Chapter 3

"Where does your strength come from, Roronoa?"

Zoro looked up from his swords, his eyebrows askew in confusion.

Teacher and student were seated across from each other in the dining hall, with the former settled comfortably in his chair and the latter perched on the edge of his. Outside, the foreboding sky rumbled, and the breezy rasp of vegetation whispered into the castle. Inside its grate, a fire cackled, throwing light to the farthest reaches of the room.

"What d'you mean?"

Somewhere in the back of his head, Mihawk could feel a tiny fleck of disappointment nagging at him.

"Where do you, as a swordsman, draw your power from to overcome your enemies?"

Quietly, the student thought for a second, staring at his swords. The firelight reflected alluringly off of his earrings, catching and drawing in the eyes of his teacher. The shichibukai stared. Zoro's head snapped up and instinctively his teacher's eyes flicked away, but not before the younger pirate had briefly met his gaze. Silence hung awkwardly between them for an instant until the student eagerly presented his answer.

"A swordsman's power comes from himself, right? Him and his swords?"

Mihawk's eyebrows rose in surprise, and his lips moved in the ghost of a smile.

"You are correct on one aspect: Part of the swordsman's power comes from his blades. It is the same with any other trade: An artist is nothing without his brush or pen; the carpenter, without his hammer and saw; or the smith, without his forge."

The shichibukai leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table, taking on the air of a panther. He held his student's gaze.

"But energy—power—does not come from thin air. Where do your swords draw their power from?"

Zoro's eyes unfocused in thought. The pull stirred lazily, like a cat pawing at an old toy it with which it has long since become bored. Despite the weakness of it, however, Mihawk found himself extremely bothered by it.

Discomfort never crossed his face though.

The student returned from his mental trip with an answer. "Is it from the metal?"

"No."

Again, Zoro wandered in thought. Golden eyes locked on him, studied and inspected him, with the man behind them becoming tense and impatient. The shichibukai couldn't put his finger on why he was so damn twitchy.

The younger swordsman offered another answer. "Does the power come from the environment?"

"No," Mihawk snapped. Zoro flinched, and avoided his teacher's gaze as he pawed for a different answer. The shichibukai could feel himself tensing in waves, his jaw clenching and unclenching, limbs flexing and relaxing, and the entire time a thousand needles were prickling under his skin. He wanted to claw something to shreds.

"Does it come from the forge?"

Mihawk blinked. "Pardon?"

Wary confusion was spread across Zoro's countenance as he reiterated, "The forge, where the sword was made."

The shichibukai thought a moment, with only half of his mind on his student's answer. He nearly told the younger man he was wrong before checking himself. "You're close."

The radiance from Zoro's face was blinding to his teacher. Again, the young swordsman thought, unknowingly nibbling on his lower lip as he did so. Mihawk wondered vaguely at the kinds of things Zoro placed in his mouth—

"—the smith?"

"Yes," the teacher heard himself replying. "Blades earn their strength from the skill of the artisan that crafted them. The material they're made of is important, but if a sword is made by a poor smith, then it will be weaker than a better-made weapon."

"And I'd be weaker for it?"

"Yes."

Silence descended as both of them thought, with the weak pattering of rain on the window seeming to radiate from a completely different world. Mihawk tried to keep his gaze on anything that wasn't his student, but he kept catching himself stealing glances of the younger man like a child playing hide-and-seek. The fire was burning lower in its grate, and the shichibukai finally found himself content to watch it flicker there. The way it danced was entrancing, lulling the swordsman farther and farther away from the disturbance that graced his home.

"Is there anything else?" Zoro's voice prodded at Mihawk's ears. The shichibukai kept his gaze on the flames, like a dreamer trying to linger in his slumber.

"There is one more place a swordsman's power comes from. It is not the warrior himself, it is not his opponent, nor is it where he fights, or when, or even how. This one place is where any fighter draws their power from, and it is the greatest source of power." Slowly, the teacher detached his gaze from the consuming fire and brought his eyes to rest on his student's face. Their eyes met.

Time seemed to halt and watch them, just as intently as they watched each other. Neither one moved, though the twitching under Mihawk's skin seemed relentless. Outside, the rain rumbled, assaulting the castle with brute force, and thunder roared across the sky. The wind screeched, and the trees rasped fiercely. Something scraped across the window. The fire hissed in its grate, indignant at being pelted by stray drops of rain.

"It comes from need, doesn't it?" Zoro asked quietly.

