A/N : Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait, this took a little longer to write because university started up and my own Dojo practices too :p so I've been a little busy! Also I may or may not have had writer's block on this chapter pfft.
In one of the reviews I got a comment saying my dialogue punctuation was off, so I have edited the previous chapters and now everything should hopefully be okay! Sorry for that, my bilingual brain can mix up grammar rules oops.
Thank you so much for everyone who reads, reviews, favorites, etc. It makes me so happy to know you are enjoying this, as always.
The long thin bokken lacerates the frozen air for the hundredth time, leaving invisible tears in the faint, morning breeze. The two hands powerfully grasping its hilt are red from the cold, but do not seem to give in to any eventual fatigue or to the icy draft of winter. They are steady and strong, stable and balanced, and without a single tremble, they hold on to the wood with a rare completion. Each stroke is controlled and identical, the previous one mirroring the next in a quietening and reverberating repetition.
And with each blow comes a heartening cry, a loud shout breathed out by the diaphragm, the release of pent up energy seeking an understanding, the echo of an inner emptiness spreading through the snowy garden.
Feet are firmly planted on the wooden floor of the outside deck, gliding slowly across the flat surface, slithering softly with each movement of the legs and sway of the pelvis. Every step is precise and composed, leaving an indiscernible trail, marking an intangible trajectory as soles go back and forth on the dark timber.
She is a blurred spot of black ink on a blank manuscript, a flying raven across a snow-white field. Her dark hair streams around her perfectly shaped chin, a few strands falling in her concentrated and stern eyes, flowing along each and every move she makes. Her thick black budo kimono moulds her solid shoulders and bust, and cascades down her waist to her feet like waves crashing against a cliff. She slides through the wind like the last leaf of a dying tree.
She has been working on the same movement for an hour now, as if this obsessive reiteration would be the key to some success, an inward strive for self-perfection.
On and on, she brings the long weapon above her head, taking in a deep breath as she stares at the void before her. On and on, she brings it down with a fluid and relaxed motion, emptying her lungs, balancing the wood between her hands and handling the weight of the sword with thin and expert fingers.
She is grateful for the silence surrounding her, pleased by her unfaltering concentration, and yet, there is a quiver hidden inside each of her blows, a hesitation in her breathing, a sting inside of her heart disengaging her mind.
Before Him, she had strived on survival mechanism and inborn reflexes. When faced with a threat, she responded accordingly, trying to not overthink situations. She had been and still was far from perfection, struggling every day to become stronger but she had never asked herself if whether or not her mind was free, she had never taken the time to examine her own inner conflicts. Why bother? They were all living on borrowed time, and her superiority was a given; she was a powerful soldier, an excellent warrior. Humanity needed her strength, and she needed to be better, greater and tougher. For them.
She lets her arms rise, the wooden sword floating in the air before diving down through space. She starts to feel the muscles in her neck and in her back disagree every time she replicates the blow. But she continues, refusing to acknowledge her exhaustion.
He would not approve. Call her obstinate again, force her to take a break, and when she would not listen, wrestle for her weapon, order her to sit down. The single thought of him manages to destabilize her hit and she feels a disruption in her wrists, contempt spreading from her heart to each one of her extremities. She weakens for a second; Her blow vacillates a little too much to the right. She clenches her jaw and automatically takes a deep breath, trying to empty her mind. But this too, brings another thought of him, and she can hear him whisper to her "clear your head".
Before Him, every one of her reactions in conflicts had been primitive. When she was pulled, her natural response was to pull back. When she was pushed, she pushed back. Yet the moment he had entered her life, the moment their hands had touched, their bodies joined in every day practice, things had started to change. Awareness of herself and of her surroundings had emerged, and through him, she had seen her own abyss. Slowly, gradually, timidly, they both had looked inside of each other, revealed themselves for who they truly were: a mystery, an enigmatic knot of anger, an unspoken need to be someone.
Things had changed indeed. When he pulled, she let herself be pulled, and when she pushed, he let himself be pushed. And through this shared acceptance, they had started to have a taste of what peace could possibly feel like. And yet.
She shifts her weight, changing the side she has been training on: she puts her left foot in front and her right one behind in a parallel line, slightly rotating it for balance. Once more, she raises the bokken above her head, readying herself for another series of blows. But her attack is interrupted by an unexpected voice calling her name.
"Mikasa!"
She drops her arms and turns on her feet gracefully, the tip of the bokken in her right hand gently scrapping the hard floor. She recognizes her childhood friend making his way towards her through the snow, wrapped in a green cloak, his hood up. She waits for him to be closer to greet him.
"Armin."
The young boy looks up at her from the snowed ground. His nose and cheeks are slightly pink, and his blond hair mingles through the wind. Mikasa suddenly realizes how cold it really is, the wind having risen since she has started her practice.
"What are you doing out here?!" he asks her, pushing away a strand of hair out of his eyes.
