[A/N] For all those that worried this wouldn't be SasuHina, refer to the characters in the summary of the fic. Sasuke and Hinata are a couple. Just that senseless romance is not my cup of tea. Clan politics and adventures sure as heck are, however.

Very slow chapter. We know where Sasuke is. Now, we'll see where Hinata is. Next chapter will be more Konoha and Tokuma-centric.

A special thanks to Medlock, Guest, Boulevard, Butil and Hime. The first 5 reviews of TPW. You have no idea what it means to me. And of course, many thanks to the people that follow and favorite. At the end of the day, I only stick around this site and write to give you guys joy.

The Pride of the Wounded

Chapter 2

Pure-blooded Horse

By

Voyna

She'd still not gotten rid of that habit of hunching low on her knees. It made his eye twitch as he shifted all his strength into the handle of his sword. It was a question of speed. He had a chance at destabilizing her by pushing down on her own katana. Making it slip from her fingers. He wanted to prove her, prove her only once, that straining her knees as hard as she did was a double-edged sword (oh, the irony).

No. He knew that wasn't exactly what he desired. Catching her glance from behind a row of thick dark eyelashes, he knew he didn't just want to teach her a lesson.

And so, she taught him one. Swiftly sliding on her tabi, lowering her stance to the point her right knee swept over the tatami flooring, she let the blade of his katana slide over hers. She did not resist his force; she gave in to his strength. And used it against him. Her knee on the ground became a pivot. Her left shoulder a support for her right hand holding the sword from the top. Her left wrist was flexible enough and could take the abuse of being bent over. Droplets of sweat formed behind her black bangs. Slid into her eyes. Burning them. But she would not blink. As she felt his sword close to the edge of hers, lowering her left shoulder swiftly, she pulled her weapon away.

Too much force concentrated in one point could easily make one lose equilibrium. Okisuke knew as much. And yet, in his wish to prove her again that she should not be relying so much on her flexibility, he had made a mistake himself. As he almost doubled over, part of him wondered whether she hadn't planned this for weeks. For weeks, she had let him criticize her stance without batting an eyelash. But without changing it either. He had brought her to her knees. Made her fall onto her back. Fly in the air when he was annoyed beyond the supportable by her stubbornness. But she had improved. And now, for a split of an instant, she had made him lose equilibrium.

Turning on her knee, she was up in an instant. Ready to desperately defend her right shoulder. Because one could not expect Okisuke to be fazed for long. However, she had made her point. Flexibility and compliance could be as dangerous as brute force and rigidity. But, as said, Okisuke was something else. He, for one, understood that her main weakness were oblique attacks. She generally did not sustain well assaults aiming at more than one body part at the time. Hence, when aiming for her right shoulder, he did so with her left hip in mind.

Letting his hand sweep the floor and turning on his heels, he used the momentum to rapidly approach his katana to her body. She knew she had to defend or else his blade would brush against the crook of her neck. Making a small, precise slash into her soft skin. She had to get back on her knee and raise her sword to meet his. As his bridled violet eyes shone, he realized how much he liked bringing her to her knees. He would have smiled at the thought had it been in his nature to show emotions.

She detested oblique attacks. The point of impact was always at an angle and unevenly stressed her wrists.

"You see", he whispered, leaning over and making her grit her teeth as the pain in her shaking elbows intensified.

"The stance that an instant ago had made your strength is now your weakness."

He did not say the full truth, he admitted it. Indeed, this stance of hers was a weakness. In this situation. And mostly because, even though she had surprisingly good technique for someone who had not been raised in Tetsu no Kuni, she lacked in execution. She was quick-witted and seemed to have eyes that could see everything. He had never met someone that could so fully understand the essence of each and every movement. However, and it pained him greatly, for he had never met with a more eager pupil, she was a woman. And subject to all of woman's physical weaknesses.

He had been greatly against her being allowed to have her own katana. He already had been shocked when Mifune-sama had started training her roughly with a bokken. She had not been three years with them, and yet Mifune-sama had treated her from day one as a novice. Demanding that she submitted to the same ruthless training as all samurai. Okisuke had never minded seeing a naginata between her fine, white fingers. The ease with which she wielded the scythe reassured him. She would be able to defend a household if need arose. And to keep all enemies from her body. The naginata was generally a better defensive weapon than anything else.

He preferred not to let his thoughts wander. The images of her with a small knife, her hands swiftly moving about, pushing away imaginary adversaries, keeping them at bay and yet calling them closer so she could cut them had a way to confuse him. He was of a dignified nature that did not believe in unnecessary inner turmoil. And yet, ever since she had appeared, one cold, snowy night in Mifune-sama's house, Okisuke had started losing that control over his emotions that had always been his greatest pride.

His sensations at seeing her wielding a kaiken were confounding. The images that her movements would elicit in a man's mind were to say the least erotic. However, the anger that bubbled up inside of him whenever she rolled about the tatami, her legs around the hips of a man, her hands on his body, was not confounding in the least. Who had been the barbarian that had taught her jūjutsu?! She was without any doubt a greater adept of raw sparring. How easily she recognized all the vital points of one's body! He had to admit that he was not sure whether he would face her confidently if there were no weapons between them. For having seen her easily disposing of opponents twice her size, he knew she must have spent grueling hours training in a discipline that did not become a woman. And that clashed so strangely with her natural shyness and modesty.

For a split of an instant, he got lost in the midst of her brown, velvety eyes. Devoid of a pupil. Like his own. Bordered by thick, long black eyelashes. So big. And yet, sleepy. There was something languid, slow and elegant about her. And sad. Deeply sad. It attracted him further. Boisterous joy made a woman look dimwitted. Self-conscious aloofness made her uninteresting and plain, as beautiful as she might have been.

He had to focus on the matter at hand, however.

"Trying to exploit your small stature by keeping your stance low is cunning. By the time my katana reaches yours, I have spent a lot of my strength in the endeavour, indeed. However, you have limited your own range of movements. Execution is still your weakness. Learn to keep the stances I teach you. No one expects for you to innovate."

The last sentence had been spoken with a trenchant undertone. And made her blush immediately. No one had ever expected her to innovate. Yet, at times, even she had shone. However, there was no one to appreciate it anymore. The thought made her turn her eyes away. Okisuke mistook the reluctance to hold his stare for shame.

Removing his blade from hers, he took a step back.

"Enough for tonight."