"Yes it does."

The student nodded and thought quietly on the matter. Mihawk rose.

"I want you to reflect on your power sources as both a swordsman and a warrior. In the morning, you will tell me what you know about how each affects you personally. Do you understand?"

Zoro nodded again.

The shichibukai swept away, leaving the hall with the resounding thud of the heavy, wooden door. He passed the candles hanging there without a second thought, heading into the darkness. Beyond the light, the heavy atmosphere of the castle greeted him, surrounding the swordsman completely. It swirled in his wake, trying to both make way before the shichibukai and fill in the hole behind him. Absently, Mihawk put out a hand, running his fingers over the cold, brick wall as he walked and continuing long after his fingers became numb to the sensation.

After a while, the swordsman started counting his steps—something he did occasionally while pacing the castle. It was over three hundred steps before he swung left around a corridor. Seventy-nine steps later he swung right, and after five hundred and sixty three more steps he reached the library doors.

With a slight, whiny complaint, the door opened under Mihawk's hand. He stepped inside silently and closed the door behind him. In the blinding darkness, the shichibukai found a small table squatting near the doors. From the drawer on its side he withdrew a tiny pack of matches, one of which he struck to life. The tiny flame hissed but was more than willing to light the wick he set it to. With a flick of his hand, the shichibukai extinguished the match and discarded its wooden carcass into the ongoing fire of the candle.

Gently, though swiftly, Mihawk lifted the candle-holder aloft, with it unsteadily lighting a path among books and desks. The shichibukai followed the path with his mind filling in the dark spots. His desk squatted in its corner, hiding under its camouflage of books. Once he was settled in his chair, the swordsman nestled the candle in a small alcove in the wall beside him. The tiny puddle of light barely covered the desk.

Mihawk retrieved one of the books—a battered history text—from among its companions, and opened to his scruffy place marker. He read for about an inch of the candle, learning about the monarchy that had once occupied the place he now sat, and wading through a long line of begats. After a particularly brutal description of murder suicide, the shichibukai noticed something.

A man with green hair and gold earrings was bothering his consciousness and distracting him.

Through a conscious effort, Mihawk managed to push the image of his student out of his mind as he picked up another book. It was a literary classic of the area, about a monster that lured humans into its lair and drank the blood of the living. Slowly he worked through it, nodding between the book, a dictionary, and his feathery, hand-written translation. It was tedious, mind-consuming work.

White shirt, green haramaki, and black trousers tucked into dark boots.

With an annoyed huff, the shichibukai dug deeper into the work, latching onto the various verbs, nouns, adjectives, participles, clauses, punctuation, and predicates in the piece. He focused on each word individually, taking meticulous care to put each into his own language while preserving as much as he could of the original author's words.

A black bandana fluttered within the scope of Mihawk's thought.

The book barked harshly as the swordsman closed it. He shoved it aside, leaving the novel to balance on the edge of the desk. Atop it he stacked the dictionary and his notebook. From the pile he snatched another worn tome, this one trumpeting in faded, golden text across the cover that it was an anatomy book. The shichibukai gave it a harsh glance before grabbing something else.

After being unable to find anything, Mihawk shot to his feet, plucking his candle—now down to only three inches—from its roost and skulking off to find anything to remove the ghost flitting about in his mind. He scanned the shelves for anything, and mercifully found something in a language with which he was familiar. Eagerly he snatched the slender thing up and flicked it open, scanning the page before realizing he had stumbled across some sort of fight. As he read on, however, he found the novel went on to talk about love, and a young couple stupid enough to lay down their lives for something no stronger than mere infatuation.

The shichibukai snapped the disappointing thing shut and hastily replaced it, and in the dying candlelight he left the library.

As Mihawk tread through the dark halls, the low growl of thunder rumbled throughout the castle, shaking the stones from tower to foundation. Under his hand, the stones were cool, and the air was dank, as though the rain was seeping in through the cracks.

In the pitch dark, the shichibukai's imagination plagued him, manifesting itself in dim fantasies before his eyes. The boy stood there, shirtless and grim-faced, covered in blood and sweat, with his black bandana tight against his skull. The pull lurched, voicing its opinion fiercely. Through force of will, the phantasm disappeared, and Mihawk was left to continue in peace.

