Marco led Whitebeard to the infirmary. But as they approached, a hushed stillness emanated from within. One of the nurses, her face pale, met them at the door.
"Captain… Marco-san…" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Gunnar… he… he slipped into a coma just a few minutes ago."
Gunnar lay on the cot, impossibly small, the faint red and blue veins on his arms barely visible. A peaceful, serene smile graced his lips, as if he were dreaming of pleasant, distant things. But his golden eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible.
"Marco…?" Whitebeard's voice was a raw whisper.
Marco placed a hand on Gunnar's forehead, his phoenix flames flickering softly. "His vitals are stable, Pops. Weak, but stable. It's… it's like his body, after the immense shock and the brief awakening, has chosen to shut down to focus all its energy on healing. The paralysis, the strain… it was too much for his conscious mind to bear. This… this might be his body's way of protecting itself, of allowing the deepest recovery to happen."
Whitebeard looked at the smiling, comatose child
**Six Years Later…**
The Moby Dick sailed under a clear, bright sky. On deck, the atmosphere was subdued, a familiar melancholy mingling with the usual camaraderie. The Whitebeard Pirates were older, more weathered. The constant battles, the shifting tides of the New World, and the ever-present concern for their captain had taken their toll.
Whitebeard sat on his throne, but the indomitable figure was noticeably diminished. His breaths were more ragged now, his movements more labored.
He still laughed his booming "Gurarara," but it often ended in a wracking cough.
Marco, Jozu, Vista, and other commanders were gathered, discussing their next course of action, their voices low and serious.
Suddenly, a faint, almost imperceptible sound from the direction of the infirmary door made Haruta, ever observant, pause mid-sentence. A soft scuffling, then a metallic clink.
The crew turned.
Standing in the doorway, blinking against the bright sunlight, was a boy. He was small for his apparent age – he looked perhaps seven or eight, though by rights he should be eleven – his frame slender, almost delicate. His hair was a startling, beautiful cascade of crimson and pure white, falling to his shoulders. He wore simple, loose-fitting clothes, and clutched in one small hand was the pole of an IV drip stand, its bag half-empty, the needle still taped to the back of his other hand – the one with the faint, ice-blue veins.
He walked. Slowly, hesitantly, each step a visible effort, but he walked. His golden eyes, wide and luminous, scanned the stunned faces of the crew, a flicker of confusion, then dawning recognition in their depths. He saw the IV drip attached to Whitebeard, so similar to his own. He saw the lines of pain and worry etched on his father's face, the dimming of the immense power he vaguely remembered.
A small, wistful smile touched his lips.
Then, his gaze locked onto Whitebeard. He took another shaky step, then another. The silence on deck was absolute, broken only by the creak of the Moby Dick and the boy's soft footfalls.
From behind the small figure, his voice, no longer a baby's whisper but clear and boyish, though soft from disuse, called out, "Father?"
Every single member of the Whitebeard Pirates froze. Heads snapped towards the sound. Marco's jaw dropped. Jozu's diamond eyes widened. Vista's monocle nearly fell from his eye.
Whitebeard's breath hitched. His massive frame, usually so imposing, seemed to shrink for a moment. He stared at the boy, at Gunnar, standing there, alive, awake, walking.
Slowly, a deep, rumbling chuckle, laced with disbelief and an overwhelming, joyous relief, began in Whitebeard's chest, growing stronger, pushing past the ever-present pain. "Gurarara… Gurarararara!" Tears, an Emperor's rare and precious offering, welled in his golden eyes. "So," he finally managed, his voice thick with unshed emotion, "you are awake… my son."
Gunnar took another hesitant step, then another, his gaze fixed on Whitebeard. He navigated the stunned, silent pirates as if they were statues, his focus solely on the man on the throne. He finally reached the foot of the colossal chair, looking up at the giant who was his father.
"I… I slept for a long time," Gunnar said, his voice still soft, a little rusty, like an instrument long unplayed. He tilted his head, his crimson and white hair shifting. "You look… tired, Father." His gaze drifted to the IV drip connected to Whitebeard's arm, so similar to his own.
The crew watched, mesmerized. As Gunnar stood there in the full light of day, the resemblance was uncanny, yet uniquely his own. He had Whitebeard's strong jawline, his determined chin, and those same captivating golden eyes. But where Whitebeard's features were weathered by decades of battle and hardship, Gunnar's were smooth, almost ethereal. The crimson and white hair framed a face that held an innocent, otherworldly beauty.
"He… he looks just like Pops when he was younger, yoi," Marco whispered, a stunned smile spreading across his face. "But… prettier," he added, earning a few choked chuckles from the equally emotional commanders.
Whitebeard chuckled again, a warm, genuine sound. "Prettier, you say? Gurarara! Perhaps the boy got his mother's good looks, then!" He reached down a massive hand, not to lift Gunnar, but to gently rest it on his crimson and white head. "Tired, am I? This old body has seen a few too many storms, my son. But seeing you standing here… it's like the sun breaking through the blackest clouds."
Gunnar leaned into the touch, a small, contented sigh escaping him. "I… I dreamed," he said softly. "It is incredibly... annoying."
He looked at the IV stand Gunnar still clutched. "You should be resting, son. You've been through a lot."
"I wanted to see you," Gunnar stated simply, his gaze unwavering. "The… I always wanted a Father."
Then, Jozu, his usual stoicism completely shattered, let out a booming laugh that was suspiciously watery. "He's awake! By the seas, the little anchor is awake!"
That broke the dam.
The deck of the Moby Dick erupted.
Cheers, whoops, and joyous shouts filled the air. Pirates who had faced death without flinching were openly weeping, clapping each other on the back, their faces alight with a pure, unadulterated joy they hadn't felt in years.
"Gunnar!"
"He's back!"
"A miracle! It's a miracle!"
Rakuyo swung his flail in the air, not in aggression, but in exuberant celebration. Vista tossed his top hat high, catching it with a flourish. Haruta was doing an impromptu jig. Thatch was hugging anyone within reach. Even the stoic fish-man, Gyro, who had his own traumatic memories of Ikki, was grinning from ear to ear.
Food appeared as if by magic. Barrels of sake were rolled out. Musicians, catching the infectious joy, struck up a lively, raucous tune. The Moby Dick, a ship that had carried so much sorrow and worry, was suddenly transformed into a vessel of pure, unadulterated celebration.
Gunnar looked around, a little overwhelmed by the sudden explosion of noise and activity, but a shy smile spread across his face. He looked back at Whitebeard, whose own face was alight with a joy that seemed to momentarily banish the lines of pain and illness.
"It seems," Whitebeard rumbled, his eyes twinkling, "your waking has caused quite a stir, Gunnar. My sons… they have missed their little brother." He looked at the celebrating crew, then back at the small boy before him. "And their father… has missed his son more than words can say."