She had always known him to be curt and serious. In these treacherous moments of calm, she felt like nothing had changed between the two of them. She could almost be lulled into appreciating his presence again. If she did not pay heed, she would end up asking, as she had so many times whether he wished an indulgence of poetry. He had always liked her to retrieve some of the books she had brought with her and read him poems like the Iroha no Hoheto. A solemn and beautiful poem about the ephemeral and deceptive essence of life.

However, whenever she read it, there was a playful edge to her voice she did not hear. And it was that playfulness in her that had made that very poem a favorite with Okisuke. Little did he know that she had been acquainted with a certain Iroha and that a certain Hoheto was her otō-san's most valued advisor. Iroha-san, skeptical and sardonic as he was, was the last person she would have associated with the deceptive essence of life. He sturdily believed that the rock he wished to chuck at her father's head at times was hard. And that it would earn anyone who annoyed him a good bump on the forehead. Hoheto-san on the other hand would never be able to grasp how ephemeral a being he was. Walking around, his chest bulging forward, he resembled a peacock, full of himself and quite convinced of being eternal. The irony of the situation had a way of making her miss her family less. Though even her tender feelings were hampered in expressing themselves by the legendary Hyūga coldness.

She straightened. Lifting one leg, bending it in the knee. Doing the same with the other. Under Okisuke's best told-you-so glare. He had told her numerous times she was harming her joints. He wondered whether she would listen this time. Why did he doubt it?! Extending a hand, he motioned towards her katana. She handed it over, still not meeting his eye.

Heading down Mifune-sama's dōjō, Okisuke hung the swords on the wall, handling them almost religiously. However, from the corner of the eye, he never let her leave his sight. He devoured each and every one of her movements. He envied the droplet of sweat that rolled down the side of her thin, white neck, before being engulfed by the lapels of the black keikogi she was wearing.

In a nervous, annoyed motion, she lifted her hand, a heavy sleeve opening around her forearm. As she passed her fingers through her high ponytail, he got a glimpse of her ribs and the bandages that covered her breasts. Forgetting his presence for a split of an instant, her fingers slipped past the fabric hiding her chest, disappeared into its darkness and retrieved a small, wooden flask. Swiftly, the cap on it was removed. She threw her head back and a few droplets of a clear liquid left the flask and dropped onto her right eye. She moved the flask to her left eye and repeated the operation. Keeping her eyes turned towards the wooden beams covering the ceiling, she closed the flask and made it disappear again. He examined her massaging her eyelids carefully. She had fragile eyes that got dry ever so often and were rarely but red.

There was something painful in her desperate attempts to conceal her fragility. In her hungry efforts to make herself seem strong and unyielding. But however desperate she might have been, she remained elegant and dignified. It pleased him. After all, strength was not the absence of weaknesses. It was the capacity one had to make others believe he were stronger than he truly was.

Okisuke stalked back to her. Saw her shoulders tense. Yes, those were her new reactions to him. However, he did no regret what he had offered. He was not a man to do anything half-heartedly or to be afraid of failure. Or to accept being rejected easily.

Respectfully bowing to him, she parted the lips she liked to keep closed. Her words were always spoken hesitantly and her voice timorous. He would have wished more self-assurance. Especially if she gave herself the right to aggravate him with her stubbornness.

"Thank you for your g-guidance, Okisuke-san."

That stutter. He decided against demanding that she repeated. It was his habit to make her repeat herself until he deemed whatever she was saying satisfying. He could not bear such a defect as was stuttering in such a woman as she was.

Thinking he would not detain her any longer, she turned around and believed herself to be excused from his presence. But before she could take a step forward, Okisuke's hand shot out and grabbed onto her elbow, effectively making her spin on her heels so she was facing him again. It had taken her by surprise. He generally liked to keep a distance between them whenever he was teaching her. But now, he invaded her private space. Getting closer. And closer. His eyes bore into hers and for a split of an instant, she had the impression her body was not her own.

Ever since she had started living among the samurai, she had learned that there was something stronger than chakra, something greater than power, something more astounding than prowess. Discipline. Honor. Hard work. Concepts that she had been born with. Concepts that had beat hard in her bosom. But that throughout her education she had been stripped from. And there stood Okisuke, towering over her. The stern fleshly incarnation of everything that was great in the bushidō.

His body had never been wrecked by the violent emotions that had driven her to insanity. His brow had never creased. His mouth had never expressed anything but a deep indifference to life. So she believed at least. And it is as such that she envied him. One day, he would depart this world standing tall, looking serene and willing to walk that new path. She on the other hand would see her soul imprisoned by her earthly sins. It would never leave the cold, hard, black soil of Tetsu no Kuni. Though his eyes told her otherwise. They spoke to her. They told her she too could be free, could be at peace. The only thing she would have to do was to abandon herself to his care.

"Is it the age difference?", he whispered in his deep voice that reverberated throughout her body, making a creak in the midst of her chest widen.

She was twenty years old. The eyes of Mifune's men when they came to hold council with him travelling over her body reminded her of those curves she detested. Of that womanhood she despised. But Kotori-san always spoke of her youthful features, of her small lips, her tiny nose and her big, baby-like eyes. When the woman's old hands caressed her head, she always told her no one would have thought her older than fifteen.

Okisuke-san had a fine, pale skin that showed no wrinkles. Not around the eyes, not around the mouth, not on the forehead. A long, narrow nose, trenchant and stern. To her surprise, he had no eyelashes or eyebrows. Nor any hair. Had he lost them after a violent shock? That had also transformed him into an utterly composed and unfazed man? On the left side of his head, a green dragon had been tattooed into his flesh. It resembled the art of the Han tribe of Kusa no Kuni. She knew so. He, the very one whose memory had brought her to Tetsu no Kuni, had had a teammate. A Han orphan, a friend, who had shown her different Han paintings. Truth was, one would have never given Okisuke-san more than thirty. And yet, he was much closer to her father's age than hers.

Was it the age difference? No. Where there was harmony between two souls, age did not signify.

He saw the answer in her eyes. No, she was not one to care for age. Or for appearance. And it made it all the more difficult for him to grasp where this stubborn rejection, this unyielding refusal came from. It made it feel like an insult to his character. Did she have anything to reproach him? If ever she wounded his honor with her tongue, he would have to kill her. Whether she were the taisa's grand-niece or not.

"I am unmarried and have no mistress", he hissed through clenched teeth.

He believed she thought him to be flighty. Or that he wanted to make her a second wife. If only he knew. The very thought of any man trying to make her a second wife would have brought a smile to her lips were the situation not so very serious. Were it not Okisuke-san whom she respected and admired greatly that was standing in front of her. The very proposal would have gotten any man a visit from members of her family. And the thought would never have crossed his mind again. But there was no place for mirth when those violet eyes held her captive.

