Requiem: Fallout
Full summary:
Mikasa, a baker's assistant in the sleepy mountain village of Milos, wishes for more than her peaceful, uneventful existence crowded with petty girls, wisecrack women, and hot-headed suitors. Her wish is granted in the most unexpected of ways when she rescues a dying amnesiac with a strange amulet clutched in his hand. In a thrill of excitement, Mikasa takes it upon herself to help 'Pip' recover his identity and grapple with the amulet's obscure power to re-enact any story of the amulet's choosing.
But around the same time Pip appears, the mayor of Milos mysteriously disappears, leaving behind a restless community that grows increasingly unstable without its leader. And as events snowball into a catastrophe beyond her control, Mikasa is forced to evaluate what home and identity mean to her and decide whether she would fight to protect what she has, or what she does not.
A/N:
Hello all, it's been a while. Life has been pretty busy with my new job and with juggling life in general. But I've missed writing stories and hearing from you lovely peeps. Soooo I decided to have a go at writing something much longer than my usual fare.
Honestly it's pretty terrifying to even publish the first chapter because I like knowing exactly what's going to happen. With anything longer than five chapters it becomes pretty difficult to sketch everything out and plug all the potential plotholes. (I know Humanity's Hottest was 11 chapters, but some of the chapters were pretty short, and that was before I realised how much y'all love long reads and cliffies hehe) So for those of you who've had the grit to stick with my work, I'm afraid there'll be longer gaps between updates as I try to iron everything out before publishing.
Stories are not birthed from the ether. Similarly, this one is loosely inspired by a fanfic called 'Seven feudal fairy tales' by LadyBattossai in the Inuyasha fandom (for those of you who love Inuyasha but haven't read it, it's a real treat). My story takes some of the concept from that fanfic, but most of the content and main storyline is original.
Now enough of me blabbing, all that's left to say is thanks for your interest and for reading! Needess to say, if you like what you read, please drop a favourite/review to show some love. And of course, constructive criticisms are also welcome. :)
Chapter 1: The lady with dark violet eyes
"You're uncommonly pretty for a village girl."
Mikasa eyes the customer. She looks to be roughly twenty – the same age as Mikasa – and has full lips and eyes of an intense violet colour. Her skin is tanned. But in contrast to that of the common peasant folk who farm for a living, it is smooth and unblemished.
"Villages have many pretty girls," Mikasa says, her fingers tapping nervously over the handle of the pastry display.
"You have been to many villages, then."
"No."
"So why do you say that?"
"Because a lot of fairy tales start with a pretty girl in a village."
The woman gives her a long look.
"You are funny," she says, her lips twitching ever so slightly.
Mikasa hesitates. She doesn't know how to respond to the odd comment, so she moves on. She indicates about the shop. "Would you like to buy anything?"
"Yes!" The woman looks about, her eyes flitting quickly over the baked goods and pastries on display. "I would like that white cob over there. And one of those delicious-looking custard tarts, please."
Mikasa selects the goods from the shelf and wraps them neatly in paper before handing them over. The woman drops a few coins onto the counter, shoves the loaf under one arm and takes the tart with her other hand. Soon after, she is heard exclaiming down the street.
"This tart is absolutely unctious!"
Mikasa smiles at the unreserved proclamation and the heavy emphasis on the 'unc' in 'unctious'.
"That's a tourist, if ever I saw one," a voice says from behind, and she turns to see the bakery owner, Lamia, leaning against the doorway with her arms folded. In contrast to the comely image of a dumpy, ruddy-faced baker, Lamia is thin and wiry, with sharp, electric-blue eyes set in a pointed face. Although Lamia looks youthful and alert, the streak of white lancing through her thick, brown hair, and her clever and discerning remarks, belie her true age and status as one of the older and wiser women in the village.
"A tourist?"
"Someone who travels to a different place."
"So another word for a traveller, then?"
"Not quite. A tourist is a type of traveller who travels to relax and have fun."
The concept is entirely foreign to Mikasa. "Sounds pointless."
"Why? You get to see new places."
"It's unnecessary hassle and risk."
"We're long past the age of the titans," Lamia remarks.
"But there could be bandits along the roads."
