Three chapters dealing with illness: each from another angle; from another person's view. Do not expect a happy-ending for there is none.

Chapter 1 – Whitebeard and Nakama

IN

The words announced are nothing he would not have expected. He was growing old, his body was past its prime but his strength remained that of a titan.

"Oyaji… You are…", his son's voice gets caught in his throat for a moment and he coughs to make it waver less. The attempt at regaining at least some of his composure fails miserably. If he didn't know better it could have been him giving the man a devastating diagnosis.

"You are ill."

He can't help but laugh as he tells his poor son that of course he is ill. It is the very reason he asked him to run some tests on him although it is what he despises the most. He can no longer ignore the fatigue and the chest pains as well as the pressure he feels in his abdomen at times.

Tears gather in his boy's eyes as he stares at him, blinking rapidly, snuffling. He hasn't changed much. He still hates to see people be sick and miserable. He may have grown but he is still that same timid little boy they had found acast on the wide ocean he and his crew love with all their hearts.

They had given the orphan a home and he had become one of their best doctors as a sign of his gratitude, never wanting to disappoint any of them. The one disappointed the most today must be he himself though – so much knowledge and mastery and yet it seems as though it is useless.

His eyes stare at him pleadingly, as though telling him that as a legend he could not be subdued by time and mortal illness. Whitebeard wants to believe in it himself but he knows that he is fooling no one, even less himself.

"The thing is… you have cancer.", his doctor says and goes very quiet as if he regretted his words, probably wishing he could take them back, making them void of meaning this way.

As much as he loves his son he cannot stand it if he only gets half of what he wants (to know) so he asks a bit more harshly just what exactly that means – for his life, his lifestyle, his crew, his family, for the fights lying ahead.

It's only natural he is concerned about these things. Strong he might be but if this were to affect his ability to fend of foes than it was not only his problem.

His son shrinks back slightly, clutching the sheets with his results a little harder until the paper crinkles. The lad's hands are shaking so badly that he is sure that whatever he is about to hear is not in the least good.

"You have two. Lung cancer as well as liver metastasis.", he states after swallowing a few times, trying to be as professional as possible but unable to carry on with this mannerism as he starts snuffling even harder and more tears gather in his eyes.

Whitebeard is aware of these illnesses, aware of the fact that they indeed are fatal, that they indeed are something many good men succumb to, that some on the other hand live with it many, many years without showing that death's scythe is dangling an inch above their necks.

That still does not help him understand just what it will mean for him and so without a shred of fear he asks. What it is exactly, what exactly is the cause of it.

His son takes a very deep breath, it is now that he notices how much older he looks in that one moment.

"The primary cause for the lung cancer was excessive smoking in your younger years coupled with some of your chest wounds and resulting scar tissue that might have encouraged the tumor cells."

He just nods for it is true that he used to smoke, although he has not done so in a while. Drinking had mostly become his new relish and he is not about to change that. What his battle-scars do have to do with it still escapes him to some extent for he cannot see the immediate connection.

"The cancer in your lungs spread and infested your liver which must have been cirrhotic already for a few years."

His son's voice quivers. He is hurting far more than his patient himself. Whitebeard can't shake the feeling that it is because he knows the implications, all the bad things awaiting him and can see in those helpless eyes the wish of being able to cure these ailments, to make them go away.

But the man is about to break as he seems to have realized something Whitebeard himself will need some time to wrap his mind around. He has not broken because he is blissfully ignorant, unaware of the trials ahead. His lack of knowledge gives him a sense of hope.

Still he must ask if there is something that can be done.

His son laughs hoarsely. It is the sound of a desperate soul that sees no light in the darkness.

"There is nothing we can do. Terminal.", this time the boy does not hold back his sobs. He does not have the strength to try and hold up a strong front even if his father is in front of him and expects him to act tough, which actually is not the case.

He can see the boy crumbling in front of him. He is so young compared to him and yet he cries over an old man, who has had a long and very fulfilled life he can look back on. He waved him nearer and his son obliges. Death hurts and he can still remember his boy's face after a failed attempt at saving one of his heavily wounded brothers and sisters.

He had consoled him afterwards every single time. He just hopes that he being the cause of the distress will not change anything about that.

But there is nothing he can do to help his son feeling better. His son differently from him knows what it means and knows what it entrails and in his heart there is no hope left because he knows too much.

He knows the pains will become so intense at times that his father-figure will be unable to breathe, he knows that he will be suffering from even more exhaustion and lack of strength (even though his father is too prideful to admit it), he is aware that soon his father's life will depend on medicines and the right care, is aware of the up and downs, the mood swings, the sudden drop in health that is only a few months away. If his father is lucky he still might have one or two years to live.

The thing is only: Will it be a life for him, hooked up to machines and taking pills and fluids which will not be able to cure him but only to ease the pain? Will it still be a life worth living, knowing that if push came to shove, his father might be bed-ridden, unable to move, unable to protect what he cherishes most?

Will it be a life that will give him enough will to still want to remain on this earth?

That is the answer he is not able to give anyone and so he cries in his father's embrace, accepting the very possibility that what may come at them is the painful and slow decay of the man that saved his and his brother's lives.

Whitebeard does not know of this. It gives him hope and that's why his son will not take it away from him by revealing the ugly truth in its entity.