Nonetheless, she knew an answer was expected. And she might have been soft by nature, but even she could feel irritated. This assault of his was more irritating to her than any lesson taught during one of their training sessions.

"No one's l-life to shorten on my b-behalf. I am grateful."

The answer, spoken in such a soft voice, did take him aback for a split of a second. She was not one to be disrespectful. However, the nervousness he could read in the curve of her full lips, the way her black brow flared and the imperceptible shake of her head made up for it. Men in Tetsu desired women like her. Their eyes trailed down their spines, resting a split to long on their backsides. Their glances were attracted towards their breasts. And their hands shook at the idea of sliding into the valleys of their waists. But when came the time to take a spouse, they preferred fragile orchids, fluttery butterflies and long bodies as supple as bamboo branches. Because they believed it was easier to satisfy such a woman.

Okisuke on the other hand had, in his own cool way, an undying confidence in his eligibility. Even if, at times, she made him doubt. Again, to refer to herself she had used yo like a lady. And whenever she did so, her neck bent and her face turned to the side as to shield it from unwanted and prying glances, he truly wondered whether she were not the long-lost lady of a faraway land. And then, logic settled in. She was nothing but a spoiled little girl that must have been indulged by her father and that needed but a good spanking to set things back on track.

When she did realize what had left her lips, she could not believe it herself. How had she dared! She recoiled on herself, blushing furiously and losing all her means.

He knew himself to be close. He knew he could submit her will to his. And she believed so too.

He was a man of few words. Active and yet, calm. She could indeed have had an enviable life with him. Tetsu no Kuni was a plane of ice shaken by violent snowstorms. Rarely anyone, besides some merchants and some hanamichi officials coming to buy girls, ventured into the land.

He would become taisa. It would be a match below her, indeed. However, her father was eager to get rid of her, whatever he might have said. Or thought. She would have her own house. Would live in a town thousands of kilometers away from Konoha. Would have her own children to rear. And all of her family's speculations concerning her person would come to an end.

She would become everything she had always detested. A wife whose only identity was the one she shared with her husband. Whose only duty was to keep house. Rear children. She would become a slave like her mother had been.

And yet, as the darkness behind Okisuke's eyes seeped through and into her soul, she almost heard the decisive yes leave her lips. However, she was saved by the ominous sound of a guillotine being lowered onto a fragile neck, offering itself with abandon to death. Someone had suddenly made the shōji leading to the dōjō slide open. Okisuke immediately let go of her arm, damning whomever it was that had interrupted them.

Stepping away, he turned his head to the side. And beheld an old woman. Her features which had never held any beauty were wrinkled. Her head shook slightly. However, there was nothing fragile about her. Nothing at all. She was in her eighties and yet, she commanded a purely military respect. Of a small stature and as thin as a branch, she appeared dry. And her yellowish eyes, rapacious and cold as they examined Okisuke, confirmed it. Her grey hair was pulled into an austere bun on top of her head, not one stray strand caressing the side of her bony face. Her black yukata was of a frightening neatness, mathematically oriented around her shoulders, its folds so perfectly placed as to never open around her ankles.

As she respectfully bowed her straight back, Okisuke swallowed his saliva. He tried to keep away from Kotori-san as much as possible. A woman who could silence Mifune-sama with one look of those bridled, yellow eyes, bordered by short, white eyelashes, was not to be taken lightly. Some lower-ranked samurai liked to make jokes about her being the real taisa. Had they ever had the chance to be intimately acquainted with the couple the taisa formed with his wife, they wouldn't have lightly thrown that idea about.

"Okisuke-san, danna-sama is asking for you. Please, join him in his apartments."

She did not speak in an elderly voice either, even if calling Mifune-sama by the archaic danna-sama. Her peculiar choice of words was mostly meant to remind the two youngsters she was facing that she was of another era. And that as long as they were under her roof, they better consider twice what they were saying and doing.

Irritated and disappointed in a way only a samurai could be, with a cold dignity, Okisuke stepped forward. Bowing swiftly to Kotori-san. And ignoring the young woman who had once again wounded his pride. As he walked out, the crease between Kotori-san's eyebrows disappeared and her mouth relaxed. It was all so very awkward. Having a young girl around so many men, coming in and out of their dwelling.

"Come, Hōryu-chan. I need help preparing the meal."

Hōryu. What a strange name for a little girl. Kotori could not imagine what had crossed her mother's mind when she had named the poor little thing in such a fashion. Everyone stumbled over that r sound. And yet, the old woman's dull, mathematical, not to say opportunist, materialist and sly, spirit was touched by this strange creature that Mifune had brought back, one stormy November evening.

The old woman had never seen a purple willow in her life, but at the soft elegance that had made Hōryu take small, silent steps through the narrow hallways of their house the first time she had walked them, Kotori had been sure the name suited the young woman.

She had fallen from the skies to land among that old, decrepit couple that was formed by the taisa and his wife. Seventeen years too old. At least fifty years too late. And to be honest, the first three months had been pure torture for Kotori. Mifune had told her about some old acquaintance of his that had asked him to take in his daughter. Some soldier who had lost his wife and could not care for his seventeen-year old daughter appropriately. Kotori, frank and brutal as she was, had told Mifune that a father who had a seventeen-year old daughter he could not care for found a suitable, single man that could.

Of course, unable to hold head to a woman who had made clear who led early on in their marriage, Mifune had admitted he had not asked for details. He had had a debt of honor towards the man in question and had taken in the girl without even wishing to know more. Kotori however was not of a quarrelsome nature, as direct as she might have been. And she was not devoid of compassion. Just that, daughter and wife of samurai, she did not make a show of her feelings. Nonetheless, there had been something in those big brown eyes, sad and soft, that had called out to her. That had demanded Kotori.

After three months of time, seeing that the stomach of the newcomer did not distend in the least, that she did not appear to be losing weight and had no uncontrollable urge to rush to the garden now and again, run towards the wooden loo and vomit to her heart's content, Kotori put her biggest fears to rest. She was not pregnant. That much was obvious. And whether or not she had disgraced herself, in one way or another, did not interest Kotori in the least. Horrid traditions had a way to make for pragmatic people. And pragmatists wouldn't care for a small skin hidden more or less deep in a young woman's vagina. She was not pregnant, that was all that mattered, right?!

