Chapter 5

All day Zoro had been trying in vain to chip away at his teacher's words. It was nearing sunset, and he still lacked a sufficient answer. The young man sat quietly on the floor of the dining room, turning Ichimonji over in his hands repeatedly as he gazed out the windows. On the horizon, he could see where the clouds started to break, like shreds of crimson velvet, while over the island loomed the usual gray mush.

For the past week, the swordsman had been cooped up inside. All of the doors had been locked during the night, and Zoro was unwilling to break any windows. On the first few days, he had thought it strange, but not worrying. However, when he finally asked Mihawk about it, his teacher had only responded that it would be good for introspection. After that, the shichibukai was nowhere to be found.

Quietly, the young pirate set his sword aside and rose. His eyes were transfixed on the distant sky as he walked toward the window, entranced. He wondered how the rest of the crew was doing. Though their luck had taken a turn for the worse, Zoro was almost positive each of them had been as fortunate as him.

However, that didn't mean the Straw Hat swordsman thought he was out of the woods. Despite his improvements, Mihawk still easily outclassed him. Did the others have teachers like that? Were they as strict as the shichibukai? As taciturn?

Zoro furrowed his brows and paced the length of the dining hall, still struggling for his answer. He felt that each day of his captivity brought him no closer to what he sought, and he grew more and more restless each morning. As the sky grew dark, he strode back and forth, his heavy boots sounding a bass drum rhythm. The swordsman worked himself into something of a trance with his footsteps.

His mind wandered before blanking altogether. The clean slate allowed for new thoughts to float by, and Zoro considered each new idea like a judge scanning his courtroom. Memories resurfaced, new ideas came to light, but even these offered no satisfying answer to the pirate.

Finally, he stopped. His hand pressed against the cool window as he stared blankly at the massive doors. Vaguely, he noticed his body swaying for balance. Brows furrowed, Zoro gleaned the notion that the motion was important. His mouth dropped at the edges as he glared at the air, but his mind refused to yield the answer. Despite himself, he let it go.

With a hollow complaint from the glass, Zoro rested his head on the window pane. He could hear the trees groaning and leaves trying to shush them. The wind was cacophonous as usual, beating against the solid castle. Beneath his forehead, the windows buzzed. Again, the pirate frowned—something vital was there.

An annoyed grunt escaped the swordsman as he left the window. He trudged to Ichimonji and lifted her from the floor, tucking the blade away at his side. His gaze then turned toward the door, and the rest of him followed. Before he could make it into the hall, however, something sparked.

"Damn," Zoro barked, turning on his heel and striding towards the fireplace. "Forgot to snuff it."

He snagged his candle from the mantle place and lit it. In a second, he was on his way into the kitchen, his light held high. Without skipping a beat, he cleared the bottom stairs and strode to the far end of the room. Squatting in a dark corner was a fair sized cauldron, full of water, and beside it was a small, rusted cup. In one fluid movement, the pirate dipped the cup into the cauldron and removed it in a rush of water.

Zoro turned and left the dark kitchen. The fire grumbled in its cage as he approached and set his candle aside. Gently, he pulled droplets from the cup and sprinkled the burning logs. Like a snake, the blaze complained, but the swordsman ignored the agonized hiss as he smothered the light. When it was nothing but thin smoke and ashy logs, he set the cup on the mantle and regained his candle.

Again, he turned to leave. In the dim light, his footfalls were magnified. The wind outside seemed much more demanding, and Zoro could not help but stop and lend an ear to it. It slammed through the trees and against the castle, forcing another rattle out of the windows. The pirate bit his lip a little, as though trying to clamp down on the relevant thought this scene posed.

With an annoyed grunt, he left the dining hall. In his hand, the tiny flame flickered in time with his gait. The shadows swung lazily back and forth in a steady way. Ichimonji gently tapped the wall each time her master put his left foot forward.

In the dark, Zoro easily found his room, just as he had left it that morning. Quietly, he set the candle on the tiny bedside table and plopped down on the bed, just missing his two swords that already lay there. A tired sigh whistled out of his mouth as he kicked his boots off. Instinctively, he removed Ichimonji and set his three swords aside as a unit.

Within minutes of laying his head down, he was asleep.

The pirate dreamed of nothing in particular for a while, and only had the dim sensation of combat. His body felt like it was surrounded by tight-packed cotton. After a bit of flailing, he freed himself from the constricting weight and only then did a thought surface.

