The Crane's Flight

"Please have some tea with me."

Shoukaku glanced at Mikasa, seeing her standing by the doorstep of her room. She recognized the aroma wafting from the kettle she was bringing along—her personal brew that she would only prepare when she wanted to discuss personal or important matters with someone. It had never failed to soothe even the most nervous or scared, to get them to lay bare all their feelings.

She immediately knew there was no way she could avoid talking about it to Mikasa any longer.

That she wanted to leave. 

She had yet to reveal that she would go with him to wherever he would take her. That she wanted to fulfill a promise to Zuikaku. She had not even told her of him.

Mikasa had always been understanding. She had given her time to rethink, saying it wouldn't be an easy decision to make.

Perhaps she also needed the time to process that her protégé was going away to where she could not reach out to them. Protect them.

Now that she had taken the initiative to make her tea, Mikasa was already expecting her answer and to give hers—the latter Shoukaku dreaded the most.

"Yes, I would like to, dai-senpai," she sighed, hoping Mikasa wouldn't notice and allow her in.

It was already dark outside when they sat facing each other at Shoukaku's table. 

Mikasa took only a sip before putting her cup down.

"About your decision...would you tell me where you intend to go? Is it far?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She had yet to learn where his hometown would be. She figured it would be far from the Imperial Capital, though.

"I see," she nodded. "More importantly, though...were you aware of what you may face out there?"

Shoukaku knew; what happened before that reunion was a grim reminder—of the prejudice and loath against their kind.

Mikasa would know, too; otherwise, she wouldn't ask.

"Yes," she whispered, "but I still want to go. I...I have promised Zuikaku. There's someone...I have to protect."

Her mentor closed her eyes and inhaled.

"A promise to the departed weighs a lot, indeed. If you're determined—you've always been stubborn—I won't stop you."

Mikasa took a long pause before she opened her eyes again, her gaze boring into Shoukaku.

"However, as someone who has known the ways of the world longer than you, let me tell you this: it won't be an easy journey if you decide to live among humans."

Shoukaku was aware of that, too—yet the sincerity behind Mikasa's voice, the seriousness in her face, made her feel even more anxious.

"They will be wary of you and your intentions, afraid of what they could not comprehend. Many will appear before you with a smile and a knife behind their backs."

She paused, and the thumping within Shoukaku grew even more restless.

"Many will hate you for no reason and many reasons."

Mikasa took Shoukaku's hand into hers, squeezing it lightly.

"Were you aware of all this, Shoukaku?"

Shoukaku had to admit she had not thought that far, and the realization made her feel worse.

"Yes," she nodded. "It's...a scary thing."

"Do you still want to go, knowing this?"

Shoukaku found herself struggling for words. She did not expect Mikasa to ask her that, despite everything she had told her so far. She had been so supportive, so understanding, so caring, as she always had been, that she was sure her mentor would just give her another gentle piece of advice.

But she had no intention to change her mind, anyway.

She was prepared for anything as long as he was there.

Her eyes met Mikasa's, and she knew.

It was her own last trial.

"Yes, I want to."

A soft, warm, understanding smile broke out on her mentor's lips.

"Now I know how Houshou must've felt when I took you two under my wings. But just like her, I'm not going to stop you. Just promise me two things."

She raised her index finger.

"One, promise me that even if the world hates you, you will not hate it back, and two, never let that lead you astray from the most important thing—finding your own happiness."

Her smile widened, and an overwhelming warmth enveloped Shoukaku's heart.

"Hold on to those, and you'll be alright."

Shoukaku could barely stop her tears, and she had to avert her eyes to prevent them from falling.

"Thank you, dai-senpai," she managed between sobs. "I promise."

Mikasa rose to her feet and went around the table to embrace Shoukaku from behind and plant a kiss on top of her head.

"I will always remember you, child, and wish you all the best," she said. "Go and take flight once more to wherever your heart believes in."

"Mhm," she replied, nodding as she tried her best not to bawl, eventually failing, and she let everything out.