Indeed, she had not been pregnant. And Kotori would have never admitted that in her relief, there had been so much regret. So much regret.

Snapping out of her musings, the old lady shot a sideways look at the bent neck of the young woman that was following her, docile but blushing. There was nothing to be done but sigh. To Kotori, the situation was crystal-clear. Mifune however preferred to butter his eyes with mud and hum military songs rather than to acknowledge that they had a big problem on their hands.

Okisuke was determined. Hōryu was yielding unwillingly at each and every one of his attacks.

If the two elders meddled in favor of Okisuke, Kotori knew they would be signing the death sentence of Hōryu's peace of mind. Okisuke was a good man, a man of character and would make an ever greater taisa than Mifune (read Kotori) had been. However, in his calmness, in that stiff self-control that was his greatest quality, there was too much authority. Great expectations for all those surrounding him made him a tyrant in his free time. And in his cold, lilac eyes, bridled and intelligent, there was an undying fire when they followed the sway of Hōryu's hips. A burning desire Kotori had never seen before but that she could easily read. The desire to submit, to possess. To break.

Early on, the young woman had proven to be of a great independence. But not the type of conceited independence that came from people that valued themselves a little too much. A type of resigned independence, stemming from the knowledge of being unwished for. Her long, black hair always veiling her face, she would silently march through their dwelling, going about her business. At moments, calm and pensive, she would lift her head, a faraway look in her dark eyes. Then, she reminded of a horse having smelled something new and curious, lifting its head and pondering what the novelty could be. Sometimes however, her brows flared, her mouth quivered at the corners, her whole body tensed. Worried nervousness. As if she expected someone would come to destroy this little bit of peace she had bloodily fought for. And finally, there were those nights. Those cursed nights when Mifune had to use all his strength to restrain Kotori. To hinder her from rushing to Hōryu, from sliding open the shōji to the young woman's apartments and throwing herself at her. Bringing her beautiful head to her old, dry chest where still beat a strong heart.

It was only at night that Hōryu screamed, cried and begged. Called, called with all her soul for one that did not come. Neji. Neji. Neji. Over and over again. Begging not to be left behind. Who or what Neji had been, Kotori did not know. The only thing she knew was that the memories that one word brought back to the young woman's mind would be the death of them. Hōryu always standing on the brink of insanity. And Kotori willing to follow her wherever she went. Even if it was to hell. Those violent screams made one think of the neighs of a raging horse, standing on its back-legs while its front-hoofs whipped the air menacingly.

Everything about Hōryu made one think of a pure-blooded horse abandoned by its herd.

Proud. Independent. And yet, fragile. Nervous. Shy. Always worried, ever so worried. Expecting the worst at every footstep. Her independence clashed with a frightening, an imperious need to be loved. And made for a creative spirit.

Every year, her family of which she never spoke, sent hundreds of music scores. She diligently practiced the koto. And as a rebellious child, always made time for her shamisen, even though she knew Mifune did not regard the instrument with a good eye. Kotori loved it, however. She would make tea, step into the girl's room, seat herself, close her eyes and let Hōryu's voice transport her, transport her faraway, to unknown mountains. And then, the child would read poems to her. Her preference, a preference that spoke of a truly romantic spirit, laid with the Han poets of Kusa no Kuni.

It is during those moments that Okisuke-san would come join them. Invite himself into Hōryu's apartments, seat himself by Kotori. His elbow on his raised knee, his chin on his palm, he would frown at hearing the young woman recite Dù Fŭ's Jiā Rén.

Who is lovelier than she?

Yet she lives alone in an empty valley.

She tells me she came from a good family

Which is humbled now into the dust.

When trouble arose in the Kuan district,

Her brothers and close kin were killed.

What use were their high offices,

Not even shielding their own lives? –

The world has but scorn for adversity;

Hope goes out, like the light of a candle.

Her husband, with a vagrant heart,

Seeks a new face like a new piece of jade;

And when morning-glories furl at night

And mandarin-ducks lie side by side,

All he can see is the smile of the new love,

While the old love weeps unheard.

The brook was pure in its mountain source,

But away from the mountain its waters darken.

Waiting for her maid to come from selling pearls

For straw to cover the roof again,

She picks a few flowers, no longer for her hair,

And lets pine-needles fall through her fingers,

And, forgetting her thin silk sleeve and the cold,

She leans in the sunset by a tall bamboo.

To Kotori, a poem that rang true to the ear at the mention of fallen brothers. To Okisuke a warning, a premonition. A challenge. He was not a man, he knew, that would forsake an old for a new love. Simply because love was not something he tended towards. However, that sugary-sweet poem was always recited in a husky, urgent voice. It sounded insistent. She made loneliness appear in such a dark light that even his hand shook at the idea if ever laying itself on her. Whenever she chose to offer them a sad poem about a discarded woman of rank and beauty, she made Okisuke think of a horse tearing its reigns out of his grip.

But Okisuke, as the samurai that he was, was an excellent horseman. And did not consider horse-training below him.

Preoccupied as both women were, their heads filled with thoughts about the same man, they barely realized they had reached the vestibule leading to the inner garden. The young woman had not changed, still dressed in her training garbs. And when the granny retrieved two padded haori hanging from a nail, the one all in the household called Hōryu hesitated before taking the proffered piece of clothing.

"Don't you worry, Hō-chan. The older he gets the more he grumbles. It is so much like him to make a fuss about two old haori he hasn't worn for twenty years."

The girl blushed. As was her habit. How long it had taken for her to get accustomed to that strange name. Hōryu. Purple willow. She still wondered, three years later, how her father had come up with it. For what she remembered, her mother had had a small purple willow, nothing like the big willow in the mansion's inner gardens. It had been a small, rachitic, ugly tree. Mostly. Almost all-year long. However, it would bloom magnificently in spring. When the first green buds would sprout along the little tree's tortuous branches, her mother would never fail to call the little girl she had been to her apartments.

Tall and elegant, her mother would be sitting by the shōji leading from her room to their house's inner garden. Her long black hair disordered and entangled from the sleep, there would be a strange halo surrounding her. At least, so she was remembered. A wonderful perfume of sandalwood, green tea and incense would linger in the air all about her.

She remembered how she would carefully step into the chambers, amazed, her small hand convulsively clutching Kō's, their attendant. How she would run towards her mother's open arms and bury her face into the crook of a soft white neck.

And then, the shōji would slide open, revealing their ugly little tree, that ugly little tree her mother tended to as if it were her first-born. It would be all green!

