Varin hated existence right now. That was the first coherent thought that crawled through his skull. The second was light, it was blinding and obnoxious, far too much unforgiving light pouring across a white ceiling that seemed determined to burn itself into his retinas. He squinted at it, immediately regretted that decision, and let his eyes fall half-closed again.
Memories came in fragments soon after. First, Dragging Crocodile, the man's coat was leaving a streak through the streets. All Sunday slung over one shoulder. Voices turned into Shouting. Then the crew, he remembered seeing them.
That was the last clear image. Then nothing, and now he was awake. And everything hurt. Not sharp or specific. Just everywhere. A full-body ache that felt like someone had taken a hammer to every joint, every rib, every inch of muscle. Even breathing felt like work. He tried to flex his fingers. Nothing.
They twitched maybe half a centimeter before his nerves decided they had better things to do than cooperate. He tried to lift his arm, to no one's surprise It didn't move. His eyes, the only part that seemed to work, shifted downward instead.
It was what he expected, bandages. Layers of them. Wrapped around his torso, his shoulders, his forearms. Tubes were running into him, one in his arm, one near his collarbone. Something cool was taped to his ribs. The faint drip of fluid echoed somewhere near his ear.
He hated it. Being restrained by his own body. Being patched up like cargo. Being stuck staring at the ceiling. He tried to swallow, but even that hurt. "…Tch." It came out dry, barely audible.
The room smelled clean, like Alcohol, antiseptic, and far too fresh linen that was pulled tight enough to wrinkle the air. It crawled up his nose and sat there, sterile and wrong. No sea salt, no iron, wood, or smoke. He hated it.
His body wouldn't answer him when he moved, but he tried anyway, starting with a twitch of his fingers. A shift of his shoulder. He was hoping for something, anything. But pain bloomed sharp and immediate, radiating out from ribs, spine, something tight around his chest.
He could stand the pain, but he couldn't stand the stillness. Stillness meant danger. Stillness meant waiting for the next blow. His entire life had been built on that rule. Back with his family, if he didn't move fast enough, he got hit. If he didn't move smart enough, he got worse. Movement was survival, a Reflex. Instinct burned farther than bone. On the iceberg, if he slowed, even for a second, the creatures beneath the ice, things that hunted hesitation. Stillness wasn't rest there. It was an invitation.
So he tried, by Odin's Eye, he tried, His hand jerked an inch before something tugged against it, tubing, and tape, A line pulled tight, making his vision blurred, then sharpened too brightly.
The monitor beside him exploded into noise, a sharp, continuous electronic scream that climbed higher the harder his heart slammed against his ribs. The more he tried to move, the louder it became, as if the machine itself were protesting him. He thrashed as much as his body would allow, though thrashing was generous. It was more like writhing, muscles straining beneath layers of bandaging and restraint, shoulders lifting a fraction before pain forced them back down. His legs twitched uselessly under the sheets. Tubes tugged at his skin. Tape pulled. Something in his side burned with every attempt.
He was not panicking. Panic was wild and scattered. This was focused. This was fury. A deep, rising anger that settled behind his eyes and coiled tight in his chest. Chained again. Held down again. Forced into stillness like a trapped animal.
He could hear footsteps now, rapid and sharp against polished floor, voices following close behind, urgent and controlled. He drew in a breath, slow and forcefully calming, dragging air into lungs that still felt too small. He was not in danger. The thought came hard and mechanical, something repeated rather than believed. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight it ached. This was the fruit, Fenir's instincts, his fear and rage. The part of him that refused restraint, that reacted to confinement like it was a threat that had to be torn apart. He did not like being chained down. His entire body rejected it on principle. Even knowing he was safe did not quiet the surge of anger that came with it. It felt less like fear and more like an animal pacing inside his ribs, slamming itself against bone because the cage door would not open. He forced another breath, slower this time, willing his pulse to drop, willing the machine to quiet, willing his body to remember that this was not the iceberg, not his childhood, not a battlefield. Just a room. Just recovery. Just temporary. But every second of stillness scraped against him like a blade.
"Did I just have a panic attack? Or was that a rage attack?" Varin asked, the words coming out hoarse but edged with a laugh he aimed at whoever had just rushed in. He assumed a doctor by the shoes and the smell, cleaner than the rest of the room, and sure enough there was Chopper too, tiny hooves skidding slightly as he hurried to the bedside.