Zoro found himself dreaming of a small, isolated stretch of beach. The high sun's reflection shimmered on the rhythmically breaking waves, and the thick, salted breeze filled his lungs. He was perched atop a massive boulder, gazing out at the horizon from the feathery shade of a palm. His breathing matched the waves, as did his heartbeat.

The breeze played with the palm leaves, which in turn teased at the young man's hair. He brushed the fronds away as his thoughts focused on the steady beat. Around him, the world seemed to move in that singular rhythm. It moved slowly, with the methodical waves that echoed across the rocks. However, these were not the only things affected. How the palm tree swayed back and forth, and how the sun glimmered on the horizon, also moved to this underlying beat.

Again, the fronds brushed at the swordsman, tickling his shoulder. He grumbled and swatted them away—after all, he was on to something.

Zoro rose, walking towards the water and letting the cool waves engulf his feet. He felt them tugging at him in time with his balance, and he swayed with the wind. The gentle ebb and flow of it all was calming and consuming.

"That's it!" the pirate exclaimed, surging awake. Zoro quickly flexed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs underneath him. As he did, his foot connected solidly with something. "The hell?" he muttered, blinking and trying to acclimate his eyes to the dark. After a moment, he noticed a tall figure looming at the foot of his bed. "Ghost girl?" he murmured, peering into the shadows.

For a while, there was no response. Just as Zoro started to recognize the figure, it spoke.

"No, Roronoa."

"The fuck'd you get here?"

"I was simply... passing through."

The young pirate tried to shake himself awake.

"Why were you in here then?"

A silent second passed before the shichibukai answered.

"I was confirming that you were still in the castle."

Zoro snorted. "How the hell could I leave? You're the only one with the keys."

"There are a multitude of windows."

"And you'd kill me if I broke 'em."

Mihawk considered this before responding. "I would not kill someone over something so trifling."

"Didn't you destroy a fleet of ships for disrupting your nap once?"

With raised eyebrows, the shichibukai stared at his student. It took him a moment to respond. "You seemed rather ecstatic about something when you woke," he digressed. "What was it?"

It took the young pirate a moment to realize what his teacher was asking. "Oh! I know the answer to your question."

"You do? What do you believe the answer to be, then?"

"It's rhythm, right? That's what connects everything?"

Mihawk was silent for a moment. "How does it do so?"

For a quiet while, Zoro tried to gather his response. He wanted to make sure he could explain it. If Mihawk hadn't been able to see him, he would have thought his student had fallen asleep again.

"Since each thing has a rhythm," the student started slowly, "it has to find a way to fit its rhythm in with everything else." He thought of Brooke, and all the amazing instruments the skeleton was able to play. "When the rhythms fit together, everything works."

"So what happens when they don't?"

Zoro shook his head. "That's just it, though. They always are."

"I beg to differ," Mihawk replied, his voice flat.

The younger pirate thought for a moment. "There's disaster?"

"That's one way to put it, yes. Things break apart when the rhythm is not there, or does not agree from thing to thing." The shichibukai thought a bit. "I would like you to reflect upon a swordsman's use for such rhythms." Without a word, he departed from his student, who quickly fell back asleep.

The warlord was unable to sleep, and come dawn, he had already showered, groomed himself, and eaten. He spent his time stalking the corridors, wondering exactly how he was going to face his student. During the course of the night, he had contemplated this, and though many ideas surfaced, he was not sure which course of action to take.

Mihawk considered keeping his emotions under tight lock and key—after all, this would be exceptional practice. However, considering his track record over the past month, he doubted that method would work. He considered simply allowing himself fantasies, but he figured they would exacerbate the situation to intolerable levels. There was always the chance of kicking both of them out, but Roronoa would protest, and Mihawk was unsure if he would be able to say no to him forever.

He had considered telling the boy a half-truth, something that could convey his emotions just as much as conceal them. The shichibukai was learned enough, he could easily tinker the words together in such a fashion. Though the solution was alluring, he knew a half-truth would only get him so close to release. The pull required something from Roronoa just as much as it required something from Mihawk.

Telling the whole truth was out of the question. It was a crap shoot, and Mihawk was not one for taking such a risked his reputation, though he cared little for what people thought of his sexual orientation, as well as maiming himself emotionally. Not to mention what may become of a shichibukai aligning with a regular pirate.

Mihawk checked himself. Roronoa was no regular pirate, that much was clear. Regular pirates could never dream of getting this deep under his skin. To be fair, even the exceptional pirates that made up Roronoa's crew could not get such a handle on him emotionally. It was just the swordsman. Perhaps one other man in the world could preform the feat, and they had parted ways on this matter years ago.

