Honor is not in the weapon; it's in the man. Who: Auron and OPEN Where: The small dojo he uses as a classroom When: After classes are done for the day Warnings: tbd but probably none
Those people who thought that Auron was emotionless, that he was a brick wall masquerading as a human being and instructor, clearly didn't know him well enough. True, he didn't give a damn about Mognet, thought the whole concept of it was absurd, and that the idea of posting anonymous messages was asinine and childish. But then again, Garden was full of teenaged cadets with too much time on their hands, so that was going to end badly sooner or later. Auron wasn't about to put up with any of that in his classes, and the first person who even so much as said the word "Mognet" had been stunned into silence with a single glare. If the Commander said Edea Kramer was welcome to stay, that was the end of it. Auron trusted Squall's judgement.
But then, right on its heels, was a new wave of Cultivator propaganda. Oh, Auron was familiar with the Cultivators. The idea of dismantling Garden, that violence only begets more violence, was insane. As a military man, he was all for the structure that Garden provided, and while a SeeDs skills were available for the highest bidder, sometimes you needed the upper hand. He couldn't believe in a world full of peace, love, and happiness for all. It wasn't right. It wasn't logical. Sometimes you needed to be able to fight, to stand up for those around you, when taking the upper hand meant raising your weapon and charging into battle. These thoughts kept looping through his mind, over and over, distracting him from more pressing matters at hand.
To top it off, he wondered what Durren would have to say about it all. It made him miss his best friend more than he'd thought possible, and he'd thought about that a lot in the last ten years.
So, with classes finished and the dojo empty, Auron didn't head back to his room just yet. Instead he wen through his own personal routine, a mixture of yoga poses and martial arts forms he'd perfected from childhood. It gave him something else to focus on than his rambling thoughts. He ended with mediation, as always, sitting in the middle of the empty dojo, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on his knees. All that mattered was the rise and fall of his breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. His one good eye had drifted closed, leaving him blind to the world around him, but more in tune with the rest of his body than he'd felt all day. He needed this.