"Eh, I guess I don't really care one way or another. If they manage to get all the way here, and it means good business, I'll take it," Lamia waves a dismissive hand. "By the way, are you going to the dance two days from now?"
Mikasa is taken aback by the sudden question. The mayor of Milos was hosting a dance to celebrate midsummer – the first one ever, she had gathered from hearsay – and he had invited everyone in the village. She had not given it much thought, though.
"Should I go?"
"I think you should. It's a good way to get to know people."
Mikasa snorts. "I've been here for a year now. I know everyone here."
"Not well enough," Lamia retorts. "You barely remember their names. You need to make a bigger effort, Mikasa. You move between the bakery and your house day to day and turn down all social invites. To the others, you're an outsider who thinks she's too good for anyone else."
"And going to one dance will change their opinions?"
"No. But it would be a start."
With Lamia's brusqueness and Mikasa's stubbornness, some of the villagers joked, it was a miracle that the bread had not gone stale from their tense bickering. But Mikasa enjoyed Lamia's brute honesty and crude mannerisms over the coy flirtations of the other village girls closer to her age. With Lamia, you never had to second guess her meaning, and you always knew where you stood with her. And with this understanding between them, the Bakery Lamia remained successful and a constant local favourite.
Mikasa ponders Lamia's words for a moment. "I don't have a nice dress."
"Then get one."
"Are they expensive?"
Lamia's eyes twinkle with amusement. "Quite."
At this point, three customers enter the bakery. First comes Heridot Assus, the jeweller, for a tomato and lettuce sandwich. Then, little Dmitri Romanov, shyly requesting a loaf of bread for his mother for their family dinner. Finally, in comes Drakos Demeric, the local woodsman. The last is a hulking man of six foot four with a body that Mikasa swears is made of pure, corded muscle. With his physique and dark features, Drakos is easily the handsomest man in the village. He most remarkable feature is his large nose, which had been touted by some of the other village girls as being indicative of an even greater gift elsewhere on his person.
Drakos was also Mikasa's loyal and devoted suitor, and though Mikasa found him a little vain and arrogant at times, even she was not wholly unaffected by his handsome appearance. Mikasa still hadn't decided whether she welcomed his advances or not, but where a girl might normally strive for more interaction to gauge her interest, Mikasa instead chose to shun it. Thus, at the sight of Drakos striding through the door, Mikasa turns on her heel and pushes past Lamia.
"All yours."
"Nu-uh," Lamia steps before Mikasa, effectively blocking her escape route. "Go face your demons."
"Not today." Mikasa pushes again, but this time she is arrested with a hand on the wrist. Lamia is surprisingly strong for her age, she notes.
"Drakos always buys more when you're around," Lamia smirks. "And weren't you thinking of buying a new dress?"
"I was only asking out of curiosity," Mikasa counters. Even so, she respects the older woman too much to defy her outright. Wrenching her wrist out of Lamia's iron grip, she turns around again to face her eager suitor.
"Mikasa, how I love to see your beautiful face," Drakos exclaims in a low, rasping baritone. "Give me a slice of that sweet blueberry pie, will you?"
Mikasa smiles sweetly despite the sleazy delivery of the question. "You should pick the lemon pie instead."
"Huh," Drakos grunts. He is used to cold shoulder treatment, not to this open and engaging persona.
"We got a fresh delivery of lemons this morning, and lemon pie is Lamia's specialty."
"No one knows better than I of Lamia's excellent baking," Drakos declares. "But I want the blueberry pie. I know what I want, and no one can persuade me otherwise."
Mikasa's smile vanishes with the loaded comment. She pointedly ignores it and places a slice of blueberry pie into a paper box. "By the way, I wanted to ask something of you."
"Ask away, my love."
Mikasa indicates to the shelf. "We still have a lot of bread left over from today. It would be a waste to let it go stale. Can you buy extra to distribute to the poorer families tonight?"
Drakos folds his arms, looking amused. "I know you already do that. You're just using me to get extra profit for the bakery." His strong gaze flicks to the back. "Lamia, I expected you would teach your girls to treat their customers, no less their sweethearts, with respect."