That did not solve the problem at hand though, and it surely did not ease Mihawk's conscience any.

Slowly, he made his way towards the dining hall, wondering if his guests were already at breakfast. He imagined the charred food Perona would cook, could smell the burnt musk of it, and his mouth twitched ever so slightly downwards. He would rather Rorona have better prepared meals, but it would reveal too much of the sword master's inner thoughts.

Or perhaps it would reveal just enough.

With new-found haste, Mihawk surged through the halls, turning deftly this way and that until he reached the dining hall. To his surprise—and relief—he found the hall empty. Briskly, he made his way down into the kitchen, flicking on several burners as he went. Pans clattered into place, and before long, he had breakfast well underway.

While he was ducking in the fridge to see if he still had milk, Mihawk heard an indignant voice behind him.

"Why do you need all this food?"

The shichibukai stood, having concluded that all of the milk was gone. He silently passed Perona, who floated and glared at him. He continued tending the food, ignoring her as he thought of how to best present the meal.

"Hey, is any of this for me?" Perona asked, eying one of the burners that Mihawk was not currently on top of.

Again, he pretended that he had not heard her as he began to transport food from pans to plates.

"Are you even listening?" the ghost girl demanded, appearing directly in front of the warlord. Her head stuck up out of the stove as she grabbed his attention.

"What do you want?" Mihawk asked, his skin crawling in irritation.

"Some food I didn't have to bust my ass cooking," she replied, folding her arms high.

"That's a shame, then," the swordsman retorted, "This isn't for you."

The girl eyed the feast prepared. "There's no way in hell you're eating all of that."

Mihawk thought for a moment. As much as he disliked her, he had to admit that there was something of a brain in her. If he told her, it would be more than likely she would pick up on his intentions. He decided silence was best—after all, she was the last person on this island he had to answer to.

Perona felt differently.

"You're not giving it to Zoro, are you?" she asked, a somewhat desperate whine in her voice no matter how she tried to disguise it. Mihawk said nothing, but she managed to draw a conclusion. "You are, aren't you?"

"What I do with the food I make is none of your business," he responded, gathering the last of the plates to take upstairs.

"What, you'll feed him but you won't even feed me? What kind of host are you?" the princess barked. Mihawk responded with his own level, golden-eyed stare.

"I am the host that has yet to kick out his unwanted guest."

For a moment, the ghost girl did nothing but float, fuming silently. The shichibukai turned, plates balanced delicately on his arms and hands. Not a single one of his muscles twitched without his control. He mounted the stairs without difficulty, and gingerly set the plates upon the table.

An icy chill shot through his core, pushing from his mind all thoughts but those of his inadequacy. Vaguely, he noticed a flash of white streak through him. His legs wobbled, and gravity forced him into a chair. His composure had fled, and he could not find it in himself to even look up.

There was no way in the world his plan would have worked. Roronoa was much too young to be interested in someone Mihawk's age, and that was assuming the boy could be coerced into a homosexual relationship. That was completely ignoring the fact that the younger pirate was there to learn how to kill his teacher. Not to mention their time together was excruciatingly limited. He mused on the shortcomings of his desires, completely ignoring Perona as she crept into the dining hall and had her fill of the meal prepared.

Zoro slept soundly, waking long after dawn. Like he usually did, he woke slowly, his brain coming to terms with the world around him at its own pace. Leisurely, he rose and stretched. Through the window, the sun cast its rays, allowing the light to play off of the swordsman's naked torso.

From somewhere down the hall, he heard Perona's footfalls on the way to the dining room. Food sounded pretty good, even if it was her burnt cuisine. From the chair squatting at the foot of his bed he removed his shirt, and from the bedside table he lifted his haramaki. Only once they were situated did he gather his swords and settle them on his hip like a bird settling its feathers.

He exited the room, his mind rehearsing the answers that had come to him in sleep. The young swordsman's fingers traced over the walls as he walked, his entire body numb to the outside world. Only when his fingers passed the familiar wood of the dining hall door did his mind return. He opened the doors wide, his gaze instantly snapping to Mihawk.

Something seemed wrong to the young swordsman, but he couldn't guess what. Out of instinct, his hand rested on Ichimonji as he stepped cautiously forward. Perona sat at the table, far from the shichibukai as she heartily ate the meal before her. It took a little bit before he could see the condition of the food.

The spread on the table was obviously well thought-out and carefully laid, and the cook had to have been skilled. Zoro eyed Mihawk, curious as to why he had prepared such a meal, but his teacher refused to meet his gaze. Quietly, the young pirate scanned the table.