"I'm practicing." The young girl replies simply, a slight perplexed frown forming on her face.
"It's freezing out here!" He exclaims, taking another step towards her "Is this part of the Corporal's training?"
She lowers her dark eyes and glances at her wooden sword before answering in a whisper, "No."
"Where is he?" Armin inquires, looking around him incredulously. When he doesn't see their commanding officer, he looks back at his friend who is silently gazing in the distance. He doesn't need her to answer for him to understand.
"We have stopped training together." Mikasa finally replies, settling her eyes back on her friend.
The two look at each other for a moment, Armin considering her, seeing in her eyes something amiss, a desolation greater than usual. He walks up to the wooden deck and pulls himself up to the edge into a sitting position, his feet dangling in the air. Mikasa shuffles behind him and he feels her drop lightly next to him. They huddle together for warmth, their arms against each other and hands respectively clasped and hidden inside the folds of their clothing. A quiet moment passes as they both admire the white gardens gleaming under the morning sunlight, listening to the wind quietly whistling in their ears, gently caressing their faces and faintly stirring the bare branches of the sleeping cherry trees.
"Where is Eren?" the young girl asks pensively, her voice soft and melodious.
"He was still sleeping when I left our bedroom." Armin answers, glancing back at his friend. She looks tired, he thinks to himself, the shadows under her eyes are opaque; tired lines mark her elegant face.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?" he finally says after a few seconds of pondering.
Mikasa softly breathes out, her eyes still scouting the gardens.
"It's nothing," she sighs, lightly shaking her head, "Just a disagreement. It's nothing."
"Did you talk about it with him?"
Mikasa's silence says it all, and the young boy lets out an amused yet weary chuckle. His friend looks back at him and their eyes meet.
"You two are so similar it's almost painful to watch."
Mikasa scoffs and her eyes dart back to the robin she has been watching perched on the tree a few feet away from the deck, before replying resentfully "We're nothing alike."
Armin sighs and his eyes drop to his hands, agitatedly folding and unfolding the creases of his cloak.
"I've seen him stare at you, you know," he finally decides to say, "When you are not looking." He raises his eyes back to his friend, "Just like I've seen you do the same."
A faint blush creeps up on Mikasa's cheeks as she lowers her eyes to the ground, slightly biting her lower lip.
"Look," he continues, raising a palm towards her, "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. It just seems to me that whatever is going on between you two; you should probably sort it out before somebody gets hurt. And I'm not talking about one of you. It could endanger any mission we are on."
The dark haired girl exhales, running a hand through her short hair. She lies down on the deck, her back against the hard wood.
"I know." She whispers, gazing at the sky that has started to be veiled by grey clouds.
Armin glances back at her and lies down on the deck with her. They both rest there as snow starts falling from the drab sky, snowflakes gently flying around the air and landing all around them, or instantly melting against their skin. Winter once again makes its presence known with a tender gust of freezing wind, a glacial kiss upon their faces. But despite the cold, despite the callous air, there is something peaceful that has settled between the two friends, an understanding and comforting presence given from the young boy to his friend and comrade. Silence seems to help heal her burning heart.
They hear far away and hurried footsteps through the thick snow, and the two look at each other knowingly, both recognizing their friend's determined stride, a walk they could pick out of a million ones. Soon enough, they hear his voice shouting to them.
"Armin! Mikasa!" he seems a little out of breath, his voice still a little raspy probably from having just woken up, "I was looking everywhere for you!"
Eren walks up to the deck, setting his two hands on the wet wood and dubiously looks over at his two friends.
"Did I miss something?"
"The Corporal's been at it again" Armin responds as the dark haired boy hauls himself up on the deck and lies down next to Mikasa. He groans at the mere mention of their superior.
The three of them remain on the deck silently, watching the clouds pass before their eyes and the snow fall from the grey heavens. A sudden serenity submerges Mikasa as she feels her two friends, her family, clustered around her. Their warmth is reassuring, familiar, reminding her of when they would lie in the grass as kids and she would listen to them dreaming of better places, of far away lands outside of the walls. Time had passed ever since, and yet she still feels safe when they are close, as if a bit of home was concealed deep inside of them, enclosing her whenever they simply were around.
The light of the rising sun starts to illuminate everything; rays peeking around the trees behind them. A soft, yellow glow brightens up the small gardens, the white coat of winter cloaking the sleeping wildlife. And just as she knows the flowers will bloom once again, she understands the antics of her devoted heart and the energy that flows inside of it. Once more, she understands Levi's words when he would talk to her about awareness and peace of mind. As frustrating as she finds him, she can't help but admit how he has helped her see another way, perhaps a better one too; His own struggle for harmony becoming her own.
The sun rises, but things are still unclear. And as she bathes in the tranquillity of her friends' warmth, her thoughts linger once more on the man haunting her heart and mind, the cheerful song of the perched robin a balm to her soul.