Mikasa curses inwardly as her already slipshod plan unravels. She had known that 'no secrets' was the unspoken mantra of every small village. Even so, she avoided informal human interactions enough that situations like these still caught her by surprise.
"Of course," Drakos continues, "because it's you asking, I will do it. But my favour comes with a price. If I spend money on your extra loaves, you'll come with me to the dance in two days' time. Fair deal, my love?"
Mikasa's blood boils at the amusement glittering in Drakos' dark brown eyes; she knows he is toying with her. Even so, loathe as she is to capitulate, she is unable to think up a better scheme.
"Extra loaves," she gestures at the pastry case, "and five of the pastries."
"Two."
"Three."
"Done." Again, he gestures to Lamia. "I take what I said back. You have trained Mikasa well."
Lamia waits until Drakos leaves before releasing a dry bark of laughter. "I wouldn't trust you to bargain for your life. But now that I've seen what you would do for profit, I would trust you with the bakery."
Mikasa rolls her eyes. "Don't expect it to become a habit."
Lamia waves a hand in dismissal. "Eh, don't take it too hard. Drakos just gave you money to buy your dress."
"You're not taking it for the business?"
"A little. But most of the profits of this transaction, I leave with you. In recognition of your sacrifice."
Mikasa's brows furrow. "I just agreed to spend an evening with a blockhead for money to buy a dress I don't really want."
"We all make mistakes in life," Lamia quips with a sardonic grin.
The bakery busies up again after Drakos leaves, and when Mikasa and Lamia close shop for the day, the sky is awash with the warm, orange glow of the setting sun. Mikasa walks down the street and comes to a halt at the fork in the road. Normally, she would take the right path, which leads home. But after some deliberation, she draws her cardigan close about her and opts for the left path, which leads to the tavern and, with some luck, to good company.
Dusk falls as she walks. About her, shopkeepers shutter their windows and children race home with the chilly mountain breeze on their heels. Oil lamps flicker to life within the wood and brick cottages of Milos, their excess light filtering out the windows and casting shadows along the narrow, cobbled streets. By the time Mikasa reaches the tavern, her flesh is peaked with goosebumps, and she eagerly anticipates the hot meal of stew and bread that the tavern has to offer.
Like many of the locals in Milos, Mikasa prefers The Mitre to the other landmarks in Milos. It is a handsome establishment of mahogany with a broad sign announcing its presence with a bold flourish. At the front, the terrace, decked out with painted chairs and tables, overlooks a wild garden full of colourful flowers and shrubs in the summer. And inside, there is the warmth of a fire and a good atmosphere to bask in on the evenings when it gets too chilly to sit outside.
But another reason why Mikasa likes the tavern is because of the many passing travellers she has encountered there over the year. First, there had been Archer, an eccentric girl who occasionally travelled through the mountains on hunting stints. Often, she would bring to the tavern game that she had hunted to earn some money. But on most such occasions, the proceeds were promptly returned to the tavern as Archer proceeded to order and devour all of said game. Archer also sometimes brought along her twin brother, a wild-eyed youth called Knut, and their family friend, a long-faced man who was ironically named Equis. In contrast to Archer, who was optimistic and talkative despite her awkward mannerisms, Knut and Equis were silent. But Mikasa fancied their silence to be more of a gruff camaraderie, and she preferred it to senseless chatter.
Mikasa had also met at the tavern Logic, an anthropologist with an intense interest in human traditions and cultures. Logic was older than the others. She often brought with her fascinating anecdotes about the diverse cultures of the island, though Logic's passionate outbursts when telling these anecdotes led to so many digressions that they left her listeners bored and sullen. Finally, there was timid Seashell, named for the conch shell he had once brought her from the sea as a gift. Mikasa could tell that Seashell thought about many things. Sometimes, he would take minutes to answer a question, but whenever he did, he would always provide some new perspective or tactic to situations she had never considered before.
Tonight, it is one or more of these foreign faces that Mikasa hopes to see, but today she is later than usual, and the tavern is already busy with other locals. As she ducks into the establishment, Mikasa makes a beeline for her usual table – the one with a pretty view of the taller mountains in the distance – which sits mercifully unoccupied in the corner. It is only when she seats herself that she dares to look about for faces she hopes to see. But the ones that she seeks are absent from the crowd, and she is disappointed.