'Look, Hinata-chan! Hōryu-san is preparing to put on her pretty purple kimono.'

'Hōryu-san! P-Put it on quickly, please!'

Back in the days when she had been known as Hinata. When she had been small, blind and stupid. When her whole world had turned around her mother, Kō, her newborn sister … and her father.

Of course, as soon as her mother had died, her sister, a toddler that had had yet to learn to walk at that time, and herself had been forced to move into the mansion and cohabit with their father. A stern, taciturn man that had until then only been feared because of the gruelling trainings and frightening beatings he submitted her too. Later on, he had been feared as well for the cruel treatment he reserved for Kō, poor boy of untraceable birth. What vicious pain that of seeing her one and only comfort at that time rolled up on himself, lying on the floor and desperately hiding his head between his thin arms. And yet, he had served her father with a fanatic's loyalty. Her father had been Kō's Star of the evening and morning. Just as her mother had been the queen of his heart and she, his most precious treasure.

Soon, she had lost him. An up-and-coming young general, of modest birth himself but of great ambitions, had taken him under his care. Iroha-san might have been greatly uncreative; however he had always been a great judge of character. And had seen much of it in Kō. The one whose only desire by then had been to serve her well had started to climb the ladder to the top at a frightening speed. He had become in charge of the compound's security a few years later. The first bastard to ever do so. Just to give an idea of how important the position was, her uncle, her father's twin, had been in charge of it at some point in his life. Before he was executed for his corpse to be given away to Kumogakure, that is.

By then, Hanabi, five years her junior, had already been given to the care of a nurse-maid. Natsu-san had at first sight given off an impression of good humor. But her antipathy towards Hinata had been enough to drive the then-six-year old away. The big, pink cheeks she had loved to kiss and that happy toothless grin that had enlightened her days had been taken away from her. And soon, Hanabi, joyful, talkative and a tidbit turbulent, had been replaced by a frightened, nervous little girl whose only desire had been to please a demanding father. It had been a question of life and death to her. Not to her older sister however. To an older sister who had loved her younger one to death.

Hinata, already abandoned to the scorn of a father who had little use for female children, a grandfather who believed her to be a cursed failure and a cousin who blamed her for the death of his own father, she had felt no hesitance in losing to a five-year younger Hanabi during a battle that would determine to whom the clan would eventually befall. Hanabi had had more chakra and had been more talented where their family's arcanes were concerned. Her sister however had inherited their father and grandfather's shrewdness. A simple, well-placed sweep of her ankle under Hanabi's feet would have made the younger one stumble face-first. Their clan's weakness. The feet. However, it would have been a humiliation Hanabi would have never survived.

"Take it, girl!"

Kotori's stern, gruff voice made Hōryu snap out of her thoughts. Yes. There was no more Hinata. At least, not until her father found a good solution to the little problem an older unsealed daughter could be to a clan leader. And if he hadn't been able to decide on the right measures to take in the last three years, it was doubtful he would do so anytime soon. She could keep on playing the part of Hōryu. And enjoy the calm, snowy evenings by the side of her two elderly companions. Companions that strangely reminded her of her old team. A smile played on the young woman's lips as she softly removed Kotori's haori from her wrinkled hands and held it up in a helpful gesture. The old lady shot her an irritated glance before sliding her thin arms into the coat. Kotori-san was very dignified in company. However, when they remained alone, she could be overbearing, demanding, a tidbit boastful and ever so active. Did that make her Inuzuka Kiba? And poor Mifune-san was left to bear the brunt of it. Calm, meditative, grudging and sedentary, he was not a man that liked to be uncomfortable in the privacy of his home. However, during the war, he had proven that in his late seventies he still was the greatest warrior in the world. This capacity he had to switch between passiveness and action would then make him Aburame Shino. And therefore, neutral presence between the two of them, little being that strangely found its place amongst them, was she.

These thoughts made her lose her smile as a cold, wintery wind slapped her across the face. Her eyes strayed towards Kotori-san's wrinkled hands. Her thin fingers were holding onto the doorframe, their joints sticking out worryingly.

"Ōbā-san, how are your r-rheumatisms?"

The old woman's back tensed. There was no use lying, she knew. The girl read her like an open book. And yet, she still tried her luck.

"Do I look ill to you?", she snapped, attempting to discourage further discussion.

However, she felt the small body advance towards her and put a gentle, yet firm hand over her arm, prying it away from the doorframe.

"At least, s-stay inside, ōbā-san. Seat yourself away from t-the door so that the wind does not reach you. It will only m-make it worse. Leave the cooking to m-me."

A strange spam travelled through Kotori's arm. She'd experienced a similar sensation a few times already. And it occurred only whenever Hōryu touched her. As if a small electrical shock travelled from the surface of her skin to her nerves and made them react against her will. It was not a very pleasant feeling. Without realizing what she was doing, the old lady tore her arm away from the girl's grip.

The reflex of a worried animal. However, the young woman standing in front of her mistook it for one of disgust. A smile, small, apologetic, appeared on Hōryu's full lips as she took a step towards the veranda. Kotori would have wanted to keep her for an instant longer. To explain to her that whatever she had imagined was not in fact the truth. But she did not. She was daughter and wife of samurai. No one had ever taught her to acknowledge her feelings. And admitting how little she could ever be disgusted by her Hōryu was nothing short of admitting affection and love towards this little stranger from nowhere.

Therefore, the old woman was only left to admire that supple young body bending over and retrieving a pair of geta the veranda. Blowing the heavy snow into the air, the girl slid the sandals onto her impeccable white tabi. And in no time, she jumped down the veranda, the paleness of the skin on the nape of her neck shining in the darkness of the night. The wind whipped her skin, slithered through her collar and sleeves, made her shiver uncontrollably. She did not mind it. She loved being frozen. Frozen to the bone. The numbing pain that settled into her fingertips made everything so much easier. In such situations, she could play the koto without remembering her sister's head appearing from behind the shōji of her room back at the compound. She could write without imagining Neji's serious eyes trailing down the words she printed on fragile rice paper. She could read without yearning for the approving twinkle in her father's cold eyes scanning the title of the volume of her choice. When she was numbed frozen, she could function the best as Hōryu.

She approached the little fire in the middle of Mifune and Kotori's small garden. A dresser's wife that lived nearby had come to light it up and bring them fish. She'd also made perfumed rice. Kotori-san wasn't all that young anymore, unfortunately. And the couple's young protégée was so very strange that the dresser's wife preferred to lend them a hand here and there. It was a honor in its own way.