Though there was an empty plate before the shichibukai, Zoro didn't dare touch it, and instead, he hastened towards the kitchen for his own dining ware. As he returned, he noticed that Mihawk had vanished.

"Where'd he go?" Zoro asked Perona as he settled into a chair. The princess shrugged nonchalantly as she helped herself to another mouthful of seasoned fish.

"Probably went to sulk some more," she said once her mouth was clear. "Very uncute."

The swordsman gave her a confused look but said nothing as he got some food for himself. After a quiet moment of eating, Zoro decided to ask another question.

"Why'd he cook this for us?"

Perona shot him an indignant glare. "Like hell he cooked this for us. I did."

Zoro snorted, nearly choking on his food. "Bullshit."

"What?" Perona's eyes narrowed, and behind her wavered one of her ghosts. Zoro returned the look with an unimpressed stare of his own.

"There's no way in hell you made this," he repeated, tensing.

"Yes I did," she yelled, jumping to her feet as her chair screeched back. A second and third ghost appeared, hovering dangerously close.

The swordsman rose slowly, not quite towering above the girl, but making up for it in the way he carried himself. Gently, his hand rested on his swords as his mind considered just how fast those ghosts might move. It was obvious Perona was thinking something along the same lines, her eyes wavering slightly. Muscles barely twitched as the two of them inspected one another.

With a creak, the doors opened, and Mihawk strode in. His bearing seemed off just a bit, and his face seemed a little more pale than usual. Both of the quarreling party turned towards him as he entered despite this. Zoro could have sworn Perona flinched slightly. Silently, the shichibukai took his place at the head of the table, his eyes not making contact with either of his guests. From where Zoro stood, he could see that Mihawk's hair was damp around his face.

Though curious, the younger swordsman sat down without a word.

In silence, Zoro and Perona ate, the latter taking the occasional chance to glare at the former. All the while, Mihawk ignored them, choosing instead to stare into space.

As the late breakfast disappeared one plate at a time, and after Perona had departed, Zoro finally addressed his teacher.

"Where would you like me to start?"

Mihawk looked at him, his eyes unfocused slightly for a moment. Then, as if waking, his eyes locked onto his student's. To Zoro, something seemed off about the gaze. He was not about to speculate, though.

"Wherever you think it appropriate," came the response. Something was wrong with Mihawk's voice, as well. The reverberating timbre wasn't quite as strong as it normally was.

Zoro thought for a moment. "We decided that rhythm is what holds things together," he started, carefully observing his teacher's face, "and when that rhythm falls apart, so does the world."

"Not quite the entire world," Mihawk responded, "Just the part that de-synchronizes."

"Well, when it does fall out of rhythm," the student continued, "it falls apart, right?"

"In a way, it does."

"Well, a swordsman should be able to find those rhythms, and know how to work with them."

Either it was a trick of the light, or some of the pallor had returned to the shichibukai's face.

"But what exactly does this result in?" Mihawk asked, his eyes regaining their piercing quality.

"Doesn't it result in being able to cut whatever I want?"

"Exactly." The elder swordsman seemed to sit up straighter, regaining his natural height and bearing.

"I already know how to do that," Zoro explained, his hand and swords ready to demonstrate. Mihawk shook his head.

"That is not something you prove in the dining hall," he replied calmly, the deep resonance returned to his voice. "And that is all for now."

Steadily, Mihawk rose, removing from his pocket a ring of ancient keys. He turned to leave the room, bidding his student to follow. Zoro opened his mouth, but before he could ask his question, his teacher shook his head. The two of them exited the dining hall, with Mihawk leading the way towards the main gates.

They arrived without hindrance, and passed through the doors silently once Mihawk had opened them. The mid-afternoon sun shone through the clouds, brightening the dark faces of the two men. Slight winds played around the two of them, tugging at the loose fabrics that clothed each. The elder led his student through the ruins in silence, the former's mood restored enough to the point where he could not look Roronoa in the face.

Only once they were in a wide courtyard did Mihawk stop and turn to face his student.

"Rhythm is key to much of life, combat included. Not only does recognizing the rhythms of things around us allow us to cut what we wish and leave other things unscathed, but it also allows the skilled fighter to see and predict patterns in combat. Knowledge of battle rhythms allows the combatant to ebb and flow with battle tides, and allows us to predict incoming onslaughts. True masters of these rhythms can even grasp precognitive haki."

Zoro thought a moment, glancing around the deserted courtyard.

