Miyo sat cross legged and eyes closed, desperate to reign in his thoughts, to obliterate them, to peer out with his minds eye and see nothing but dark, to quiet his racing heart. These the long dreadful hours before his pupils arrived, and thoughts of drink and despair again in the fore. Since his initial dumping of stock he had not faltered, there were some shakes, but these had subsided to those only natural to a man of his advanced age. Though this period of isolation was daily difficult, at night after a solid work out and an earnest bit of instructing Miyo could sleep soundly. It was here in the glory of the morning and brightness of the afternoon that he found himself contemplating the old friend and cure all. With a single jug, with that first fire falling to his belly he would flush, and everything would sort itself out for the next few hours. He would be jolly, he would be well. It was a difficult thing to resist. Meditation did not work. His best defense against himself was shame. The judgement that Sai would cast with his eyes, made so much the worse for the boy's pointed attempt to ignore the smell of Miyo's breath, the way Yabona would sense the tension in the room and begin to fidget and grow tense herself. There was nothing to it, he would wring his hands, draw deep breaths, and wait – this unease would pass.

The pair had been growing steadily, their movements more confidant. Miyo opened his eyes and smiled. He would treat them today. He stood up and went into his hall hands clasped behind his back and scrutinized the sword racks hung on the wall. He brushed a finger along the scabbard of the top most and frowned. Dust. Retrieving a rag he set to cleaning each, there were few now, a single rack of swords of second rate craftsmanship that would have long been pawned had they been of any real worth. The Yoshitaka family had once been avid collectors, while Miyo's father had denounced violence in his twilight years, he could not shake his love for the tool of his former trade. In the days when the school was lively this hallway had been decorated from end to end with swords of various various styles and lengths and hand guards, some baroque, some plain. These six left were all the plainest they could be. The cross guards a simple black circle free of adornment, the handles wrapped with unceremonious leather, the blades of inferior steel that had trouble keeping an edge, the scabbards plain wood. Miyo still treated them with care. He examined the blades which were mercifully free of rust, he tested the edges with his thumb and found them blunt, he flexed the tips to see how much give the metal had. Not much, they would break easily. Not suitable for a real fight, but fine enough to practice with. The weights were good, he found, extending the swords at arms length, going through the motions of cuts and guards. Satisfied with his initial assessment Miyo set to scouring his home for the necessities of maintenance.

The small room set aside for polishing and sharpening was in as much disrepair as the rest of the school, but there was still some small amount of materials left. On a shelf two old whetstones stood under a coat of dust, this Miyo removed and placed a basin, returning with a bucket of water from the well and filling said basin. In a long forgotten and hard sought trunk there were two vials of oil and some clean cloth. He brought these to the whetstones, collected, disassembled, and began a tender almost tearful care of his six remaining swords.

How very long had it been since he sat on this stool. The same stool his father would occupy at the conclusion of every day when he had been alive. As he ran the blades along the stone he could almost feel his Father correcting his posture, rough calloused hands on the back of his own hands, an approving pat on his back. When the third had been sharpened and polished he felt calm. As though his Father's spirit was finally appeased. He took his time. When the last sword had been reassembled and the grip tightened it was nearly time for the children to arrive.

He sat on his knees with his back held straight in the open space of the practice room. To his side he had placed a pair of the swords, both long and short. In front of him, where Sai and Yabona would sit presently, he placed similar pairs.

They were as exhausted as they always were of late, though each tried hard to hide it. This exhaustion all but melted, Miyo noticed with delight, when they saw the swords on the mats. He motioned for them to sit down.

“Gifts, for earnest students,” Miyo said, hardly able to conceal his own excitement.

Yabona set to hers eager, grabbing the longer sword and putting it on her lap she drew it carelessly, nicking her thumb in the process. She yelped, stuck the bloody thumb into her mouth.

“And we have already learned a lesson,” Miyo laughed. “You must treat them with respect.”

Sai looked at his own with reverence.

Miyo stood, began to instruct in the proper etiquette, how to stand, how to loop the swords through ones belt. He made them run the exercise until it was passable. Not enough to attend courts of old, but enough to impress an old man and set him reminiscing.

He ran them through the guards, as always, this time with real steel. Yabona's face was tight with concentration, she seemed properly fearful of the bite the edge had given her. Sai looked aged beyond his years, determined. Though his long hours of labour had sapped much of his energy. He was sluggish, his foot-work clumsier than it otherwise would have been.

When Miyo had first been informed of Sai's work, on that dreadful day in which both of his students were missing in the morning, he had been all but leaving to purchase a jug of wine. In the days since Miyo had tried to lessen the rigour of practice, but this irritated Sai. The boy said nothing, but Miyo could read it in the lines of the boys eyes. So it was business as usual, only now they concluded well after sun-down.

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After warming up he set them to the other surprise he had planned.

“Sit,” he motioned, and they complied, taking their swords from their belts and laying them gently to the side in an awkward motion that they could not help. The longer sword was nearly three quarters their height. Miyo went to the practice swords and gave one to each of his students.