Opening a wooden box by the fire, she was impressed at the quality of the straps of salmon that had been kept cold on a bed of ice. Grey and plump, they would be quite delicious with some side dishes of umeboshi.

Tetsu no Kuni had but one river. A river with a soul as black as the devil's. And a heart of gold. In its heart, gold could indeed be found in industrial quantities. The very image of the crazed men that every spring came to Tetsu on their way to that damned Yasei no Kawa appeared in front of Hōryu's eyes. And made yet another shiver, mingled with the shivers caused by the cold snowflakes that penetrated her clothes, travel down her spine.

That river … Men from all over the world came to Tetsu no Kuni to try their luck at finding gold in its savage core of untameable water. It stole their eyes. Never gave them back. That river tried to kiss them all. And just like with Hinata, it sent a shiver down their spine. It was a wet golden shrine that tried to kill them all. And succeeded at it. They all wanted its gold. But the river … the river wanted their soul. Funny how Yasei no Kawa was as full of gold as it was sterile of life. No fish to swim countercurrent, to surf on its violent waves of ice. Besides salmons. Only salmons were sturdy enough to survive in such an environment. And thus, the inhabitants of Tetsu ate salmon. When they could afford it. That damned river was no kinder to fishers than it was to gold diggers.

Gold diggers. Greedy, envious most of the time. But also poor, hopeful, naïve at times. Which type was Okisuke, she wondered. Did he mistake her for a river full of gold?! Were he greedy and envious, he would have been more prepared. He would not have attacked her frontally. He would have made love to her first. In the archaic sense of the expression. He would have brought her little trinkets, feigned interest in her daily vexations, recited poems to her. She knew because she had seen how Hoheto-san, the archetype of the greedy and envious gold digger, had seduced her aunt Fumichiyo. And then convinced her to elope with him, forcing her father and grandfather's hand. Her grandfather had been livid and would have rather seen his daughter (one of many) dead than given away to the likes of Hyūga Hoheto. Her father on the other hand had been more than happy to get rid of one of his half-sisters that were a bad influence on his younger daughter and generally too expensive to maintain. The two clan leaders had struck a deal that had made both of them happy. And poor Hoheto deeply unhappy. Hoheto would marry Fumichiyo, there was no doubting that! Just that she would bring no dowry to him. Greedy and envious gold diggers generally ended up in uncomfortable places. The corners of her mouth slightly pulled up.

The strap of salmon that the young woman carefully placed on a polished rock in the middle of the fire. With a pair of metallic chopsticks, she turned it around. And repeated the process a few times before retrieving it from the fire. And realizing she had not brought a recipient for the roasted fish.

"Silly girl", Kotori mouthed at her, towering over Hōryu with a bowl of fuming soy sauce in one hand and a plate in the other.

Hunching down, her old hips and back protesting through a series of crackles, Kotori motioned at the salmon strip with her bowl of soy. However, her young protégée would have none of that. Furrowing her brows, she shot a dirty glare at the wrinkled, slightly quivering hands holding the bowl.

"I told you to stay inside, ōbā-san."

Lifting a thin, white brow, the ōbā-san wondered where obedience to their elders had gone with this new generation. Slowly sliding her fingers into her obi, she retrieved her own pair of metal chopsticks, as the young woman carefully dipped the piece of fish into her bowl of soy. Immediately, a thick fume escaped the bowl. Result of hot fish, warm soy and cold wind interacting. Before she could retrieve the strip imbibed in soy sauce, Hōryu felt something strong pinch her nose.

"Don't underestimate this old lady, girl. Where did respecting your elders go, ah?"

Before she could answer, Kotori twisted her chopstick and twisted the young woman's nose beyond the laws of physic.

"Aiya!"

As the little shriek of pain escaped her, she felt the pressure subside and her nose be released. Lifting her eyes grudgingly, she met Kotori's. They examined each other for a split of an instant. Both scorned women with their chins kicked high and their brows furrowed. Hōryu, had she been of a more vindictive nature, would have answered that she would be stuck to straighten her back for Kotori-san. And Kotori-san would have spoken of filial piety.

Extending her chopsticks, the old woman dignifiedly grabbed onto the fish submerged in soy sauce, removed it, in a stern movement of the wrist drained it, sending droplets of soy into the fire and slapped it onto the plate by her side. Never leaving the younger's eyes. Breaking eye contact and turning her head away, Hōryu did her best not to laugh out loud. Good thing she could not see the small smile that spread over wrinkled lips, it would have overpowered her. And all the solemnity around roasting fish would have evaporated in thin air.

Soon enough, they were all set to go serve the starving men that were desperately awaiting their meal. And moaning in anguish instead of drafting plans for the joint military exercises with Hi no Kuni. However, Hōryu would have rather avoided meeting up with Okisuke for a second time in the evening. Some women would have wanted to bring as much pain as possible to the heart of a man who loved (or who at least showed enough interest; if they could not wound his tender feelings, they could at least wound his pride). Her own feelings were too delicate to induce her to act in such a manner. And she was too proud herself to fall as low. Nonetheless, she stood up, retrieved the plate of fish by Kotori-san's side and offered her hand as support to the old lady. And surprisingly, Kotori did well, standing up. However, straightening her back proved to be more difficult. Cursing under her breath, she tore her hand away from the girl's and placed it on her lower back. Without looking up. A told-you-so glower from one more than fifty years her junior would have been more than unwelcome.

They did however make it back into the house. Once the rice had been retrieved, the prickled prunes red as blood placed in a bowl and the salmon transferred onto the service plate, Hōryu was given the responsibility, to her great dislike, to bring it to the men, Kotori following close by with the sake. Nonetheless, when she got to Mifune-san's sitting room, as he liked to refer to the empty tatami room he liked to spend his days in, she kneeled in front of the shōji. Scratched at it softly. And waited until the weary voice of a man seeped through the rice paper, inviting her in. In no time, the shōji was slid aside, and she stood up. Small and fragile. But towering over the two men seated at a low table covered in papers.

"Took you enough time", an older man, wrinkled, the skin of his face covered in pale, brown marks, complained.

Not at the young woman, but at his old lady, standing erect and serious behind Hōryu. Kotori did not respond; just shot him a haughty and cold glance. They were an endearing old couple. Spending more time making each other's life miserable rather than comfortable and joyful. No one could have ever imagined them tender and loving towards each other. And strangely enough, both Okisuke and Hōryu looking at them snapping at each other day after day believed they would not have been happy had they been granted a calmer family life.