"It's quiet tonight," she says absent-mindedly as Maria the bartender approaches her from the bar.
"They wouldn't be much by way of travellers, if they were here all the time." Maria says, unfazed by Mikasa's out-of-touch remark. "But if you want to stay a while, I can get you something to drink?"
"Of course," Mikasa says. "Just the usual ale. And a vegetable stew and some bread, please."
Maria moves away and Mikasa is about to lean back in her seat when her table jostles abruptly. She registers the affected giggle of one Milana Peter even as she jerks her head towards the source of the impact.
As the only daughter and child of the mayor of Milos, Milana Peter had been showered with every luxury that money could afford. Accordingly, she had quickly become known as the most beautiful girl in Milos with her cream-coloured skin, luscious locks of golden hair, and eyes blue as a cloudless summer sky. Milana's luxurious upbringing also bestowed upon her the self-importance of a king and the wisdom of a fool. But wealth, youth, and beauty are powerful assets, and thus she was afforded many accommodations that any plainer girl or older maiden would never have been granted.
Milana is a few years younger than Mikasa. Normally, she would have tried to recruit Mikasa into her fold to become one of her adoring lackeys. But Mikasa's unique heritage and appearance had attracted much attention in Milos, including that of handsome Drakos. And as the reputed local beauty, Milana took exception to that, and thus made it her mission to belittle Mikasa.
"Whoops, sorry. I didn't mean to do that," Milana says, flicking her golden locks back as she tosses a sidelong glance down at Mikasa. "It can get pretty crowded here. Because of that, I guess even the wallflowers get noticed sometimes."
Gina and Faris giggle at Milana's comment. Mikasa wonders whether they do anything besides tail Milana and worship her all day.
"Wallflowers will be wallflowers, and elephants will be elephants."
"Jealous girl, at least I get noticed," Milana sneers. "And by more people than those filthy stragglers who drop by every so often."
Mikasa clenches her fists and seethes with rage, but she resists the urge to silence Milana with a swift upper-cut to the jaw. Milana's lip twitches with contempt.
"Clench your fists all you want, but if you so much as lift a finger against me, father will make your life miserable. Trust that a beast like you would only know how to use its fists instead of talking things through like a proper lady."
"Getting along, I see," a sharp voice cuts in, and the girls turn to see Maria returning with Mikasa's fare. "Ms. Peter, Mr. Wood and Mr. Demeric just arrived, and it seems like they are looking for you."
Milana's eyes brighten at the mention of Drakos. "You're so sweet, Maria, to tell me. I'll go right over." And she and her cronies are gone as swiftly as they came. Although Mikasa finds Milana unpleasant, she is grateful that the girl shares her desire of concealing her presence from Drakos.
"Thank you," Mikasa murmurs as Maria places the food on the table, "for getting rid of them."
"Thank you for holding back. I know you could beat the living daylights out of her if you wanted to, but I've known Milana all my life." Maria says in a low voice. "She is a good girl, though raised spoiled. Heaven knows she should learn some manners, but it's not in my place to teach her."
"Sticks and stones," Mikasa says, though she doesn't entirely believe her own words.
Throughout dinner, Mikasa enjoys the rowdy revellers from the peaceful solitude of her corner. She smiles at the loud boasts of the men as they try to impress the women and wonders at the coy flirtations of the latter as they try to flaunt their beautiful looks and wit. As a woman, Mikasa knows how a proper woman should act: sociable, friendly, soft, approachable. But titans had not cared whether you were man or woman, young or old, crippled or able. They had eaten voraciously and indiscriminately. And outrunning them had required neither beauty nor sociableness, but strength in mind and body. Mikasa comes to the sudden revelation that she is a relic of war. Left behind in another time and place, standing by as others rush forward to live out a life that she is grateful for, but somehow wishes more of.
Perhaps that is why she gets along with the travellers of Milos. They carry a lively energy that provides an escape from the mundaneness of small village life. Even so, she is content to live out their tales of strife and derring-do from the hearth of the tavern. She enjoys the stories, but she would never choose to trade her peaceful life for one of adventure.