Varin, stubborn as ever, tried to wave. The attempt barely registered. His fingers twitched against the sheet like a faulty signal misfiring, the effort sending a sharp reminder through his arm that he was in no state to be gesturing at anyone. He stared at his own hand as if mildly offended by it. "Huh," he muttered. "That's humbling."
Chopper was already climbing onto a stool, eyes wide but focused, slipping into that serious doctor mode that made him look older than he was. "You need to stop trying to move!" he scolded, though there was clear relief under it. "Your heart rate spiked really high! You could've torn your stitches!"
Varin glanced sideways at the human doctor, who was checking monitors and murmuring something about elevated adrenaline levels and post-trauma responses. The words blended together into sterile calm. Varin exhaled slowly, the anger that had flared moments ago cooling into something duller and more manageable now that there were actual faces in the room. "Felt like I was being pinned," he said more quietly, eyes drifting back to the ceiling. "Body didn't like that much."
Chopper's ears drooped slightly. "You weren't in danger. You're healing. Your body just reacted."
"Aye, I gathered that," Varin replied, though there was no bite to it. He swallowed, throat dry. "Didn't feel like fear. Felt like… being caged." He flexed his hand again, managing only the faintest curl of his fingers before the strain made him stop. This time he didn't push it.
The human doctor adjusted something on the IV line, the cool drip shifting slightly in his vein. "Your nervous system is overstimulated," the man said calmly. "After severe stress, the body sometimes misinterprets stillness as threat. Especially in individuals used to prolonged survival conditions."
Varin huffed a faint laugh at that. "So I broke my own instincts, then?"
"Not broken," Chopper corrected quickly. "Just louder than usual."
That earned the smallest smile from him. He let his head sink back properly into the pillow, tension easing from his shoulders by degrees. The monitor beside him began to settle into a steadier rhythm, no longer screaming its protest. He focused on that sound instead, on the regular beeping that proved he was still here, still breathing, even if he wasn't moving.
"Right," he murmured after a moment, voice quieter now. "Next time I try to wrestle the hospital equipment, you have my permission to hit me with something."
Chopper gasped. "I'm not hitting you!"
Varin's eyes slid closed again, exhaustion finally winning where anger had failed. "Worth a shot," he muttered, the faintest trace of humor lingering as the room returned to something resembling calm.
The next few minutes were a blur of small lights, careful hooves, and an avalanche of questions that Varin answered on instinct more than thought. Chopper had shifted fully into doctor mode, which meant no nonsense, no jokes, and absolutely no tolerance for vague answers. He shone a penlight into Varin's eyes, watching the pupils contract, then had him track the movement left to right, up and down. "Don't move your head," Chopper warned, though Varin wasn't exactly capable of dramatic gestures at the moment.
"What's your name?" Chopper asked.
Varin gave him a flat look. "You've known me how long?"
"Answer the question!"
"Varin."
"Full name."
He sighed, then gave it.
"What day is it?"
"Depends," Varin muttered. "Hospital day or real day?"
Chopper's ears twitched. "Real day."
He thought about it. Not long. Just enough to prove he had to think. He gave the correct answer. Then came where are you, who's the captain, what happened before you woke up, can you remember the port, the fight, the last thing you said. The human doctor stood nearby, occasionally checking the monitor, occasionally asking him to squeeze fingers, to push weakly against a hand, to describe any dizziness, any nausea, any ringing in his ears.
Varin complied, mostly. The squeezing part was humiliating. He tried to grip Chopper's hoof and managed something that might generously be described as a suggestion of pressure. His brow furrowed in irritation more than confusion. "I swear I'm stronger than this," he muttered.
"You lost a lot of blood," Chopper shot back immediately. "And you were unconscious for days. Your body needs time."
Days? Varin's jaw tightened at that, but his gaze stayed clear. "How many?"
Chopper hesitated just a fraction too long. "Three."
He absorbed that in silence. Three days of stillness. Three days unaware. That explained the heaviness. The way his limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. Still, his thoughts weren't foggy. They were sharp. Sharp enough to be annoyed. Sharp enough to be embarrassed.
The human doctor leaned in slightly. "Any confusion? Difficulty recalling personal history? Blurred thoughts?"
"No," Varin replied evenly. "Unfortunately."
Chopper studied him for another long moment, then nodded slowly. "Your cognitive responses are intact. Reflexes are a little sluggish, but that's expected." He scribbled something down on a clipboard far too large for him.
