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We are the Stuff of Broken Dreams
Piece by Shard by Bit b-- (whole.)
[Fanfiction] Nova 
29th-Aug-2011 12:00 am
Released Caged Bird
Title: Nova
Rating: K
Media: Fanfiction
Genre: Introspective
Pairing: Franky/Robin
Word Count: 1,028 
Warnings: -
Prompt: Morning 
Written for uglyyomithing. Originally posted in the frankyxrobin comm here

Summary: The night claims many things as its own, but those in the sky are their own entities. Distinguishing between what is a star and what is a sun is blurred, because cyborgs are meant for mechanics, not astronomy. Robin fails to instruct on the latter. She laughs, and in dreams, recognises that suns are stars, and possibly, vice versa.  


She had been told, many years (realities) ago, by faces now faded into the recesses of her memory, that books, records and poneglyphs told the history of the world. It was the truth acknowledged in the realm of historians and archaeologists, and she abided by it dutifully.

History is not constant. It is often altered by Man. Faulty records, tempered by religion, miscopied, orchestrated, misplaced or hypothesised... Nothing is certain in history, Ro—

That, too, she bore in mind; a reminder running with clockwork consistency – tick, tock, tick, tock – like a prayer. (Not constant, not constant, not constan—)

Rather, history, which had not been besmirched by the touch of Man, the story of the earth itself, was an unblemished record, written and distorted only by time. Poneglyphs were evidence of such a record (and look what it did, look what it did, look wha—).

She sought it.

Three times, she sought them. Once, to prove herself worthy of an institution and lineage of archaeologists. Once, to validate her existence (Why did they disappear? Why did they leave? Why couldn’t they leave us alo— No, not alone. Not alone. Not alone.). Once more, as a reason to live.

It was different now.

Poneglyphs no longer aligned themselves with a death wish, no longer muffled the cries of her people. No longer did they haunt dreams, nightmares or visions of a gigantic oak and the loved ones it had crucified on its flaming branches.

The crew she sailed with validated her existence, forced it upon her and made sure that she didn’t run away from their light. Light is not the antithesis of darkness. The antithesis of light is nothing. A vacuum. She sailed on the ship of dreams. And for that, she dreamt, she aspired and she hoped. For the Straw-Hats, that was not enough. For them, because of them, dreams became realities.

She lived her own reality now, and poneglyphs were a part of the space they shared.

The history of the universe is written in the skies.

It is chaptered by the stars and inked in by the Milky Way.

We are part of that history.

She knew the night like the back of her hand. Years of running in the rain, treading through night-darkened forest paths with only the sky to guide her had taught her much. The stars had been her compass and the night, her cover.

Starlight, star bright, the first star I see tonight. (North, north, north, north. Run, faster, quicker, quieter. Run, run. Run. Run. Run. Don’t stop, Ro—. Don’t stop.)

No nightmares chased her now. They didn’t touch entities of light, even if they were entities that existed in the night.

Stars never disappear. They hide in the light of brighter stars, always in the sky.

Their crew had many suns.

Loud, distinct and brash. Some burned to be in the presence of. Overwhelmingly bright, like molten hope. Others burned darker, like determination, and smelled like blood on steel. Others were gentler, like the warm basking light of an oven. Some were smaller, less distinct, but she embraced their warmth all the same, wrapping it around her.

All of them burned with enough heat and life for ten suns.


On deck, she withdrew into her own frame, smiling soft and secret as dawn stole across the horizon in the distance.

“That was quick,” she murmured to herself as she rested her chin on her arms, which were crossed over her raised knees. Slowly, as she watched the languid stretch of morning crawl across the waters, the twinkle of the stars overhead began to fade.

The creaking of wood, starting to wake from having contracted in the cold of the night, alerted her to the presence of another. She lifted her head and turned around just as blankets, warm from being just used, settled around her shoulders and enveloped her in its soft folds.

“Ho, you were awake? Another all-nighter?”

Her response was a smile, spreading slowly along the curl of her lips like the sunrise.


“Yo, Missy Historian,” Franky returned, placing himself with a creak and the sound of metal on wood next to her. “Shouldn’t you be getting some rest?”

“You’re early yourself,” she countered, side-stepping the question neatly.

Their shipwright looked pointedly at her.

“I’m a cyborg, and even I’ve slept. You, on the other hand, are either draining all of our superrr coffee supply, or you’re some sort of secret clockwork human.”

Tick, tock, tick, tock. (Not constant, not const—)


She laughed lightly.

“I’m watching the stars disappear,” she said, turning to face the lightening skies.

Franky snorted. “There’s one hell of a superrr weird way to describe a sunrise.” He was never going to understand women who just smiled (albeit prettily) to whatever he said. When Robin’s gaze slid back to the stars, he followed it, catching the last vanishing winks of starlight as the morning spread. “Huh. They’re just going to sleep, aren’t they? They’re still there. You can see them now if you squint.”

There was an ambiguous pause, before she nodded and smiled a little warmer.

“I suppose.” She tilted her head and rested them on her arms, the chill of the night warded off by the blankets around her. Morning was a step away from the deck.

She was fine with being a star in their crew of suns.

Starlight, star bright.

The night was her domain, after all.

“Aren’t stars suns of their own anyway? Maybe they have superrr sunrises too,” Franky mused absently, humming appreciatively as the warm light hit the ship’s figurehead.

Robin closed her eyes and let the morning wash over her. “That would be nice,” she murmured, drifting off to sleep, comfortable in the warmth of the sun. Safe from the night.

I wish I may.

Her last coherent thought as sleep whisked her away, as she felt the strange strength of steel arms lifting her up, was that she fit in after all. With the constellation on-board the Thousand Sunny, sometimes it was hard not to. (I wish I might.)

Good morning. Sweet dreams.

(Have the wish I wish tonight.)


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