Miyo felt as low as he ever had.

Koji had come as if risen from the dead, a long gone ghost and on his back rode the familiar shame, and with it the last six years eroded. The facade of a life worth living dissolved, let slew the held back current of a vicious self loathing.

So the world was ending. It was hardly a concern.

The fire was reduced to a smouldering bed, the hovel smelled of rich earth and smoke. The sun had just gone down. He sat looking into the red coals. It was unpleasant, these thoughts, this familiar looping, this compounding shame. There were nights, these last five years, in which he sat terrified and alert, desperately wishing for a drink, for a moments reprieve of the myriad and constant dangers – from the gnawing feeling, the surety that one day he would fail Sai and Yabona, that he would wake up to find them gone or mutilated, that they would starve in some desolate wood, like so many others. That a brigand would get the better of him, leave him crippled or dead. That he would fail. Sure he would fail. But no nights quite like this last month.

That man had come and robbed him of everything, again.

It was a day like any other of late. The chaos had subsided, six months in this idyll of a village so full of welcoming people, everyone striving to support each other – it was an ocean of calm, here . There were no strangers, everyone was welcome. They had come down from the hill to help with the construction of another home, it could hardly put a dent into the problem of unhoused refugees, but the villagers thought it no less than proper to try. There had been rumours of a government still refusing to capitulate, that the capital once in Shiga, then in Taito, then somewhere else that fell just as surely as the other two, moved into a derelict castle nearby, but they were unsubstantiated. Until now.

He was at the head of an honour guard of no more than a dozen men, the lacquer on their black breast plates had flaked here and there, there were gouges and dents in their helms, scars on their faces.

He was older than Miyo remembered, of course he would be, there was grey in his long hair, a streak of it above the left eye. His robes were unpretentious though of superior make, five years ago they would have been a calculated understatement, now they screamed of luxury. He had those deadly swords at his side. From him a pulsing dread hit Miyo in synchronized waves. He called him self Crown General, he came to promise victory, to demand fealty. He surveyed the crowd.

Another cold choking pulse. Time slowed.

They all bowed, all around Miyo everyone bowed. Of course they did, of course they did, they had no choice. Neither had he. He never had a choice.

Another pulse with accompanying blood loud his his ears, Miyo was sweating, Koji. He was here, naturally he would survive.

They locked eyes. Koji's were grey and piercing. There was the sensation of a shamisen tuning peg turning, tighter, beyond reason. It would snap.

There was no recognition in Koji's eyes. Nothing.

Miyo bowed.

Koji hadn't remembered him. Why would he remember a gnat plucked from his bedding and crushed between his nails? So many years of his life spent mourning himself for discarding his spine, for offering it up to Koji Katori, sword-saint, now Crown General – Emperor in all but name. And he wasn't even remembered. So be it, how could it be any other way. Miyo raised an imaginary cup, he allowed himself this gesture. The pair had left four days ago, and he was the better for it. When they were around his loathing was reinforced by their looks, made him all the more conscious of his failure, of his attitude. His face contorted into a scowl, he threw his imaginary cup, saw the imaginary result on the rough hewn wall of untreated, unplanned wood.

The wall too, he thought, was false. He had cut those logs, and he put them up right and stuffed the gaps with moss, and his pupils had helped him, and were he to stand up and run his hands along them they would feel solid and coarse. But they were false, as was this valley, as was the village. Everyone who thought otherwise was deluding themselves, all was ruin. Why the pretense? Why the charade?

He sucked on his gums. He stared at the wall. Thought he should do better, of course he should do better.

For them.

Still, he got them here, in one piece, and full grown. Strong, both of them. They were as secure as could be, there was no safer place left.

Time had little meaning for him, but some had certainly past while in his stupor.

“I must ask again,” Sai in a whisper, outside. Hardly perceived.

“We won't talk about it, hush,” Yabona's voice.

His stomach curdled, his limbs felt numb, he felt an especial spike of self hatred. Berated himself for having let the fire go out, for sitting here in the dark, for inevitably not knowing what words to use to explain his situation, what to say or do to suddenly free himself, to dig out of this rut. Knowing that he would continue to sit here on the straw mat glum, speech gone clear out of him.

They came inside.

The quality of the air changed, became more dense. They didn't say anything, Yabona set to building up the fire. There were still some embers buried under the white ash, and she had it glowing quickly. In the light Miyo could see how haggard they were under that armour he had initially protested to the looting of. A year ago they came across a band of slaughtered soldiers, stragglers returning from another failed campaign. Miyo could scarcely imagine the torment they had gone through, only to die mere miles from safety. He allowed them to take the suits, they had made good arguments. The world was now a dangerous place.

“Have you eaten?” Yabona asked, and she was stripping off her armour, tossing it into a corner of the small home without any special care. Sai had turned around, he was peering out the door into the dark.

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“I... have not,” Miyo said. He considered lying, but she would have known the truth anyway. He had hardly touched the small cache of food they had left behind. He sighed deeply. He had not even protested their departure, not that first time when they had lied about their destination, and not the two others after that, when they were open about their foolish notion of monster hunting. They could have died. They might have never returned; he felt even worse. He hadn't thought about them much at all. Of a sudden he found himself ready to cry. He had to look away.

“I'll put something on, we did good. We have plenty to eat,” Yabona said with strenuous cheer, and she was heading outside, where she would go to the little creek and draw some water. It was at some distance from their home, she would be some time in coming back. Mercifully she did not comment on the wetness of Miyo's rheumy eyes. She squeezed past Sai in the doorway.