"All done?" Maria's voice, raised so as to be heard above the rowdy shouts of the tavern's patrons, breaks Mikasa out of her reverie. Mikasa stares down at her plates. When had they gotten so clean?
"Thank you. The food was delicious, as always," Mikasa says, placing a few coins on the table. She wishes she had been more present to enjoy it, as her mother had always told her to when she was young.
"Come again whenever," Maria smiles, whisking the empty plates away.
Mikasa gets up quietly to leave, but she is spotted by Drakos on her way out. To hers and Milana's ire, he calls her from across the room.
"I didn't know you were here tonight," he roars, pulling Milana's trespassing hand off his chest and straightening in his seat to face her. "Join us for a pint or three!"
"Sorry, I've got to help Lamia open up early tomorrow," Mikasa says curtly.
"You always do. What's the rush?"
"I haven't been sleeping well."
"Yeah. Sleeping beauty needs her rest, let her go," Milana coaxes.
Drakos ignores Milana. "Let me walk you home," he offers.
"Don't worry about me. Goodnight."
"Okay. I'll see you the day after tomorrow, to you to the village dance. I'll swing by the bakery."
"Okay…see you then." She blushes at the whoops and whistles of the other men but flushes with satisfaction at Milana's simmering envy as she steps out the tavern into the cool night air.
"When is Drakos coming by?" Lamia asks as she flips the sign on the bakery door from 'Open' to 'Closed'. Two days have flown by, and the bakery is closing early as all the villagers will be busy preparing for the village dance in the evening.
"Anytime now," Mikasa says, removing her apron and folding it neatly on the counter.
"Well, you had better hurry up and get dressed then," Lamia says, raising an eyebrow at her employee's calm exterior. "It's not nice to keep people waiting."
As Lamia packs the leftover pastries into crates for her husband to cart away, Mikasa changes into a sleeveless, yellow dress with small blue and white flowers speckled across it. It has buttons on the front and a smart collar. It is pretty, yet versatile, and a welcome addition to her sparse, modest closet. Afterwards, Mikasa slips out of her comfortable shoes into fancier strapped sandals. Before she leaves the makeshift staff room, she pauses for a second in front of the mirror that Lamia had generously brought for the occasion. She already savours the thought of wearing this chic outfit on her days off and on other special occasions.
Drakos is already waiting patiently outside the bakery when she emerges. His black hair is combed back and glints in the waning afternoon light, hinting at a generously applied amount of hair gel. His white, collared shirt is rolled up at the sleeves to show his strong, tanned arms, and his tailored brown britches hint at lean, muscled legs underneath. She looks into his eyes. Had they always been such a brilliant emerald green?
A knot twists in Mikasa's stomach at the sight of him; it is an odd feeling that lies somewhere between excited anticipation and overwhelming discomfort. Drakos is arrogant, but he is arrogant for a reason, and treats her well otherwise. Indeed, he is the best pick amongst the other males in Milos. She has known men with worse, even harmful qualities; so if vanity is Drakos' greatest sin, and no man on earth is perfect, then maybe, just maybe, she is being unnecessarily choosy.
She unlocks the door to greet him, flushing at his brazenness as he scans her openly.
"Beautiful as always," Drakos breathes, and her breath hitches as she meets his eyes again.
"Hello Drakos," Lamia calls from behind. "Here to pick up Mikasa?"
"Yes," Drakos replies, his eyes never leaving Mikasa's. "Will you be going to the dance as well?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Lamia says. "But I still need to tidy some things here. You lovebirds go on ahead."
The knot in her stomach tightens. "No," Mikasa blurts out as Drakos reaches for her hand. She turns to Lamia. "We'll wait for you."
"You sure?" The older woman raises an eyebrow, and Mikasa engages her in a conversation of looks. Although neither woman is particularly emotive, their skills are just about enough, and the conversation and hidden meaning goes roughly as follows.
Don't leave me alone, please.
I don't get you. (He's handsome, just go with him already)
Please. (I'm not ready for this)
Fine. (You owe me one, girl)
And so, Drakos' plans of romance are foiled as, fifteen minutes later, he, Mikasa and Lamia set out for the town hall. There is a general buzz of excitement in the streets as the women school their squalling children into presentable outfits and the men tap their feet as they wait, impatient to be off.