Varin let his head rest back against the pillow again, staring at the ceiling tiles. He felt wrung out, like the brief outburst had burned through whatever reserve he'd woken up with. The anger from earlier had dulled into a manageable ache, replaced by a reluctant acceptance of his situation. He flexed his fingers once more, managing a slightly better twitch this time. Progress, even if it was pathetic progress.
"So," he murmured, voice quieter now but steady. "Brain's still working. Body's just being dramatic."
"Your body is healing," Chopper corrected firmly. "And you're not allowed to call it dramatic."
Varin huffed softly at that, the closest thing to a chuckle he could manage without irritating his ribs. "Fine. Healing. Still don't like it."
"That's normal too," the doctor added calmly. "Loss of mobility can be distressing, especially for someone accustomed to constant activity."
Varin's silver eyes flicked toward him briefly. "That's a polite way of saying I don't sit still."
Chopper crossed his arms. "You're going to learn."
Varin closed his eyes, not arguing this time. The monitor continued its steady rhythm beside him, no longer screaming, just marking time. His mind was clear. His temper under control. Weak, yes. Frustrated, absolutely. But present.
He spent another full day trapped in the bed like that, staring at the ceiling tiles like they personally offended him. By midmorning he had officially renamed the room Helheim. It felt appropriate. Pale walls, endless stillness, the faint beeping of machines marking time like some underworld clock that refused to let him forget he was stuck. Nurses came and went with polite smiles and firm instructions. Chopper checked him twice as often as necessary, clearly suspicious of him at all times.
At one point Varin genuinely considered asking one of the nurses to "accidentally" forget to secure something so he could make a break for it. The mental image of Chopper discovering that attempt stopped him cold. He had no doubt the reindeer would find a way to medically justify re-breaking something just to keep him stationary. And honestly, he'd probably deserve it.
Still. Threats had never been a reliable deterrent in his life.
After one of the quicker check-ins, pulse steady, temperature normal, stitches clean and all the normal doctor stuff, he noticed something different. The heaviness was still there, but it wasn't suffocating anymore. When he flexed his toes beneath the blanket, they moved. Not a twitch. Actual movement. Slow, and stiff. But real.
He waited until the hallway quieted. Listened to the fading footsteps. Counted to thirty just to be sure. Then he pushed himself upright. The motion was sluggish and unpleasant, like hauling a rusted anchor off the ocean floor. His arms trembled halfway up, muscles protesting the sudden demand. His ribs flared with a hot warning that made him pause, teeth gritting until the wave passed. The room tilted slightly but didn't spin. That was good enough for him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. The moment his knees bent for the first time in days, pain lanced up through both legs. Not sharp enough to drop him, but bright and immediate. His kneecaps felt foreign, like they'd forgotten their job description. There was a chorus of cracks and pops as stiff joints shifted back into alignment. Ankles complained. Hips followed.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Missed that," he muttered dryly, though sweat had already gathered at his temples. His feet hovered just above the floor for a second, as if gravity itself were daring him. Then he lowered them down. The contact sent another shock up his spine.
Standing would be the true test. He placed one hand on the edge of the mattress, the other gripping the IV pole for balance. For a brief, uncharacteristic moment, he hesitated, not out of fear, but calculation. He catalogued the pain, estimated his weight distribution, and adjusted for weakness. Then he pushed.
His legs trembled violently as he rose. Muscles that had been dormant screamed in protest. His vision dimmed at the edges, threatening to black out, but he locked his jaw and forced air into his lungs. Stillness meant death. Movement meant life.
He straightened inch by inch until he was upright, swaying slightly but standing on his own two feet. The monitor beeped faster in response, not yet alarmed, just curious. Varin looked down at himself like he'd just accomplished something monumental. "There we are," he murmured, voice rough but satisfied.
Every instinct in his body was screaming that this was reckless. Every medical instruction he'd been given over the last forty-eight hours echoed in his head.
He took a step anyway. It was small. Uneven and painful, and his knee nearly buckled, but he caught himself on the IV stand before he could fall. A strained breath escaped him, half laugh, half grimace.
"Helheim," he muttered under his breath, taking another careful step forward. "You're gonna have to try harder than that."
Once he was certain he wouldn't immediately collapse, wandering became inevitable. Staying in the room another second felt worse than the ache in his knees. So he moved, slow and uneven, one hand occasionally brushing the wall when his balance threatened to betray him. Each step was deliberate. Measured. Painful, but tolerable.