She could only imagine how hard it was for her mentor, too, to part with someone she cared about and to send them out to the unknown, but she still encouraged her and supported her, just like during the war that was.

She had not been her teacher for nothing.

Perhaps she had been a mother all along, too.

***

In the following days, Shoukaku had packed what little she had into her bag; mulling whether to take her old sword along took longer than it should. She ended up deciding to bring it with her but did not intend to keep it for long. Maybe she could pawn that accursed thing somewhere. She hoped Ohtori wouldn't find it off-putting.

There was nothing else left. She only needed to wait. Mikasa had pulled some strings to allow her to leave without scrutiny from the Americans. She wasn't sure how long the process would take, though.

Apparently, she didn't need to wait much longer.

"You can go," Mikasa appeared by her door, leaning on the threshold, "...the arrangements are done. You should hurry if you don't want the Americans to change their minds." 

"Right," she nodded. "Dai-senpai, thank you very much. I won't ever forget you."

And with that, she bowed and stayed that way for a long time.

"Don't bow to an old lady like me," she laughed, flippant. "Don't bow to adversity, either."

"And chin up, chest out, look straight, and walk tall," Shoukaku laughed along; her chest felt lighter. "I could never forget your words when I and Zuikaku were commissioned, and we were so nervous."

"Aaah, that. Feels like yesterday, huh. If only..." Mikasa laughed after a momentary surprise, but her features soon became solemn. There was an emotion in her distant gaze that Shoukaku couldn't pinpoint, but before she could mull over it, Mikasa was already smiling again.

"...No, there's no use thinking about the past. Let's go now, Shoukaku...don't dilly-dally."

"Understood."

Mikasa accompanied her to the gate—she was the only one sending her off. Shoukaku had not told the others about her plan, and she could only hope they would find it in their hearts to forgive her when they eventually found out.

"This is goodbye, Shoukaku."

"Goodbye, dai-senpai."

"Good luck."

They shared one last embrace, a lingering one before Mikasa eventually pulled back.

"Go," she whispered. "You have a long way to go."

"Mhm...thank you, dai-senpai."

Mikasa nodded but said nothing. She turned around and walked away.

Her shoulders and arms were quaking.

But Mikasa pressed on, her pace not faltering. She didn't look back, and Shoukaku understood.

That was her last lesson.

Don't look back.

And Shoukaku didn't.

***

Ohtori didn't say much when she arrived at his rented room.

"Listen," he tucked the last of his belongings into a bag, "I'm not going to sugarcoat this, but I can't promise you things won't get difficult from now on."

Shoukaku knew. Mikasa told her that it won't be easy.

He paused and looked at her, and he was smiling. It wasn't reassurance nor was it pity.

"But you came here knowing all that, and you stayed. I...couldn't thank you enough."

She smiled back. Ohtori did not question her decision, and he didn't make her second guess it either.

Acceptance had always been his way of being, ever since they first met in Hashira the distant seasons ago. He had accepted her and Zuikaku for what they were, and at that moment the distance between their worlds mattered little, if at all.

Even today.

It felt like their younger days as children wondering about their place in the turbulent world. Even she and Zuikaku, knowing full well their shared destiny as the Empire's KANSENs, wondered sometimes. He understood them. They understood him.

And now it was no different, save for the absence of their dearest. And perhaps they understood each other better because of it.

"You're welcome, Ohtori."

He nodded and zipped his bag shut. Only now did Shoukaku notice how small it was. How little he had left.

And she didn't have much either. But it didn't feel like they were lacking and needy. He never looked healthier than now.

She never felt braver than now.

They had more than enough, and she felt fine. She would like to think that he felt the same.

The sun was already beginning to set when Ohtori slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the door with the ease of someone who had made up his mind.

He didn't tell her it was time to go. He believed in her.

She stood and followed.

Never once did they look back until the inn and the surrounding buildings were nothing but faded outlines on the horizon.

