cold joke from hell.
Kael closed his fist, silent.
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