The halls stretched long and symmetrical, polished stone floors reflecting filtered sunlight from high, arched windows. Everything was pale, sandstone, marble, carved pillars shaped like desert flora instead of the beasts and knotwork he'd grown up around. The ceilings rose high overhead, built to let heat drift upward instead of trapping it. The air smelled faintly of incense and dust warmed by sun. He wouldn't say he liked it, but he didn't hate it either. It was simply… foreign.
Back home, structures crouched low and heavy against the cold. Longhouses were built to endure storms that tried to rip roofs free. Thick beams. Narrow windows. Fire pits at the center of everything. Buildings meant to survive winter by sheer stubbornness.
Here, everything reached upward, farther to open, even brighter. Stone and marble are designed to outlast generations, to defy time instead of weather. It felt less like something used like shelter and more like a statement.
Varin adjusted the bandaging at his shoulder as he moved, wincing slightly. He was still wrapped enough to resemble something half-preserved, linen layered around ribs and arms. Anyone looking at him too long might reasonably assume he'd clawed his way out of a tomb.
Which, given the architecture, felt almost appropriate. He passed servants carrying folded linens, trays of water, and documents. They slowed when they saw him. Not dramatically. Just enough. Side glances. Quiet murmurs once they thought he'd gone by.
To be fair, he did look like a walking injury report. And he was not exactly subtle in stature. No one stopped him, though. No guards blocked his path. That told him something. Either they'd been instructed not to interfere… or word had already spread.
He caught fragments as he passed a partially open doorway.
"…that's him—"
"…the one who—"
"…warlord—"
He didn't slow, but he heard enough. The man who beat a Warlord into a coma. Varin exhaled through his nose at that. Titles traveled fast in places like this. Stories traveled faster. He wasn't naïve enough to think Crocodile's fall hadn't shaken the walls of the world. Power vacuums made people nervous. And nervous people whispered.
He turned a corner, boots scuffing faintly against the polished floor, and paused at a tall window overlooking the city beyond the palace grounds. From here, Alabasta stretched wide and sun-drenched, rooftops shimmering in the heat haze. The desert beyond rolled endlessly, golden and indifferent.
For a moment, the ache in his legs faded behind the view. He rested his palm lightly against the cool stone of the window frame. It felt solid. So different from ice that cracked beneath weight or wood that groaned under storm winds.
Strange, he thought, that something built to endure time could still feel fragile if the wrong person sat on the throne.
A flicker of dizziness reminded him he wasn't as steady as he pretended. He pushed off the wall carefully and resumed walking before anyone could suggest he return to bed. He didn't like being stared at. He didn't like the low murmurs that followed him like dust kicked up in his wake. But confinement grated worse than gossip ever could, so he endured the looks and kept walking. If someone wanted to challenge him, they were welcome to try. He doubted they would. There was something about a tall, bandage-wrapped man moving with stubborn purpose that discouraged interference.
Eventually the stone corridors gave way to open air. He stepped through a carved archway and into a courtyard nestled deep within the palace walls. The shift was immediate. The heat was still there, this was Alabasta, after all, but it felt softer here, diffused by shade and greenery. Real greenery. Not decorative potted palms or carefully trimmed hedges, but actual planted beds. Dark soil instead of endless sand. Vines climbed trellises along the inner walls. Small trees stretched their branches outward, leaves trembling faintly in the warm breeze.
There was a fountain at the center, water spilling in steady, controlled streams. The sound alone eased something tight in his chest.
Varin paused just inside the arch, breathing in the scent of damp earth and growing things. It wasn't the sharp bite of pine or the heavy musk of moss from his homeland, but it was alive. That mattered.
He stepped forward slowly, boots pressing into packed dirt rather than polished marble. The texture underfoot felt grounding. Real. He hadn't realized how much the sterile hallways had begun to feel like a maze until now.
The courtyard was quiet. Too quiet, almost. A pair of attendants stood near the far edge, speaking in low voices until they noticed him. Their conversation died mid-sentence. One of them stiffened visibly.
Varin gave them a small nod. Thankfully they didn't approach. So he made his way to the edge of the fountain and lowered himself carefully onto the stone rim. The act of sitting was less painful than standing had been, but not by much. His knees protested. His ribs sent a dull reminder that he was still very much stitched together.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs, and watched the water move. Half an hour. That was roughly how long he'd been wandering. Long enough that someone, somewhere, had probably noticed the empty bed. Long enough for a nurse to frown at a chart. Long enough for Chopper's ears to twitch suspiciously.