After several corners, and a flight of stairs, the image returned in the form of Zoro, laughing hard and pounding a full keg with one fist. The other hand was full, cheerily swinging a thick, glass mug full of beer. The shichibukai stopped, grounding himself with a palm flat against the wall as the pull threatened to drag him into the imagined scene. Again, the swordsman managed to rip himself from the fantasy.

At last, Mihawk ran his hand across a solid door. In the wood of it was carved an insignia of a feather, one so light that it couldn't be seen by most naked eyes. Quietly, the shichibukai slid his hand down and twisted the knob by his hip, pushing the squeaking door aside with little ceremony. He took a single step inside and instantly put down his right hand on the little table that stood ready beside the door. A flash of lightning lit the room for an instant, temporarily blinding the man as he prepared a candle.

While the light flickered to life in his hand, Mihawk was finally able to ground himself in reality. He took a look around his room, reassuring himself that the specter of his mind was not there. Against the bare wall to his right stood a stocky wardrobe, and beside it squatted a dresser. Across the room, a bed lurked in the corner. It was a four poster, with thick, crimson hangings that hid matching bedclothes. Beside the regal thing was a stout nightstand made of some dark, exotic wood.

Hanging on the wall beside the head of the bed was Kokuto Yoru. She hung majestically, with her scabbard shimmering in the candlelight. Mihawk strode to her, ran his hand over the hilt, and placed his forehead against the mesmerizing, blue pommel stone.

"Why does he haunt me?" he whispered to Yoru.

The shichibukai remained with his head bowed to his blade until the candle had run its course. As he stood, his mind cleared itself and brought him to a place he had visited once as a child. It was where the Grand Line crossed the Red Line, and the force of the currents were so powerful that water rushed upstream. The Reverse Mountain was like magic and awed him even to this day.

Slowly, Mihawk opened his eyes to the dark just in time for the windows above his blade to flash lightning at him. The rumble of thunder and heavy rain on glass drummed at his ears as he stood with his hand still on Yoru's hilt. Without a sound, the swordsman's hand dropped to his side and he perched lightly on the edge of the bed. In the dark the shichibukai slid his boots off and stuffed his socks gracelessly inside before placing both at the foot of the bed. Then, with nimble fingers, he unbuttoned his loose shirt and slid it off, tossing the garment onto the dresser.

As he wandered lazily to the void of sleep, he wondered at the plague of emotions and actions that had cursed him along with his house guests. Mihawk thought of the visits he had paid to his sleeping pupil, about how calm Zoro looked in his sleep. He thought of the way the younger swordsman's muscles pulled taut against his skin, and of how relaxed the flesh could become. The shichibukai wondered at why the boy was so determined to rise to the top, why he had come into the lair of his greatest enemy just to do so.

A mental chuckle rippled through the swordsman's mind—he would have done the same thing in his youth, had he had the opportunity.

Gently, he slipped into his dreams.

There was movement. It was all rhythms, all back and forth, up and down, again and again. It was rocking, creaking, pushing. Over and over, in and out. Like breathing.

It was the rhythm of sex.

Mihawk was familiar with the motions of it. Throughout the years, he had come into contact with many women, as well as his own needs. Several of those ladies that came to him were attracted to what they called his 'mystique', and all came to tame his power and temper it for themselves. However, despite the temptations each female presented he was still as free as a bird.

This was different though, the shadows were darker than all those other times, and he could only see the toned muscle of his partner's back. As he thrusted into the other person, the movement felt a little more jagged—and a little less practiced—than he was used to. The shichibukai was fucking a beginner.

Something else was off about the rhythm though. It felt forced, like his partner was resisting. Vaguely, the swordsman heard himself whisper, "Loosen up. Let me in." There was a weak effort, and the flesh only yielded a little more for his cock. Harder he pushed, gripping tight at the taut skin of his partner's back. Mihawk could feel heat in his palms and sweat on his body as he worked between the legs of the person receiving his love.

But he couldn't see that person's face, and it was driving him mad.

Slowly, the shichibukai withdrew, kneeling behind his lover and pushing at their hip. The other person rolled over onto their back and lay heaving on the bed. Gingerly, Mihawk took one foot in his hands and kissed at it, feeling the flesh below his lips twitch at the touch. The swordsman grinned. He worked his way up the leg in a lethargic fashion, occasionally nibbling playfully and feeling the twitch of the person in his hands.

