cutsboats

He needed a moment away from those fools. 

It wasn't his war to begin with, so why should he be bothered to sit with them?  He didn't share their excitement, their bloodlust.  He slipped out without a word, ignoring their heckles and calls, and made his way to an outside balcony.  Sharp eyes glanced out to the coastline, filled with a longing to be sailing amongst the blue waves.  But he had an obligation, as flimsy as his loyalties were, and he was not one to go back on his word.

A heavy sigh escaping him, Mihawk drew his sword and thrust it into the whitewashed stone of the balcony.  He sat, his back leaning against the flat side of the sword, and closed his eyes.

----

The distant smell of food roused him from his slumber.  With a groan, he shifted under the covers, curling up as he pulled them over his head.   If he could block out the smell, he could get back to his nap, he reasoned.  He would kill whoever was cooking, for there was nothing more irksome to him than being disturbed from a nap. A small smile waited in the corners of the man's mouth as he nestled further into the softness of his bed.

Wait. 

Mihawk gripped at the comforter, his eyes snapping open.  It took a moment, but his golden eyes slowly began to focus on a tray of food placed on a quaint, and very unfamiliar, bedside stand.   Beyond it, a stark white wall.  In the distance, Mihawk noted the all too familiar calls of several gulls, and the faintest breaking of waves.  But this was not Marineford, nor was it his ship.

He sat up, perhaps a bit too quickly, lightheadedness greeting him.  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, grumbling as he waited for it to pass. 

What happened?  His body ached, his head was fuzzy, as if he had been drugged.  But that was impossible.  He had been so careful, not wanting to ever repeat that particular experience.

An involuntary shudder rippled through the man's body as he gave the tray of food a bitter, disapproving glance.