***

"...Wait."

Shoukaku paused as he spoke. They were near a temple—abandoned, nearly crumbling, bereft of its divine spirit. Either the war or neglect had taken its toll on the structure.

But nestled under and between the trees, the moss-covered Jizo statues continued to watch over the departed children and the weary travelers, even if some of them had been toppled.

"What are you going to do?" Shoukaku inquired. He didn't seem to be the kind of person to pray. But perhaps what he had gone through had changed that.

Ohtori went to the fallen ones and began righting them.

No more needed to be said. Shoukaku joined him and offered a helping hand. They knelt and gathered stones and piled them up into towers.

For the fallen children, for innocence taken too soon, too cruelly.

For the travelers looking for a home, for the weary, and for those who had lost theirs.

For themselves.

As she did, Shoukaku thought of Akagi. Despite knowing it was her who brought about the conflict that stole Zuikaku away, Shoukaku felt she could understand her better now. She could see the sorrowful, scared woman pining for her lost sister behind the warmongering, the madness. She could forgive her.

And she piled another one, just for her.

***

The dusk had settled by the time they reached Nihonbashi. The indigo-hued sky was as clear as the river below, its surface mirroring the specks of light above. The winter mists had disappeared, replaced by a breeze, warm and subtly fragrant.

The people and the vehicles passed by them in a blur, but Shoukaku felt nothing. No regret, no longing, not even fear.

Ohtori paused again to gaze at the water flowing under the structure, serene and untroubled. He was solemn but not morose as his eyes roved back and forth.

"Wouldn't it be nice if there's a shooting star?" He sighed.

"You want to make a wish? Don't tell you believe in that sort of thing?" She raised an eyebrow, not really surprised.

"I might as well be, now," he laughed. "You should have one, with or without a shooting star. It feels nice to have something to look forward to."

Shoukaku had only ever made one wish. She only wanted to be wise. She thought it had never come to pass, and she remained a fool.

"I don't know," she shook her head. "...I just...don't feel like making one anymore. I don't know what to say."

"Well...It's not like I know myself. But it's never too late to go looking. Whether you don't know or simply forgotten, now you can start searching."

His eyes had met her just as Shoukaku felt something stirring within her. A desire to seek and find out—was there a wish she had forgotten out there, or none to begin with?

How fitting that she found that conviction in Nihonbashi. The crossroad of beginnings.

And she knew she wouldn't be searching alone.

"Why don't we?"

She felt the pulsing of his hand as she held it.

He was trembling.

He was smiling.

He was crying.

She was crying.

The tears were like comets that left a faint, gentle arc on the sides of his face, glimmering under the streetlights.

Perhaps hers were like that, too.

"Ah...why...am I crying...strange..." He murmured but didn't try to stop the waterworks.

Neither did she.

"Me, too. I don't know why."

Yet they could still laugh about it.

The longer she did, the lighter she felt.

The tighter his hold on her became, the braver she felt.

When the tears had run dry, she felt as if she could fly away.

She would like to believe he was feeling the same.

After all, they were both birds. Broken birds—but not crippled. No longer caged.

"Let's go, Shoukaku," he finally said. "We have a long journey ahead."

"Yes."

As they began walking away, the last lights of the city faded behind their backs.

***

Shoukaku spread her arms as wide as she could, thinking how freeing it was to be like a crane spreading its wings after so long. It was easy. Too easy.

That drew a chuckle from Ohtori.

"Haven't seen you do that in a long time, Shoukaku."

Shoukaku remembered. She and Zuikaku used to do it, as they left him behind. He would always give chase.

"It is, isn't it?" She smiled, a little flustered. "But now you don't need to chase after me anymore."

And she meant it.

None of them will get left behind anymore.

She had promised, after all.

The road before them stretched out, seemingly endless. The road to somewhere, or maybe nowhere.

Whatever it would be, she knew something would start from here.

But only if they walked it.

And whatever would happen, he would be there.

Just as she would be.