The largest surprise for Mihawk was his lack of surprise at finding male genitalia on his partner. He had never in his life slept with a man before, but was as natural with it—if not more at ease—as he was with women. Before continuing on to his partner's face, as well as their identity, the shichibukai played with the shaft that stood at attention for him. His fingers slid along it, rubbing and caressing vigorously with the same attention he would give to his own penis. Under the swordsman's hands, the mystery lover trembled and twitched, with limbs upsetting the bedclothes. Sticky precum leaked in jerking spurts from the taut head, and after a little encouragement from the shichibukai's thumb, the other man came.

Mihawk inched forward, leaning over his lover and kissing the bold muscles of the man's abdomen. As he glanced over the skin with his lips, something about the rough, weathered feel of the skin felt vaguely familiar. Though he tried to dismiss the thought, it nagged at the swordsman from the back of his mind as he licked at the salty sweat running between the valleys of flesh. Skilled fingertips feathered up the man's sides, forcing the body below to tense alluringly, bringing to focus a thin scar that ran from hip to shoulder. In curiosity, Mihawk looked up, but his partner's face was still obscured in the shadows. The shichibukai frowned, but he just couldn't pull himself from teasing long enough to simply check his lover's face.

Again, the swordsman leaned back on his calves, dragging his fingers lightly over his partner's core as he went, with the latter twitching violently. With little effort, the shichibukai pushed his way into the warm flesh of the other man's ass and worked towards a rhythm. Legs clenched around his back, preventing Mihawk from escaping the enticing heat before he was finished. Low grumbles emanated from the swordsman's throat, sounds that were caught between growls of effort and purrs of pleasure.

Like claws, the shichibukai's fingers dug into the flesh of his unknown lover. He could feel the other man squirming in his grasp, but the legs at his back locked even more firmly in their position.

A building, freezing heat gripped the loins of the swordsman, and he moved quicker, thrusting himself to sweet release inside the other man's body. Even after he had cum, Mihawk kept moving. He spared a single hand, which found itself gliding along his lover's cock. The shichibukai stroked with hand and penis until the other man had cum for a second time. With the rhythmic clench of orgasm around his dick, Mihawk groaned with his golden eyes half-lidded.

Slowly, the swordsman disconnected himself from his lover, all the while enjoying the twitches of muscle that halted his parting in bursts of sensation.

Mihawk gently lowered the legs that had restrained him, and rolled onto his back besides his partner.

"Come here," he commanded in a low tone, his arms open. The newly-broken virgin complied, falling awkwardly into the shichibukai's embrace. The swordsman's face flashed in a grimace at the sudden elbow jabbing at his abdomen, but the expression was gone without a sound. Once his head was settled comfortably on Mihawk's broad chest, he slung an arm over the shichibukai's hip and laid halfway across his body.

Warm flesh rubbed tantalizingly across the swordsman's member.

In the dim lights, the only thing Mihawk knew for sure was that his lover's hair was familiarly short. His hands played through the strands, with fingers rubbing along the skull of the other man. The shichibukai traced his fingers down to his lover's ears, and was unsurprised to find cool, metal earrings on the left one. Vaguely, he counted three of the ornaments. The digits continued on, following the curve of the jaw around to the chin. In one swift movement, the swordsman had inclined his lover's face and kissed him square on the mouth, exploring the other man's mouth with his tongue.

Angelic, eager eyes locked onto his predatory, golden ones.

Mihawk woke to dim light filtering in through the window. He was only vaguely aware of a tightness in his loins—the engulfing sense of forgetting an extremely important dream commanded his full attention. Despite how the shichibukai tried to cling to the remnants of the dream, he could only remember bright eyes in the dark.

With annoyance, the swordsman sat up.

After giving the room a quick glance, Mihawk shifted his gaze out the window. The sky was still a foreboding gray, and the rush of wind and leaves threatened round two of the vicious storm from last night. Weakly, the shichibukai wondered if he felt up to going outside for a lesson today. Of course, that depended on Zoro's attitude as well.

In the back of Mihawk's mind, memory stirred. The movement of his dream crept into his conscious, slowly, but still hung in the shadows of his mind. His leg moved, and the cloth slid across his nether regions, firing off a pleasurable sensation in his groin. With a single sweep of his hand, the blanket was pulled aside so that the swordsman could see his entire body. The swordsman sighed in annoyance.

After a second of blank-minded contemplation, Mihawk shimmied out of his pants. Though he wasn't often plagued by morning wood, it was becoming a more common occurrence since the arrival of his guests. Most days, the shichibukai would simply ignore it and allow his penis to settle on its own; however, some combination of the feeling from his dream the night before and his jumbled blur of caged emotions demanded he deal with biology then and there.

