Dear My Friends, | ONE PIECE VARIOUS x Reader

Arrow 1. fear is an arrow unmasked.

You shut your eyes. Your back muscles are relaxed, allowing you to pull back the string. A slight brush touches your nose. Your left eye opens, glancing at the arrow. Align. The grip you have on the bow relaxes. Your fingers slip, and you shoot again.

It's a process you repeat. The feeling is all you can pursue, and it makes you happy.

Your hand pulls into the leather bag that dresses your side, to reach for another arrow, but it's empty. You've used all five arrows and there's nothing left for you. The bow you wield is chucked to the ground, and you can't help the way your body drops by it.

"I'm sorry, dad," says you, glancing down in shame. Your lips tighten into a straight line and you almost make the mistake of relaxing.

Your hands begin to pull out the grass from beneath you. The green is ugly. It scars your eyes, but you can't seem to look away. There is an urge to pause, to give up, and let go of everything. But the colour is reminiscent of his gentle nature. You miss the way he'd hold onto you and whisper your worries into disappearance. Your father is your world. Without him, you are simply nothing.

Green is what you are in a world of grey.

There is a ruffle of blank sound. It's coming from your bag, you realise.

"What's that?" you ask, flinching at the disturbance. The tremble of your hand isn't soothed: he isn't here to hold you.

The leather bag that you find yourself forgetting moves again. A shine of yellow speaks to you. The glow only grows more impatient, and you note the movements hurry with the tilt of your figure. It follows you.

You reach out and open the bag. Strange, you think, is what describes the sudden silence. There is only the thick-washed journal your father left behind. Its edges are torn, lines smudged, as the words written by his scarred hands can barely be read. Your fingers grab on tightly, brushing past the dirty brown spots that linger on the surface. It makes you smile. His passion is his work.

The spin of your hand lands on a close to torn page. You note the way the writing is messier with each word, and it's almost unintelligible, but you recognise the brief mention of your name: Hanabi. It sounds so pretty when it comes from him, in any shape or form, even in writing, you wish it's a name you can call your own truly.

Along the page, there are ingredients, many more than you'd think, and steps accompany them in detail of what mixtures form certain materials. There are many reactions and terms you don't recall.

You know of your father's alchemy and the reason he hides you away. It's what makes, or made, him sought after by the world government following his departure from the marines. However, what makes you tremble in shock is not his job, but rather the single line that precedes your sworn name.

Your mouth falls open, eyes widening briefly. "How can that be possible?"

There are wet stains encasing the surroundings of the sentence. Before you can begin to read, you consider your place on the floor. The transparent stockings you wear are stained as plucked strands of grass lay motionless. Even with the soft courage of wind, the pressure isn't enough to rid the crud that now ruins your fresh washed clothing. It's a hassle, but you ignore the delicate ruffle of your shredded sleeves. Instead, you rise from your crouched stand. Cramps are immediate, but you swallow down the complaints.

"My dear Hanabi," you say slowly, reading along, "my parting is near, but that is of no worry. What matters most is you, and your safety. I know you read these very words I write, and I'm sorry for not being able to prevent what comes in the future."

Three dots are neatly placed. It causes you to pause.

You blink, grip tightening, as you whisper, "Find a way to leave Caminus Island, you must. I don't have much time. Though I am reassured that my journal is in your hands, the way you use my craft is a ploy. I regret not teaching you sooner, but the time is here."