It was honestly a miracle no one had intercepted him yet. The thought almost made him smirk. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes briefly, letting the filtered sunlight warm his face. If the alarms hadn't been raised yet, they would be soon. He could practically picture it, Chopper storming down corridors, demanding updates. Guards scattering. A frantic search for the idiot patient who thought healing was optional.
He exhaled slowly. Chains of healing he was calling it. He understood the necessity. Logically, he did. Rest was required. Muscles needed time. Stitches needed to hold. But it felt wrong in his bones. Like being told to stand down while a storm brewed on the horizon.
His fingers curled loosely against his knees, testing strength. Better than yesterday. Not good. But better. Footsteps echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the archway he'd entered through, there it was. Varin opened his eyes, gaze sharpening despite the exhaustion lingering in his limbs. He didn't move to flee. Didn't tense to fight. He simply straightened slightly, posture instinctively reclaiming some of its usual presence.
If they were going to drag him back to bed, they were at least going to have to look him in the eye while they did it.
The footsteps grew closer, measured and unhurried, not the frantic scramble he had expected. No indignant shouting. No tiny hooves striking marble like war drums. Varin's shoulders remained squared, though a thread of tension coiled low in his spine.
When he turned his head, it wasn't Chopper. It was Cobra. The king moved without a entourage, without ceremony. No guards flanked him. No advisors whispered at his shoulder. He simply walked into the courtyard like a man who belonged there,which, of course, he did, and offered Varin a soft, almost amused smile before lowering himself onto the stone edge of the fountain beside him.
"You know," Cobra began mildly, folding his hands in his lap as water murmured behind them, "I get the sneaking suspicion you aren't supposed to be out of bed."
Varin stiffened almost imperceptibly. His jaw set. For half a second he wondered if this was the polite version of being escorted back in chains. If perhaps the king had already been informed and decided to handle the problem personally.
Cobra glanced at him from the corner of his eye, reading the tension easily. "But I'm not a doctor," he added with a small shrug. "What do I know?"
The edge in Varin's posture didn't vanish, but it loosened a fraction. "I assume," Varin said slowly, voice still rough from disuse, "that if I were causing trouble, I'd have met guards by now."
Cobra chuckled softly. "Undoubtedly."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the fountain. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
"You move like a man who doesn't enjoy being still," Cobra observed.
Varin let out a quiet breath through his nose. "Stillness and I have… history."
"I gathered as much," the king replied gently. There was no accusation in his tone. No reprimand. Just quiet understanding. It was disarming in a way Varin hadn't anticipated.
Cobra's gaze drifted toward the greenery, then out toward the distant palace walls beyond. "My daughter tells me you nearly died more than once ensuring she made it home."
Varin didn't look at him. "Nearly doesn't count."
"It counts to me."
That earned a sideways glance.
Cobra's expression was steady, lined with fatigue that had nothing to do with age alone. A man who had watched his kingdom teeter on the brink and survived it. "You fought one of the Seven Warlords," Cobra continued. "A man who manipulated my people, poisoned my land, and nearly destroyed everything this palace stands for." His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "You are spoken of in whispers already."
"I've noticed," Varin muttered.
Cobra smiled faintly at that. "You do not enjoy it."
"No."
"Good."
Varin blinked at him.
"A man who enjoys that kind of reputation is rarely someone I wish near my throne," Cobra explained calmly. "You seem… inconvenienced by it."
"That's one word for it."
Cobra's gaze shifted back to him fully now. "I won't have you dragged back to bed," he said plainly. "Not today by my hand. You have done enough to earn the courtesy of a walk in the sun."
Varin studied him carefully, searching for ulterior motive. He found none. Just sincerity. And perhaps a touch of gratitude too heavy to express directly.
"But," Cobra added lightly, "if you collapse in my courtyard, I will absolutely inform the doctor that this was your idea."
A faint, reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of Varin's mouth. "Fair."
They fell quiet again. After a moment, Cobra spoke more softly. "You understand, I think, what it means to protect something at the cost of yourself."
Varin's gaze drifted to the soil at his boots. "Aye."
"It is a difficult habit to break," Cobra said. "Even when the threat has passed."
Varin flexed his fingers again, watching the faint tremor run through them like a dying current. It annoyed him more than the pain. Weakness always did. "Threat's not passed," he murmured, eyes drifting toward the courtyard entrance. "Just changed shape. Willin' to bet the Marines are skulkin' around already. And that's just us gettin' off this island."