Mihawk started slowly, like he always did—something about building from a foundation always seemed natural to him. His hand moved vigorously around the shaft, twisting and sliding. He worked delicately, doing what he could to work around his lack of lubrication. The shichibukai could feel himself flushing with heat as snatches of pleasure pulsed out from his cock like waves from a ship. Like he would Yoru or Kogatana, the swordsman handled himself with care and grace.

Once precum started to leak from the slit, Mihawk quickened his hand. His breathing—though not strained—took on a labored quality. Across his chest and abdomen were bright red patches of flesh, and the sinking feeling of muscles tightening imploded the shichibukai's stomach. The man's thumb flicked to the head of his dick and stroked with the rest of the hand, sending muscles contracting in the waves of orgasm.

As he came, the eyes from the dream surged into Mihawk's conscious thought, along with the person they belonged to. Like a sack of concrete, the dream returned to the shichibukai as vividly as it had been the night before. The swordsman's eyes shot open and his hand slacked a little from his cock.

"Shit," he hissed lightly, his brow furrowing as his mind reeled. Without thinking, the shichibukai leaned back and ran his soiled hand through his hair, his thoughts and gaze far from his sparse bedroom. The sudden realization required analysis and calculation, and the only thing that came to mind was the first glimpse Mihawk had caught of Zoro's more angelic features.

That had been the beginning of the end.

The shichibukai continued to sit, his mind running over the past two weeks, flipping frantically through the pages of his memory and searching for anything to reject the truth proposed by his dream. However, the dead-of-night visits, the pull's tenacity, and his own genuine desire to see the boy succeed could only prove the dream right.

Lamely, Mihawk dragged himself from the bed. From his wardrobe he pulled fresh clothing, and he left the room in despairing gloom. A shower and trim did nothing to improve the swordsman's mood, and with a sinking black hole of dread in the pit of his stomach, the shichibukai steeled his countenance against the onslaught of a desire he had never wished to know.

Zoro had barely been able to sleep and instead had opted for long periods of meditation so deep he could feel his eyes twitching rapidly under the lids. His mind had pinpointed on the three sources of power for so long that he felt he could take any question that came his way.

As soon as the first lights had lit his meager room, the young swordsman was up and out of bed. Getting ready for the day was a simple affair: grab his shirt, snag his bandanna, and slip on his haramaki. On his way out the door, the pirate snatched up his three blades and fastened them to his hip as he walked.

He stalked silently down the hall, trying to find his way to one of the courtyards. Though Zoro was able to find an exit, he stumbled across a small garden instead. He walked among the rows of plants, absentmindedly pawing the leaves of each plant he passed. Nothing was labeled, and the swordsman only half-recognized a handful of vegetables. Along the far wall stood a row of broad trees, each boasting its own leaf and some sporting flowers. The blooms were tiny and white, with rounded petals and some with pink centers. After a minute, the young pirate realized that the scent of these trees filled the whole garden.

Beneath one of the blooming trees he sat, with his spine along the trunk of the tree. A brush of wind found its way around the wall and showered Zoro with tiny petals. He couldn't help but catch one from the air. Though the thing was small and barely pink, he wondered if this was part of the miracle Chopper had brought to his home.

The crack of thunder rumbled a warning across the island, and Zoro sighed. He rose, wanting to avoid another time-wasting tongue-lashing from Perona. With hesitant steps, the swordsman slowly made his way back into the castle, but not until the sky had pelted him with at least a few heavy raindrops.

Once he was back inside, Zoro worked his way slowly back to his room, and from there, the dining room. The swordsman backtracked at least seven times, had to pause at three crossing corridors, and on several occasions stumbled into the wrong room. Finally, he crossed Perona's door. The young pirate carried on from the familiar point, delving back into the maze of halls.

Zoro nearly bypassed the dining hall doors. It was only after he had taken several steps beyond his destination that he realized his mistake, and with a hasty stride he passed into the hall.

Mihawk was absent. In confusion, the young swordsman took a quick look around the room, but there was no mistaking the fact that the man was simply nowhere to be seen. Though he would have lingered on the thought, Zoro passed into the kitchen. It was also void of life. The young pirate subconsciously stepped lightly, wondering what kind of lesson he was supposed to be learning in the absence of others. He ducked inside the fridge, grabbing out a couple of eggs and shutting the door behind him. Gently, the swordsman placed the eggs on the stove and pawed through the cupboards, trying to find the pan he usually saw Perona using to cook. After a bit of clattering, he found it and had it on the stove. For a moment, he looked at the array of knobs, trying to puzzle out what the little dots below each knob was.