Yabona looked confused, “But-” and she looked at her new swords.

Miyo shook his head. “I would like to see what you have learned, and I would rather have you alive at the end of it.”

Sai, from the look of him, understood at once. He practically vibrated with excitement.

“Stand,” Miyo said, and they did, bowing.

“You will spar. I would like you to remember that while you do not hold an edge, it would be wise to restrain yourself. Those can kill a man just as well as a proper sword.”

They took up position facing each other, mock drew their mock swords and bowed with their knees, holding the middle guard with their backs straight. The room felt taut. They did not move otherwise. Sai looked uncertain.

“Prudence is wise. But hesitation kills,” Miyo said.

They tentatively shuffled at each other. Yabona grinning, Sai worried.

“What is the matter?”

Sai looked at Miyo. “She is a girl. I do not want to hur-”

Before he could finish his sentence Yabona lunged. A quick powerful step and an overhead swing accompanied by a cry far more fierce than one would expect from a girl of her size. Her practice sword came down on Sai's unsuspecting head. She drew blood, where the skin split at his hairline. Her grin shrunk as her eyes widened and she had begun to step back when Sai's eyes flared. Fast he pressed her. Checking her with his shoulder, sending her stumbling onto her back. She grabbed hold of his arm on the way down and brought him with her. They both lost their swords. Descended into frantic wrestling that resembled two cats fighting.

“Enough!” Miyo barked and his voice was so full they stopped at once, Sai had his arms on the collar of Yabona's dress, she had been trying to push him off. “Do you intend to make a mockery of me?” He strode over, hauled Sai up by the back of his clothes, got into the boys face which was stuck in a snarl. “If you want a brawl you can have it outside!” He turned to Yabona who was still lying down. “Sit, and reflect!”

Miyo turned his back, stomped off, trying to quell his own sudden anger. It was directed at himself. It was an eddy of old and familiar thoughts, elements in his blood that had went to rest and were now stirred to life. He couldn't do it, he couldn't instruct, he was wrong, he was blind, he should have foresaw, he should have chased them away. It took him a moment to collect himself, when he turned back they were sitting sheepishly, pointedly avoiding each others gaze.

He let them sit a moment more in silence.

“You did well to exploit Sai's inattention,” he spoke slowly, “in battle there is no action underhanded.” He directed this at Yabona, who perked up. “But this is not battle.” She deflated. “You,” he turned to Sai, “made the mistake of underestimating your opponent. Were this battle, your head would be split in two. We are lucky it was not.” Sai looked at the ground, twitched as though to wipe away the trickle of blood, but remained motionless. When under instruction a pupil must remain still, attentive.

“Reflect,” Miyo said and he left the room. He returned a moment later with a cloth and standing over Sai handed this down. He examined the boys wound, peered in his eyes. It wasn't serious, he would be fine, young people heal well. Sai cleaned up his blood. Miyo sat down.

“I didn't mean to hit so hard,” Yabona blurted, extending her body upward as she spoke. “But he made fun of me. I thought I could get him, but not...” She wheeled on the floor to face Sai, pressed her forehead into the floor. “I'm sorry!” She repeated the gesture to Miyo.

“And, what do you have to say, Sai?” Miyo asked.

Sai looked down a moment, and then at Yabona. His words came slow and deliberate. “It was a good strike.”

Miyo laughed. “It was, and now it will go straight to her head. Are we prepared to try again?”

They bowed. They sparred, respectful, pulling their strikes at the last second, trying to dance around each others guard. By the end they were both covered in a sheen of sweat, though the physical element of the exercise was subdued by the care they showed each other, concentrating so resolute on the feet of their opponent, the tip of their blade, the flicker of each others eyes took a toll.

It was four to six, in favour of Yabona by the end. Sai followed instruction too well, he was constantly trying to cut just as shown, to hold himself just as instructed. Yabona exploited any and all openings she thought she saw, three of the four 'fatal' wounds she had received Sai had set up by creating the impression of an imperfect guard, this was obvious to Miyo, with his trained eye. The boys calculated lax posture all but screamed I'm trying to trick you but Yabona fell for it three times in a row. Her fourth loss was simply luck of the draw, Sai was a fraction quicker, and cut her wrist as she swept for his leg. For Sai's wounds and mistakes, he was easily flustered if Yabona came at him in any unexpected fashion, and this was nearly all she did, her feet were never where they were supposed to be, her sword wavered and fluctuated through the guards often between the final form Miyo had taught. They fought naturally and from opposite poles. It had been a delight to watch. To make Sai understand initiative and creativity, and to make Yabona understand control and forethought, would be to make a pair of extraordinary fighters. Potential displayed so raw and apparent, the nurturing of such life's grand purpose - it was evident, stark, blinding when viewed from so close. Forget the drink, the shame of wealth and fame squandered. This is what made life a pleasure. How could he have ever forgotten?

Miyo's heart fluttered with every bout. Cheering silently for each. Feeling the sting of defeat for each, the flush of their triumphs.