I'm not even sure if this qualifies as a teaser, but I wanted to give you *something* after this long wait.  Again ~ a million apologies for the dry period, but Life intruded, and I'm so sorry to have let you down.  As soon as I can, I will continue the story.  I cannot even begin to express the gratitude I feel at your patience and loyalty.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  You are all my inspiration.  Mikomi.

Chapter 3 ~ Adjusted Relationships

            They both recovered, eventually.  But though their bodies healed, neither was quite the same again.  Yet life, work, friends, family continue even in the absence of love, and the world spins on even without its previously brilliant colors.  So they hid their despair in the depths of their hearts and went back to the mundane routines of everyday life.

            If the casual observer never noticed the blankness in their souls, it was because they hid it very well, indeed.

            "Misao, are you sure you're up to this?"  Sano tried to keep the nagging note out of his voice, but it slid through anyway.  He watched warily as Misao, clad in her training uniform, practiced a few warm-up routines in the familiar forest clearing.  Just days ago she had still been prone in bed, and now she was insisting on "stretching her muscles" and getting back into shape.  Because Sano was powerless when she looked at him in a certain way, the girl had gotten her wish and he'd agreed to come training with her.  Now he wondered if he should start regretting his decision; she didn't look as if she was going to "just keep to the basics" like she'd promised.

            She flashed him a grin that seemed to echo a bit of her old spirit.  "Of course, Sano.  Stop grumbling and let me do my thing."  She tried a side kick; her leg flew out perfectly and her injured side ached only a little in protest.  Satisfied, she sprinted over and patted his arm reassuringly.  "See, almost like new."

            He gave in with a helpless smile, "All right girl, just be careful, okay?"  Despite his concerns for her physical condition, Sano was secretly glad that Misao was willing to come out and resume a little of her old habits.  The mental concentration and physical discipline required to perform her exercises would at least take her mind off more painful things.  She had been unnaturally quiet and reserved for the past few days, barely responsive to his presence.  When she did look at him, he had almost wished that she hadn't, for the emptiness that he saw in her eyes.  He had been truly afraid that the old Misao had disappeared forever.

            Now, as he watched her move slowly but surely through the basics, there was hope.  With a slow smile Sano left her on one side of the clearing and himself moved to the other, giving both of them the privacy to continue their practice.  The morning air was cool and fresh; for the first time in many days he felt a measure of peace and contentment in his heart.

            He was not surprised when he heard the clang of an unsheathing sword, knowing that Misao had brought the Chinese sword with her to practice some of the more unique moves that Okina had designed for her.  When they were young she had seen a Chinese martial arts film and been entranced by the sword-wielding female heroine, and afterwards had pestered Okina for days to teach her the heroine's technique.  So the old man had adapted some sword-fighting routines from Chinese sword arts manuals and taught them to his eager pupil.  Sano had never actually seen her practice with the Chinese sword; he knew that Misao preferred to practice sword arts with another, not he.  Suddenly curious, he slipped silently into the tree shadows and watched, enthralled.

            It was beautiful.  Moving as one, sword and wielder flowed gracefully, fluidly, through each attitude, performing an elegant dance in the air and light.  A dance that appeared effortless in performance but required untold depths of strength and finesse, that was smooth as silk and deadly as steel.  His heart leapt when she sailed lithely into the air and spun swiftly and weightlessly; his breath caught abruptly when he saw a glimpse of her face through her unbound hair.  All at once, he understood what it was that made this dance so unspeakably lovely.

            Sorrow.  Wrenching, unbearable sorrow, too deep for words.  Because Misao could give no voice to her sorrow, she could only express it through movement, through the ageless steps of a dance that had empowered generations of strong women behind her.  She did not need to speak, here.  He could understand her perfectly already.

            What Sano never heard, or chose not to, was the sound of his own sorrow beating against his chest.