“I have brought you something,” Sai said, and he was still looking outside, resting against the door frame with his forearm. His back sagged. Miyo said nothing, and at length Sai turned around, he came and sat next to Miyo. There was a jug of wine wrapped around his belt. He took off his helmet, his cuirass. When he finished, he took a long pull from the jug and nearly spit it out.

“You enjoy this?” He asked flabbergasted.

Miyo cracked a smile, he could not but help himself.

“I did, you learn to like it. It takes some time.”

Sai held out the jug.

And there was a quiet war.

Miyo took a sip.

He made a sour face, unsure if this was a poor and potent vintage, or if he had simply lost his tongue. The burn was familiar, good, warm. He took another, passed it back. They drank the bottle quickly, in silence. By the end Miyo felt that familiar flush. Sai's cheeks were red and puffed, a fammiliar expression. Miyo wore it often in the past, the look of a man fighting the urge to vomit.

“It is awful,” Sai said.

Miyo laughed. He had not laughed in a long while, Sai smiled at this in his own way, that little upturn of the corner of his lips.

“I agree,” Miyo said. “It is.”

“Would you like another jug?”

“One is enough, I think. One is enough.”

“Good,” Sai said and nodded his head definitively, he turned and he was openly grinning, he went to say something, and stopped.

“You mean to say something else?” Miyo asked, astounded. The amount of times he had seen Sai smile like this he could count on one hand. The boy was drunk, there was no doubt. It was potent drink, and they had drained the bottle with speed.

“I do. A few things.”

“Then, out with it!” Miyo was drunk too. He could feel that old vibrancy resplendent in his blood, the feeling that had so carried him through a decade. He had assumed his old Master's voice, but it was in jest.

“You truly do not wish for another,” Sai said, and he hung the jug from his finger.

“I do not,” he lied. He told a half truth. He did and he did not.

“That means you are strong.”

Miyo arched his eyebrow.

“It ruled you, did it not?”

A pause, warm orange light glowing on their faces in their humble hovel.

“It did.”

“Then that means you are strong, if you can say no, and so you must stop acting so weak. You will tell me why you are behaving like this. You are forbidden from saying nothing.”

How he had grown. He was a boy no longer. Miyo rubbed at his chin, he felt so good, so warm, so foolish. This was the power of the drink, it really could fix anything, anything at all. Maybe another jug would be wonderful, and if two, why not three? Why not seventeen? No, no, no. Temperance, that was the byword. One will be enough. After a time of silence he told the story, about his non-history with the Crown General, about his decline. It sounded so incredibly juvenile, doubly so without the appropriate emotional context, which Miyo left free of his story. Without the constant sawing of insecurity on the supporting beam of his soul. That eternal yes but no. Was he a good swordsman, a good teacher, a good man? Or had he always been a cretin? He could not decide, not definitively.

“Mm,” Sai grunted. He had his arms crossed, he nodded sagely. “You walked away from a fight, and it haunts you still.”

“That is about the crux of it, yes. My astute pupil. Nothing gets by you, you sit there so quiet, but you're watching everything, aren't you?”

“I see enough. So, you will stop this sulking?”

It hurt to hear.

“And you will stop being so clever.”

“I am not clever. Master, I have made a mistake. It will cost us all.”

Still tipsy, Sai suddenly fell maudlin. There was triumph, joy transparent on his face once Miyo had opened up, commiserate solemnity when he discovered the whole of the story. Now he looked on the verge of tears.

“What have you done?” Miyo asked, and his voice was gentle, it was without accusation.

“I took the hand of a bonded warrior. One of Koji's.”

Miyo let out a long breath. This would cost them all, perhaps their lives, perhaps they should flee? But where to? The oceans roiled, the land was dead or dying everywhere but these few verdant valleys. There was no place to go that Koji could not reach. Miyo unconsciously looked towards his swords, propped up against the wall, they had been untouched for some time now. They would likely be needed soon.

“And why did you do this?” There was still no hint of accusation. If he had been of sound mind, he would have been furious, but his shame kept him sympathetic. He felt he had no right to criticize. Come what may, he would stand by his pupil, by the boy that had become a man in the blink of an eye, by the person he all but considered his son.

“He attempted to press me into service. I refused. So he tried to confiscate my swords, the swords you gave me. I saw white.”

Miyo groaned as he stood up, he made a big show of it. He grabbed his swords, unsheathed the long blade, examined the edge. Nodded, re sheathed it. Did the same for the short.

“It is good we did not have more wine after all. We will need our wits in the morning, I think. If not so soon, then soon enough.”

Sai, with his hard jaw and tanned workman skin and beard, with his thick forearms huddled across his chest in a stern, though protective grip, still somehow looked for all the world a puppy that had made a mess on the floor. One who needed to know he was still wanted.

Miyo came back to him, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I am with you, my pupil,” he said earnestly. And then with a sigh and not entirely false exasperation, “no matter the mess you make for us.”

Sai smiled.

The door clattered open.

“Ahhh,” Yabona cried. She dropped the bucket of water she had been carrying, it splashed on the pounded dirt floor.

She ran over to the empty wine jug, she had it upturned.

“You couldn't save a drop? I wanted to try some.”

She saw the tender and grim look on Miyo and Sai.

“You told him? After giving me so much grief about it? You went and told him, and then you drank all the wine.”

Sai grinned sheepishly.

“We have been rude, I hardly considered. Here let me,” Miyo said, and he grabbed the water and added it to the pot to set to boil. He would have to tell Yabona as well, but one such confessional was enough for the night. There would be time tomorrow. If a troop did not arrive to decapitate them all.

At least this night would be pleasant.