"Next time, you can make your own food", was the only acknowledgement of his complaint he would get. "If you don't push those papers aside, we'll just set table on them."

Nothing better than being respected in his own household. In a begrudging movement, the old man, helped by the younger one, did indeed take care to save his plans from his wife. Who would have most definitely placed the food on them. And used his masterpieces of genius to wipe the soy sauce from the corner of her lips. In no time, Hōryu came to him, seated herself by his left side, leaving the right to his wife, and placed the big plate on the table. In a hushed voice, avoiding the eyes of their guest, she whispered an apology to Mifune's ear. As Kotori sat herself by him, the desire he had to tell the girl not to worry, that he was used being mistreated by the likes of his old lady, disappeared from him and the words remained stuck in his throat. He snatched a cup from the smaller plate she had brought and waved it under her nose. But she ignored it willingly, and a small ferocious smile etched on her lips, she offered Okisuke a cup, before sipping an amber-colored liquid into it. He did not bring the cup to his lips directly. He had not expected for the sake to be offered to him first. And certainly not by Kotori-san of all people. It went against customs. And made him wonder what the woman who was so adeptly avoiding his gaze might have told Mifune-sama's lady. Shooting a suspicious glare at the surface of the liquid in his cup, Okisuke wondered whether it wasn't actually poisoned.

Lifting his head for a split of an instant to gauge Kotori-san's mood, he met her yellow eyes staring at him while Mifune-sama, holding his cup, was shooting his wife a dirty glare. The elderly woman was taunting Okisuke. Testing him. Leaving him to wonder what was more dishonorable. Dying poisoned in his master and taisa's dwelling? Or bowing his head to an old woman that might not pass the winter? There was something to be said about pissing contests between younger men and elderly women, he thought as he downed his sake in one slug. Gracefully placing his cup back onto the table, Okisuke grabbed onto the bottle Kotori-san had slipped from and motioning to her own cup with a poised movement of the head, he returned her favor. While Mifune-sama was still there, unattended, his cup empty and his presence ignored. And then, the world wondered why he preferred spending his days in insalubrious military caserns with young, unmarried samurai. Who generally were a sad sight to behold.

Leaning into the old man, her shoulder brushing against the sleeve of his yukata, a strand of Hōryu's black hair caressed his old, wrinkled cheek. He was a man who had never known the douceur of holding his newborn's disproportionate head in his palm. Of seeing it taking its first steps. Holding between its minute fingers a wooden sword. Mifune would have not cared, as so many lucky fathers, whether it was a female or a male. He would have held it against his bosom, protected it from this world that was dark, unfair and bloody. It would have been his joy or pride. However, the gods had not seen it necessary to give him the possibility to sire children.

Many a man in his situation would have blamed their wife. Maybe taken a second spouse. Or a concubine. Mifune however had never been a coward. And he had not shied away from recognizing that Kotori was as healthy and fertile as any woman. And that she could have had children. Therefore, he had offered her early on in their marriage, seeing he was useless in the domain, the hand of a young warrior who had pledged allegiance to him and would have married her if such been Mifune's order. He had been more than willing to admit his shame and to let her depart with his subordinate in compensation. But his wife had never been of the same breed as other females. She had mockingly refused the hand of the young man Mifune had offered her. And when he had begged her to go, she had adamantly stayed. Now, one would have been in danger to believe Mifune better than he truly was. As Kotori had made her final decision to remain with him known, he had simply put a katana under her throat and told that if she ever were unfaithful, he would slice her throat. And she had simply pushed back his wrist and languidly replied that if he were ever unfaithful himself, it wasn't his throat she would slice.

They could have adopted a child. However, orphans were rare in Tetsu. For the simple reason Mifune had done everything in his power to keep Tetsu outside of petty shinobi skirmishes. And even if a child had the misfortune of losing its parents, there always were relatives to take the little one in, whether it be a boy or a girl. Hence, they lived their married life truly childless. Not a complaint, not a reproach, not a curse aimed at karma. Their resignation had been rewarded in the end. When a man whom Mifune had known and loved as a child, and despised and detested as an adult, had come to his door, hidden behind a heavy black cape, accompanied by at best the shadow of a dangerous bodyguard. Unwillingly, he had accepted a strange charge he had not known much about. Or wished to know, for that matter. When a whole country depended on the good-will of a man, or in Tetsu no Kuni's case, of a clan, there was no place for questions, for inquiries. Mifune had simply taken in that young girl none other than Hyūga Hiashi, a former pupil of his, had brought to him.

He had simply not expected to find her a sad, scared little thing. He'd never asked her what she was to the likes of Hyūga Hiashi. A shameful mistress? A bastard daughter? He had never asked her whether she was Hyūga herself. He had simply accepted the bottomless darkness of her eyes as a proof of the contrary. He had not asked, he had not questioned. He had simply mandated that she did not use chakra if ever she were a kunoichi. She was to live among samurai, not cunning shinobi. And thus, she would be expected to act as daughters and wives of samurai acted. Little had he expected she would be more elegant, more accomplished than daughter and wife of daimyō. And yet, her elegance was simple. And her accomplishments had been laid at Mifune and Kotori's feet. And suddenly, this girl they had mistaken for everything, ranging from a woman of low morals that had compromised a great leader to the unlawful daughter of a daimyō had become the center of their universe. The two elders might have wished to keep away. But those sad dark eyes, always filled with tears and as if begging for nothing but a tender caress, had pulled them in.

Thus, the caress of a strand of black hair against his cheek had become enough for him to forgive decades of a sterile, childless life.

"Ōjī-san, I should g-go prepare the bath for you."

Again, using the lady's yo for I.

The murmur reached his ear. He decided against sternly scolding her for the stutter. Mostly because he was aware it would not have been agreeable to her to be scolded in front of Okisuke. Just looking at the two of them, at the desperate way she had to avoid his eye and at the more subtle way he had of trying to attract it, Mifune could imagine what had happened. Again. If only the girl could have been more honest with them so that he could have meddled in and told Okisuke to go look for a wife elsewhere.

Shooting a displeased look at her training garbs, Mifune let go of his poor, empty cup and grabbed onto a bowl of rice. With a pair of chopsticks, he grabbed a few pickled prunes he placed in the center of the bowl and finally chose the best strip of salmon, that he added to the meal. Picking the chopsticks into the rice in a military fashion that made his wife scowl, he handed the bowl to the young woman to his left.

"Take your bath first", was his simple reply.