"How do I learn more?" he asked. A slim smile crossed Mihawk's face.

"Sit and listen. Come nightfall, you can return to the castle. I want you to do this for at least an hour and a half every day after breakfast, unless I assign you another task. Is that clear?"

Without answering, the younger pirate sat and closed his eyes, his hands resting gently in his lap. Silently, Mihawk strode back towards the castle.

Perona was pawing through the library, bored out of her skull. Many of the books were uninteresting—dusty old tomes recounting history or science, pieces in any multitudes of languages, or thick works so dry they could be classified as deserts. She was having trouble finding any romance or mystery novels in her native tongue, and after a while she began to wonder if all the pieces she would enjoy were specifically in other languages for the sole purpose of annoying her.

In a huff, she made her way towards the exit. Before her, the doors banged open, and she was down the hall at a rapid pace. She vaguely wondered at the time, but decided it was unimportant. After a while, she had come across her own quarters, and had settled down for just a moment before a shadow fell across her door.

Fully garbed and tall standing, Mihawk filled the doorway. His golden eyes just barely caught light from her candle. Though he seemed relaxed, Perona still felt the weight of his presence. For a while, he said nothing, and under the shichibukai's gaze she grew uneasy.

"Those ghosts are rather powerful," Mihawk finally admitted, his face unchanging.

Perona was struck dumb.

"However, that does not change the fact that you are to make your own meals," he continued. "You need to improve just as Roronoa does."

"I didn't ask for this," she whined, having found her voice.

"That is not my concern."

"But–"

"I do not remember inviting either of you into my home."

Perona glared. Behind her, a ghost loomed. This time, Mihawk was ready.

"Put me under that spell again, and you had best be willing to forfeit sleep for the duration of your stay."

He swept away from the room.

After a moment, the girl poked her head out into the hallway, but was unable to see the older pirate. A frown briefly crossed her face as she stepped outside. She peered into Zoro's room and gazed outside, where the sky was heading on to late afternoon.

With a scowl, she tromped off down the hall in the opposite direction that she had seen Mihawk go. All the while, she muttered to herself about being a slave and nanny and prisoner. She complained about all sorts of things, but mostly she lamented her situation after Moirah's fall. It was not like she had chosen to become isolated here, though isolation seemed superior to the threats she received.

After clunking up the stairs, Perona looked through tall, grimy glass doors onto a balcony that she had passed before but never investigated. She opened the creaking door and stepped outside, the stone underneath her more stable than the weathered rock in the courtyard.

Despite her foul mood, she had to admit she liked the fresh, salty air. She leaned on the balcony's railing, her arms folded across it. For a while, she thought of nothing as she calmed. The sun worked its way towards the horizon to the sound of distant waves, broken up by the occasional screech of apes. A smile crossed the girl's face. This shichibukai was no god like some would think. He was just as susceptible to her ghosts as any other person. After all, Moriah had been, though Perona had never been foolish enough to repeat that mistake.

A thought came to mind, and her smile turned into a smirk. From her body slid a ghost, and through its eyes she looked at herself, like two mirrors reflecting into infinity. The girl closed her eyes—doing that with a ghost for too long gave her migraines.

Silently, the specter slipped off, passing mostly through the mortar of the castle. It was a trick she had picked up quickly after she gained her ability, and it served her well since. Every so often, the ghost poked an eye into whatever room or hall was close by. Once she had her bearing, Perona would return the ghost to the wall and carry on.

It was well into the night before Perona found what she was after—Mihawk's sleeping quarters. Somehow, the spartan nature of the room did not surprise her. With almost no effort she split the sentry ghost into four, hiding each one in the walls. Only once they were settled to her satisfaction did she open her eyes again. Though she was used to the double vision granted by the specters, it always took her a moment to come completely back to herself.

Perona stared up into the night sky, a slim smile on her face. Something about spying lit a fire in her, especially if she could get some juicy blackmail material out of it. Perhaps she would keep a ghost on Mihawk at all times. There was an idea she could get behind.

She turned and went back inside, and before long she had returned to her room. As she fell asleep, her senses blended completely with the ghosts watching the shichibukai. Though the night stretched long and Mihawk did not wake until morning, Perona knew patience would be key.

AN: No apologies, no regrets, no excuses. I hope you enjoyed, hopefully there will be another soon. Thanks again so much to my beta Wild Rhov for her diligent work :DD

EDIT: Peas and rice, there's over 100 people who've faved this thing, and nearly 150 following it! Thank you all very much!

As I Am,

Lady Spritzy

7/9/14