"Children seem like such a handful," Mikasa comments idly as one such child runs figures of eight around his hapless mother as she struggles with his younger brother.
"You will grow to like them. Besides, I think you'll find it difficult to keep your hands off of me forever," Drakos drawls.
A memory of Seashell comes to her.
"When someone starts saying something of little consequence, I duly file and promptly archive."
"File and archive?"
"File my observations and archive their words in the back of my mind, never to be used again. Most likely."
So when Lamia scolds Drakos for his forwardness, Mikasa applies Seashell's mantra of 'file and archive, file and archive'. Drakos smart, archived. Drakos muscular, archived. Drakos arrogant, filed. Drakos handsome…filed.
The exercise entertains her a little and helps to keep her detached from Drakos' self-congratulatory remarks on his outfit and his physical prowess. At some point, Mikasa breaks out of the cycle to glance at Lamia across Drakos' broad chest and suppresses her mirth when she is greeted with a thinly veiled look of irritation.
It is in this mixed spirit of complacency and irritation that the trio arrive at the village hall. Mikasa, noticing the crowds thronging the square in front of the building, seizes her chance.
"I'm going to go explore," she says, moving briskly away. She expertly dodges Drakos' grasp as he breaks swiftly out of his soliloquy at her words.
"You said you would be with me at the dance!" He roars after her, ignoring the curious stares he attracts.
"No, I said I would come with you. I didn't say I would spend time with you," she calls back. He could run after her all he wanted, but she knew she was fast and could lose him easily in the crowd. "Take care of Lamia!"
"Don't look at me. I don't want to be your date either," she hears Lamia telling Drakos somewhere behind her.
Mikasa laughs.
Outwitting Drakos had been easy enough, but entertaining herself at a social event was an entirely different story altogether. After settling down in Milos, Mikasa had soon realised she was not a natural talker. Nor did she care much for society's bigwigs with all their posturing and polite airs.
She wanders aimlessly into the village hall, feeling out of place amidst the sea of excited faces. She jostles past some teenage boys tossing about a pint of ale too many and finds a secluded corner to withdraw into. But she only just settles into a chair when she sees the mayor approaching her from the side. She stands up quickly and gives an unpractised curtsy.
"Mayor Peter," she says, her voice coming out tighter than intended.
"Mikasa," Mayor Peter nods. He is a stately man with a stern look, greying hair, and a bushy moustache shadowing thin lips. He ruled Milos with justness and austerity, and it was strange to see Milos prospering by his hand as his daughter spoiled under it. "It is a rarity and a pleasure to see you tonight."
"Drakos and Lamia insisted that I should come," she replies unthinkingly.
"Of course," he says, brushing off the implication that she didn't really want to be at the event off with practised ease. "They are good citizens. Drakos brings back firewood to keep us safe at night, and Lamia keeps us well-fed with her baked goods. And you help her run her business well."
"The effort is mostly hers," Mikasa says shyly.
"I am sure you play no small part too, Mikasa. From what I hear, you are industrious and modest. Milos could do with more women like you." Is that a twitch of his moustache? "Well, there are people I need to attend to, but there is plenty of ale and wine, and food to partake of besides, so have a good time and enjoy yourself."
Mikasa curtsies again as Mayor Peter takes his leave. But she isn't left alone for long before the younger Peter throws herself into her path.
"So you can dress up nice if you put your mind to it," Milana squeals. "Though the buttoned-up collar is rather prudish, isn't it?"
"Now Milana, such dresses are most appropriate for girls who don't have enough of a bosom to flaunt," Gina adds.
"Yeah. Fashionable dresses have left girls with her figure waaaay behind," Faris chips in.
Mikasa looks down at her own dress. The bright lights of the village hall make her dress glow so yellow that it feels gaudy, and the collar at her neck suddenly feels starched and stiff.
"I have better things to worry about," Mikasa manages.
"Like what? Kneading dough? Oh wait, you don't even do that, Lamia does that," Milana jibes. "All you do is attempt prettiness and sell pastries. Really, the only reason why you get by is because of Drakos. Honestly, I don't see what he sees in you."