Once Zoro had figured out the correspondence between knobs and burners, he had the pan on and several eggs cooking. As they sizzled, he searched through the drawers for something to nudge the food around with, and ended up finding a large, wooden spoon. The swordsman returned to his pan, shoving the eggs about and scrapping fervently at them to remove them from the pan.

"Have you added any butter, Roronoa?"

Zoro glanced up from his eggs to see Mihawk resting on the inside of the door frame and watching as his student cooked. The young pirate glanced back down at the browning, flaky chunks before raising questioning eyes to the shichibukai.

"What does that do?"

Mihawk held back a disappointed sigh.

"It keeps the eggs from sticking to the pan," the elder swordsman explained, crossing to the fridge—while keeping out of arms length of his student—and retrieving a small jar of butter. He held it out for Zoro, who grabbed it and accidentally brushed his fingertips against his teacher's palm. The shichibukai tensed and took a subtle step back.

The young swordsman unscrewed the lid and snatched up his spoon. Mihawk hesitated for a second before darting out with his hand and catching Zoro by the shoulder. For a second, the elder swordsman let his hand linger before he forced his hand to drop.

"We use knives for the butter, Roronoa. You shouldn't even be using that spoon—it would be like bringing fists to a sword fight."

For a split second, the younger pirate's face was scrunched in thought before smoothing out again. The shichibukai tensed again. While Zoro searched for a butter knife his teacher could barely help staring straight at his ass. The student turned with his knife, and despite his usual speed, Mihawk's eyes were a second slow on snapping back to the pan. Zoro glanced at his feet, and, seeing nothing, he returned his attention to his half-burnt eggs.

"You'll need a spatula as well, Roronoa," the shichibukai commented once the younger swordsman had flicked a pad of butter among the eggs. Zoro looked at the drawers and started pawing through the closest one to his hip.

Wordlessly, Mihawk brushed past his student, catching the scent of iron on the younger man. The pull threatened, but the shichibukai ignored it and instead pulled open the desired drawer and drew from it a thin, metal spatula. He held it out to Zoro, who took it without—much to the elder swordsman's relief—making any physical contact.

Mihawk stepped back, leaving his student a free path to the door. The sizzle of eggs filled the air, and their smell permeated the room. Golden eyes constantly watched the movement of the young swordsman's back, and the shichibukai could feel himself salivating. His jaw clenched tight and he folded his arms as securely as possible. Remnants of his dream from the night before kept fluttering into his conscious, forcing the older swordsman to bat them away mentally.

Finally, Zoro was finished, and after a bit of scraping he managed to liberate his breakfast from the pan and slide the eggs onto a plate. With a clatter, the young pirate dug a fork out of the drawer and headed towards the stairs. Before he made it through the doorway, however, he turned back and caught his teacher's gaze.

"Thanks."

Mihawk cocked an eyebrow.

"What for?"

"For helping me make the eggs. Thanks."

Right before the young man turned to leave, his face flashed in eager excitement. Then he was gone, leaving the shichibukai dazzled in his wake.

"Dammit, Roronoa," Mihawk growled, stepping forward and vigorously cleaning the pan for his own breakfast. He ended up cooking a few strips of bacon, his appetite having mysteriously vanished. Distractedly, he pawed through the wine and grabbed a glass. At the foot of the stairs leading to the dining room, the shichibukai paused, steeling himself.

With a slow, heavy tread the swordsman mounted the stairs.

The instant he entered the dining room the pull was demanding, tugging at Mihawk's resolve as it tried to drag him towards his student. Grimly, the shichibukai resisted, keeping his paces measured as he approached the table. He sat in his normal place, at the head of the table, and avoided even glimpsing at his student as he nibbled at his meager breakfast and sipped weakly at his drink.

Shortly after Mihawk had finished one strip and was working on the second, Zoro spoke up.

"I have my answers," he said, his voice radiating confidence. The shichibukai clenched his jaw and looked up, barely managing to keep his face steady as he cocked a questioning eyebrow. Silence descended upon them, with only the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. Teacher kept hoping his student would pick up the hint, would explain, but with each passing second it was becoming more obvious that Zoro didn't realize what was expected of him. Very carefully, the elder swordsman slacked his jaw enough to speak.