Cobra hummed thoughtfully, neither dismissing nor escalating the concern. "We may not be the strongest power in these seas," he said evenly, "but we are still a recognized nation within the World Government. The Marines cannot simply march through my gates as though they own the palace." His gaze shifted to Varin, steady and assessing. "I imagine you are aware of that, Styrnvald."
The name landed softly but the message was clear. Varin barked out a short laugh that turned into a sharp wince as his ribs protested. "Aye, that's true," he admitted once the sting faded. "Though it's been a minute since I've dealt with those sorry bastards directly."
Cobra studied him for a moment longer, weighing his next words. "Your family," he began carefully, "or former family. They were secretive, yes. But not invisible. One of their brightest disappears. Shortly after…" He trailed off, uncertain whether pressing further would strike too close to bone.
Varin noticed that hesitation. He appreciated it.
"They aren't," Varin said after a moment, gaze settling on the fountain's rippling surface. "Or I suppose we aren't known for subtlety." A low, humorless chuckle escaped him. "Hard to miss a clan that carves its oaths into wood and ice and paints it with blood."
Cobra remained silent, allowing him the space.
"The only one ever chosen by Yggdrasil to preserve and wield the spirit of Fenrir," Varin continued, voice steady but stripped of its usual edge. "That's what they said. A blessing. An honor. A symbol." His jaw tightened faintly. "Funny how quickly symbols become threats." The breeze stirred again, tugging lightly at the bandages wrapped around his forearm.
"To be exiled," Varin went on, "and chained up. Figuratively, mostly. Though not always." His silver eyes darkened slightly at that memory, but he didn't elaborate. "I suppose it's beyond coincidence that two stories end the same way. Fenrir bound. The chosen bound. Makes for tidy ending."
"Some do," Cobra said quietly, picking up the thread without argument. "But a threat can become a guardian in the same breath. It depends on where it stands." His gaze was steady, thoughtful. "Your family. The Straw Hats. Your new one." A faint warmth entered his voice. "You are a friend. A brother."
The words settled heavier than Varin expected.
Cobra drew in a slow breath then released it, and for the first time since he had entered the courtyard, there was something unguarded in him. Not king, nor diplomat. Just a father. "…Vivi might join you."
Varin's eyes sharpened slightly.
"She has not said it aloud," Cobra continued, voice lower now. "But I have seen the way she looks at you. At your captain. At the others." Cobra paused. His hands fidgeting together.. "I will not persuade her either way. And I will not chain her to this palace if her heart lies beyond it."
The approaching footsteps were unmistakable now. Faster, and urgent. He could hear the distinc sound of hooves striking tile with familiar frustration. Varin remained still.
Cobra turned fully toward him. "Promise me, son," he said, the title deliberate, "that if she chooses to follow you… you will protect her with the same ferocity you fought Crocodile with."
There it was. This wasn't a command, but a father asking.
Varin did not answer immediately. He held Cobra's gaze without flinching. The courtyard seemed to narrow around them, the fountain's murmur fading beneath the weight of the question. "I fought Crocodile," Varin said slowly, "because he hurt what wasn't his to hurt."
Cobra's jaw tightened faintly, but he did not interrupt.
"I didn't do it for glory," Varin continued. "Didn't do it for reputation. I did it because someone needed to stand in front of him."
The sound of hooves was nearly at the archway now. "If Vivi sails with us," Varin went on, voice firm but not loud, "she won't be cargo. She won't be a burden. She won't be a symbol."
Cobra listened carefully.
"She'll be family," Varin finished. "And I protect my family."
The words were simple, straightforward, just like everything Varin did.
His silver eyes held something colder now, something steady and immovable. "If anyone tries to cage her," he added quietly, "they'll learn why my family feared what they made."
The air seemed to still for a heartbeat. Then Chopper burst into the courtyard, hooves skidding slightly on the stone as he spotted Varin standing upright and very much not in bed.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE?!" he shouted.
Varin didn't break eye contact with Cobra for another second. "You have my word," he said at last.
Cobra studied him, searching for exaggeration, for bravado. He found none. Slowly, the king inclined his head. "Then I will trust you." The father in him looked reluctant. The ruler in him looked resolved.
Chopper stomped closer, already launching into a lecture about stitches and reckless idiots who thought wandering palace grounds counted as rehabilitation.
Varin exhaled quietly, tension easing from his shoulders just slightly. He had been bound once. He would not let it happen to someone who chose her own horizon.