She took the bowl, and in a very inelegant, movement scurried out of the room. More than happy to escape the heavy atmosphere around Okisuke-san. Okisuke whom Mifune was left to softsoap. As he had done previously with Hōryu, he permitted himself to choose the second-best strip of salmon for Okisuke. However, the boy was less compliant than the girl had been. He accepted the food with a few words of gratitude. Sipped Mifune-sama a cup of warm sake. And gave himself the right to give his piece of mind, his cold eyes never leaving his taisa's.

"You are too lenient where your grand-niece is concerned. She is prone to insubordination."

"She is but a child. And I doubt anyone would call any of the trainings she is submitted to as lenient."

"We are not talking about trainings, but about her conceited independence. She is twenty years old, Mifune-sama. Living in a country where the young stop being called children at the age of thirteen."

"Okisuke-san should take our Hōryu-chan as nothing more than an example of what his own daughters should not be", Kotori calmly interceded between the two men.

Okisuke could easily sway Mifune. That was a known fact. And she generally accepted it, knowing full well that whatever Okisuke did easily, she could undo just as easily. However, she did not appreciate this insinuation that there was anything to be desired in Hōryu's behavior. She might not have been as blind as many a mother concerning Hōryu's flaws, however she was quite sure there was nothing to be desired in her behavior, which was always perfect. The difference between Kotori and Okisuke's opinion of what was to be expected from the young girl relied in the fact that one viewed her as one views his own blood and flesh and the other … The other wanted to make her his own blood and flesh.

"I did not mean to offend", was the cold reply he served the both of them before thanking the woman of the household impersonally for the food.

It was with a certain ease, a good hour later, that Hōryu, hiding adroitly, in her hosts' bedchamber, heard the two elders making their way towards the inner-garden where a wooden bathtub (more along the lines of enormous eyesore of a reservoir) filled with hot water was waiting for them. There was something endearing at the thought two elderly people still took their bath together. In fact, it was intimate. It defied conventions. She knew no wife that was allowed to take a bath before her husband (let alone a young girl, before her elders). However, there was this pragmatism about Kotori that Mifune had no choice to embrace. Who would have washed his back and vice versa, if the two of them did not take their bath together?!

Seated in a corner, bringing her knees up to her chest, she rested her cheek on them. Three years. Three years already. Three years spent between the high ice walls of Tetsu no Kuni, her mind left to auto-cannibalize itself. Left to be haunted by the memories of someone she had known. Of someone who had died. The strange fact about Hyūga Hinata was not the fact her father had woken her up in the middle of the night, handed her tinted contact lenses made of a hard plastic that hurt her eyes. Not the fact, Hyūga Kō, her Kō, had sneaked her out of the compound in a mission that would have made him ANBU taisa had his low birth not crippled him as much outside as inside the compound. The strange fact wasn't even the horrid nightmares that plagued her and the impression, whenever she sat up, drenched in her sweat and fear reflected in her eyes, that Neji was seated in front of her, examining her, haunting her. No.

The strangeness of her life resided in the fact that all the violence she had experienced in twenty years of life, all the misery she had seen, all the losses she had sustained were leaving place to an illogical feeling. The illogical feeling of calmness and peace. Which was proper to all Hyūga. It had all to do with the Byakugan and the biology of the Hyūga brain. The optical nerve was so strongly developed that other parts of the brain unconnected with it were primitive in comparison with the average human being. Hyūga experienced all emotions differently than their average counterparts. They felt love, anger, worry, desire. However, never did their feelings interfere with their responsiveness or concentration. In the middle of the day, when the brain was very active, a Hyūga could appear calm in the middle of a carnage. A Hyūga could easily take the decision to go into battle instants after having seen his partner or child mowed down. Without shedding a tear.

Night was another story, however. When the brain was in a state of repose, a strong enough stimulus such as long-lost memories could bring a rush of violent emotions to a Hyūga. Hence why all crimes, especially crimes of passion, occurred during the night between the high walls of the Hyūga compound.

All in all, even though Hinata felt an incessant worry for her sister, for her former sensei and her child, for her former teammates, for Kō, she lived a decently productive life in Tetsu no Kuni. Albeit her attachment to Konoha was strong, she had started rebuilding her life … herself. She was becoming Hōryu. Fully, truly. It was in her plasticity that the strangeness lied. In this fact that the Hyūga, who appeared at first glance so very stagnant, attached to the point of obsessiveness to their traditions, were in fact the most adaptable class of humans. Yes, she was plagued by memories of her family and friends. But the world she lived in at the moment was satisfying enough for her regret not to interfere with her daily life. And if she had been given the choice between returning to Konoha and remaining in Tetsu no Kuni, she was not quite sure she would have chosen Konoha. Another characteristic proper to the Hyūga. Once they were moved in one direction, they never returned on their footsteps.

Such a turn of the mind, such a particular construction of the soul, would always be mistaken for cold-heartedness by those who did not understand the subtleties of the Hyūga soul. It was not insensitivity in them, but a greater resilience to the fluctuations of life.

The shōji to her hosts' chamber was pushed aside and two bodies dressed in fresh yukata came in. Holding hands affectionately. They had their heads turned to each other, their wrinkled faces split in calm, tender smiles. Hōryu lifted her head immediately, attracting attention to the corner she had huddled against. Both Mifune and Kotori jumped back in horror. They hoped the young girl had not had another one of her excruciating nightmares and had decided to come sleep with them. They indeed still considered her a child. However, she was too old to sleep with them. And to be honest, Mifune would have felt the need to sleep with his katana were she to share their futon. For having felt the quantity of chakra that seeped through her own chambers whenever she had one of her crises, he would be too afraid of not waking up the next day to close an eye.

"Hō-chan …"

Innocently picking up the little cream pot by her side, the young woman threw it in the air before catching it again. She tilted her head to the side, looking innocently up at them. But the way she momentarily scrunched her pretty nose made her look more mischievous than she felt.

"Ōbā-san, ōjī-san. We need to take care of your rheumatism. Both of you, lay down on your stomach. And pull your yukata down to the waste."

The two elderly people blanched.

Yes, Hinata had adapted to her new surroundings. She had become part of them. And was content enough with them, even though her nights were restless and painful. She would not have exchanged them. And was willing to build upon them. However, with resilience came an unfortunate feature. Known as forgetfulness. Had she remembered the way her life had unfolded, as opposed to remembering certain occurrences of her life, she would have known that whenever she was ready to cautiously settle into a state of tranquility, something occurred to destabilize her.