"Raise your voice any louder so the town can know just what you are," a voice says from behind, and Mikasa turns to see the traveller woman from the bakery striding towards them in an elegant red dress, a glass of wine in one hand. She turns back to face Milana. Despite their similar ages, the woman strikes an imposing figure and emits the air of one not to be trifled with. Milana keeps her face perfectly schooled, but a flicker in her eyes betrays her surprise at being overheard.
"You misunderstand," Milana says, giving a hasty but perfect curtsy. "I was only telling Mikasa that the bakery is doing so well and that our mutual friend is wrong about the pastries there."
"I see. So you weren't saying that the bakery only sells because Mikasa has to resort to her good looks and the mercies of fanciful gentlemen?"
"Absolutely not."
"Good. And I don't want to hear anything akin to that coming from any of you." The woman's eyes glitter as she scans the faces of the embarrassed girls. Her violet eyes glitter almost red in the heat of the turning light. "Now, I have something to discuss with Mikasa. If you'll excuse us."
Mikasa follows the woman back into the busy throng. When they are out of earshot, Mikasa murmurs.
"You didn't have to step in."
"Yes, I did. That's what friends do, no? And you are a friend, for selling me that delicious tart the other day."
"If that is so," Mikasa raises her head to look the woman in the eyes, "tell me your name."
"Marabe." The woman smiles.
"Okay…thank you, Marabe."
"You are welcome."
At the other end of the hall, a lively jig begins to play. A space is promptly cleared in the middle of the hall for a dance.
"Oh, a dance!" Marabe exclaims, all severity forgotten. "Will you dance with me, Mikasa?"
"I'm sure there are plenty of men who would prefer your hand," Mikasa says, blushing.
"But I want your company tonight," Marabe says. "Dance with me. As my new friend."
"Alright," she says, before her mind can supply an excuse.
Marabe takes her by the hand and they position themselves amongst the other couples. As the only pair that are of the same sex, Mikasa feels the eyes of many on her watching, observing, and judging. In Milos, it was unusual for dances to be performed by two of the same sex; rather, dancing was usually an exercise reserved for courting couples of the opposite sex.
"We will give them a show to remember," Marabe says, swinging their hands lightly about, "as two beautiful ladies who love to dance."
The music rises and Mikasa is swept off her feet. She stumbles at first, unsteady feet swinging this way and that at Marabe's indication. But with Marabe's patient guidance, she quickly learns the steps. Soon, she can take her eyes off her feet. Dancing around the room, she notices Milana taking a turn with Amios, the tailor's son, Lamia, who looks like she is in the process of lecturing little Amadeus about running around the food table, and Drakos, glowering at her from the sidelines, clearly still sore from her earlier rebuff.
"See, not so difficult now, eh?" Marabe says as they circle each other, palms touching.
"No. I actually like it. Except for one thing."
"What?"
"I would need someone else to dance with me, and no one else in this hall seems good enough."
Marabe laughs. The dance continues a little longer, and when the musicians finish playing, dancers and onlookers alike stop to applaud them. Mikasa follows Marabe to one side of the hall as another song begins, expecting her dance partner to leave her with some elegant excuse.
Instead, Marabe makes a provocative observation.
"You are pretty, Mikasa, but there is something dark inside of you."
Mikasa starts, then scoffs. "No one asked you to defend me in front of the others."
"That's not what I mean." Marabe turns, fixing Mikasa with a sombre stare.
"I don't follow."
"Right now, you stand next to me, yet it feels like you are somewhere in a different time, or a different place."
Mikasa turns away, trying to think. She remembers her revelation in the tavern. "Sometimes, I get this feeling that I was the main character of a play. But ever since moving to Milos, I've felt more like a side character. Or maybe the narrator."
"A play? So not your own life?"
"I don't know. I guess I mean my own life."
"You sound like someone who has lost everything."
Marabe's observation sends a sudden chill down Mikasa's spine, but she finds no reason to justify the reaction.
"I grew up during the war against the titans." Mikasa offers.
"Is that where the scar under your right eye comes from?"
Mikasa fingers the mark on her cheek with a wistful smile. "No. This was from an accident I had when I went fishing with my father as a child. But I lost a lot in the war. I think we all lost a lot."