"What do you know about your blades then?"

The student was ready: Quickly, he shot back his answers, hefting up a sword as he spoke about it.

"Shusui is one of the great quality swords, and his blade can handle any kind of punishment. He's also a bit testy, and likes throwing me off balance. I've been working with him, but he's been digging his heels in."

With a light thud, the young pirate placed the sword on the table, next to his clean plate. Mihawk stopped him with a question.

"How did you come across him?"

"What?"

The shichibukai contained himself despite the slightly confused expression on his student's face. "How did you obtain Shusui?"

Zoro thought a moment, debating with himself as to whether or not he should tell Mihawk. His answer came solidly. "I can't tell you."

Both Mihawk's eyebrow's shot up before his face set into something of a knowing smile.

"All right. What of your other blades?"

The younger pirate gave a slight smile as his face brightened, and he held his second sword aloft while he spoke about it. "Sandai Kitetsu is troublesome at times, but he never gives me too much crap. I got him in Roguetown, just before we entered the Grand Line." Briefly, Zoro pictured the faces of both the store owner and the frustrating Marine. He grinned at the thought and said, "If he didn't want to work with me, he had his chance to say no."

Mihawk cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. The shichibukai had to bite down a little on his tongue so the slight pain would distract him from the allure of his student's bright features. It didn't work quite as well as the older swordsman hoped. He sat, torn between wanting to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible and staying to finish the lesson. A third option threatened to creep into Mihawk's consciousness, but he shoved it aside as Zoro introduced his third sword.

"This is Wado Ichimonji," he explained. The young swordsman's features softened a little in a way that made his teacher twitch. "She's... damn, she's been with me since I was a kid. She's always been there. Ichimonji's been helpful and faithful, resilient, and she keeps the other two in line." Zoro smiled. "She's family."

The shichibukai sat in silence, wondering why the blade had such an effect on his student. A fleeting thought also passed through his head: How can I make him look like that in my direction? Finally, Mihawk spoke again.

"So where does your need to fight rise from?"

Zoro wasted no time in replying. "It comes from promises."

"To who?"

"To others, most the time. It mostly comes and goes with whoever I'm fighting, or whatever fights my captain ends up picking." He let out a little laugh and muttered, "The dumbass."

After a second of thought, the elder swordsman asked a question that had nagged at him ever since he met Zoro.

"Who did you promise my defeat to, then?"

For a second, the young pirate didn't answer. His mind had traveled back to when he was a child, when he was still green. He winced slightly as he remembered his best friend's body, covered by a thin sheet. The look did not go unnoticed. "I promised Kuina I'd become so great she could hear about it in heaven." Zoro's eyes met Mihawk's. "I'll make sure she sees me, even if join her in the process."

The shichibukai felt the sting of a lightning bolt shoot through him: a pang of envy. The swordsman could stand it no longer: he rose and picked up his half-eaten breakfast.

"Good," Mihawk said briskly, "You know what you want, and what you're willing to risk for it. Most do not." He turned and started to leave. As he reached the door for the kitchen, he turned his head just long enough to say, "Your next lesson begins tomorrow, after breakfast. You will need to bring nothing with you."

AN: You know the difference between this chapter and the others? I've actually got a beta reader! Dios mio! Anyhoo, thanks to Wild Rhov for checking over this for me. The rest of you need to be thanking her too-otherwise this chappie would have been shorter.

On a slightly less praise-worthy note, this could have gotten out sooner, but WoW is just a little too addictive, and I'm a little too distractable. But it did get out within two months, so that's a step in the right direction! Also, just asking, I've been tossing around the idea of a Lu/Zo fic where Luffy gets ahold of one of Chopper's rumble balls. Yea or nay on doing that right now? (No, I wouldn't be abandoning Two Years for it, Rumble would just be a by-the-highway one-shot.)

As it stands, I'm really happy with this chapter. Yay, OP Wiki, it is my bible for OP fanfics. I absolutely loved writing the dream section (damn, Mihawk's a vivid dreamer), and it probably could have gone on. However, I'm not pissing off the man who's currently guarding my WoW authenticator-I may never see it again.

Quite frankly, I really ought to be doing homework right now; however, getting this chapter out felt more compelling. Still, stuff will be as I can do so. Yay, distractions.

Hoping you guys still are still enjoying this.

As I am,

Lady Spritzy

03/22/12