"That is true. I saw a lot of horrible things…I can only imagine how much worse things might have been for you. But look here." Marabe suddenly seizes Mikasa by the wrists and turns her to look her straight into her entrancing eyes. "The war is over, and you didn't die. You're still alive. Maybe you left a part of yourself there. But life goes on. You're beautiful, you're witty, and you're resourceful. You – we – still have long, happy, lives ahead of us. The future isn't there to be seen, it's there to be lived. Remember that when you're ready."
Marabe's words infuse her with a new energy – outsider's energy, like the kind she imbibes with her traveller friends, Mikasa realises. But this energy feels different. It makes her stomach twist with mounting panic, as if she is being pushed too close to the edge of a steep cliff.
"Why did you come here?" Mikasa asks, shifting subject quickly.
"Huh?"
"Lamia told me that you travelled here to relax and have fun. But this," Mikasa gestures about the lively, brightly-lit hall, "is not what Milos is normally like. Is there something you came here for?"
"Yes." Marabe says bluntly. "But I am also here to have fun. Is it such a crime to mix business and pleasure?"
Mikasa blushes. "No, I meant – "
"It was a pleasure to see the two of you dancing earlier," Mayor Peter interrupts. Somehow, he had crept up on them as they had been talking.
"Thank you for the opportunity to dance," Marabe says, casting a professional mask on. "You've thrown quite an exciting event, Mayor Peter. And all in my favour."
"Nothing could give me greater pleasure, Lady Redford. Still, I would like to ask you one more thing in private, before you leave for Uld tomorrow."
"Uld?" Mikasa bleats, too stunned by the discovery of Marabe's title to check herself.
"My hometown," Marabe says, before turning back to the mayor. "I thought we had discussed everything there was to discuss."
"My apologies, I thought we had," the mayor replies, "but this thing that I forgot to ask you is quite important. I would not dream of pulling you away from the festivities tonight otherwise."
"Alright." Marabe nods, and then turns back to Mikasa. "It was lovely to meet you. I hope we will cross paths again. At least, should you ever need me, you know where to find me."
The lady loops her arm through the mayor's and they make their way slowly around the side of the hall. As they disappear into a side room, a wave of fatigue suddenly strikes Mikasa. The village hall is too suffocating. Too noisy, too crowded. She needs out, she needs sleep. Weaving past the dancers and the revellers, Mikasa bursts out of the double doors into the night, reviving a little as the cool air washes over her sweaty skin.
The short path home is punctuated with stilted thoughts of Marabe. The lady with dark violet eyes was a puzzle, from her forward-thinking to her cryptic remarks. Why had she accused Mikasa of being absent from the present, when the dance had been the only part of the night Mikasa had really enjoyed? Why had she equated that absence of mind to darkness?
Mikasa's mind then wanders to Marabe's identity. She had not expected Marabe to be of noble birth, despite her almost regal bearing. Clearly, she was an important person, if Mayor Peter had decided to throw a dance in her honour. But what business did Marabe – Lady Redford – have in Milos, a village located in the middle of a hostile mountain range to the north of the island?
And where in the blazing hell was Uld?
There are too many questions to answer, and some of these Mikasa attributes to her tired mind working in overdrive. Tomorrow will be another day, and there will be enough time to slowly sift through her thoughts then.
She is lamenting how early she will need to wake up to help Lamia open shop when she spots a few dark spots speckling the ground. Peering closer, she realises it is blood. It leads, drop by insidious drop, down the path to her house.
Panic rises within her as she anticipates the sight that could be awaiting her at the trail's end. What – or who – had been attacked? Was she going to be attacked as well?
She tries to calm herself down by shifting her mindset from the hunted into the hunter and chanting fragments of conversations with Archer to herself. Follow the trail, stay calm but cautious, be alert for any predators still in the vicinity. Which is likely, if the freshness of the blood is anything to go by.
But when the trail of blood grows darker and thicker, Mikasa loses her calm. Somebody's life could be in danger, she tells herself. There is no time to waste!
She first quickens her step, then breaks out into a full-on run, sandals clacking loudly on the flagstone and chafing her heels. She does not stop running until she is at her doorstep, staring down at the bloodied corpse of a man at her feet.
