When he'd been a child, he found a baby bird.
But maybe calling it a baby was being too kind, the poor thing looked more like an aborted fetus with a beak than something he'd associate with the small sparrows that littered the area he lived in. It was small, the hideous shade of pink he would later find out was almost exactly what second degree burns looked like after healing, with toothpick-thin little claws - so thin they were almost transparent - and wings much the same, covered in the stiff sticks of the yet unformed quills. If one ignored the large beak, those quills were the only clue anyone would have that the thing was supposed to be a bird, because the rest of the thing was covered in more of that horrible nightmarish pink color, all the round small form of it.
It looked like an ugly little heart. It looked like a tiny little tumor.
He had stared at the thing for a long while, and then he had left, because his mother had told him a mama bird would never pick up a baby that had been touched by humans. If he had asked, she would have also told him that mama birds sometimes threw their babies from their nests because they were sick and they couldn't afford to have the rest of their babies to catch whatever the weaker one had.
He came back to look around several hours later, but the fetus bird was still there, maybe not as loud as before, but just as talkative. He had came closer, and he had looked for its nest, but it was too high, and he would never reach it, because back then, he'd never would have guessed someday he would be able to walk on trees and water as easily as he could on solid ground. Back then, he hadn't known anything at all.
He'd stared at the crying, complaining thing, the unstopping chirps slowly gritting on his nerves until he could barely stand it anymore, and then he'd thought –he remembered- he'd thought I should kill him. He'd thought it was pain, that it was lonely and that it would die alone and scared and not even knowing where it was, because the ugly thing couldn't even open its eyes.
When he found the man twenty-six years later, he thought of the bird again. He thought it to be ironically fitting; a dead bird left in the path of a snake.
There were three bodies in total, and as always he searched through them thoroughly, trying to find a cause, a reason, trying to find some clue as to how the man's mind worked, why he would do such a thing. Trying to find a purpose, the tell-taley sticky threads of a plan.
The men looked like standard sunanins, likely chuunin or jounin. They weren't wearing the heavy vests of the profession, so there was no way of telling, but he knew they were puppeteers - the dark clothing, caps and face paint were a dead giveaway, as well as the bulges of scrolls strapped to their bodies.
They carried the standard weapons of a ninja and somescrolls that looked interesting he had distractedly stashed to analyze and see if he could use in the future. He might not know shit about how to handle chakra threads, but he did know the poison the things carried could be incredibly useful if he found a way to extract it without getting himself killed in the process.
It was the third body that called his attention, because it was the only one with a trail of blood going for maybe five or six steps. Either Orochimaru was getting sloppy or getting more sadistic with age. The man had to have survived for a little while, which was strange. The other two had been clean deaths.
He tried not to think much about it, about the casualties and innocents- thought maybe that wasn't the way to describe any shinobi in this world was it? If he'd been any more cynical, he could have thought that for the mere action of accepting a headband, anyone could deserve such a thing. All the bloodshed, of the losses, all the pain, not just deserved, but maybe earned.
A fairness to all these seemingly senseless actions… It was a good thing he wasn't that cynical.
He had been reflecting on the embittering thoughts while he carefully moved the body around, noting the body to be somewhat laxer than the other two had been and thinking- What a waste.
What a waste, to have died here, to have died this way, out of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in the path of the wrong person. It was when he'd actually tried to search for the man's belongings and he had accidentally touched the skin that he noticed it. The skin only lukewarm, not cold like the other two.
He'd stopped, thinking about the other two bodies, thinking about the stifling heat, even two levels down this abandoned village that had been half eaten by the sands. One would have thought that in this impossible warmth, the bodies wouldn't feel that much colder once lifeless, but they did. They weren't cold like corpses had seen before, but the difference of temperature between himself and them was very noticeable. It was also different from what he felt. But the man wasn't breathing… Was he?
He'd stopped staring at the deathly pale figure lying on the half eroded and sand-covered stone floors, ignoring the annoying feeling of trickles of sand falling from the somewhat unstable roofing whatever had been above them when the village was alive had been, and placed a hand on the sticky black of the man's clothing.
The blood was warm.
He left his hand in place, but for a few seconds nothing seemed to happen, and when it did it was so light he almost missed it. For a second he felt a light push against his hand, even its light weight seeming a strain. He drew back in horrified wonder, looking at the bright blood soaking his hand, at the deathly still figure next to him, thinking, calculating.
He was behind. He had purposely lagged so he could be close enough to catch the warm trail but still far enough he would be able to see that the area was safe before actually approaching.
He was at the very least two hours behind, if not more. And Orochimaru wasn't an idiot. Maybe a sadist, but not an idiot, and if he'd left someone to suffer, it wouldn't be for this long, not without some sort of insurance to be certain there were no lose end to foil whatever he was plotting now. No lose tongues to speak about. But the man was alive, though it was obvious he was agonizing. He hadn't been able to tell he was alive, and true, he hadn't been expecting him to be, but he would have noticed otherwise. He already smelt like death.
If he killed him now, it would be helping him, wouldn't it? It wasn't like if he would survive, no matter what he did. He wasn't that good at healing… he knew something, maybe he could be considering above average, simply because he'd been forced to learn or face swift, feministic punishment, but he wasn't that good.
Not to fix something like this. Maybe if I'd come sooner… The guilt tasted old, tasted familiar and somehow comforting in its masochistic perfection.
Too little, too late to be of any good. He should kill him. It would be merciful of him to end the man's' pain. It was the last he could do wasn't it?
(Should I could I could I not?)
How familiar. How very ironic a struggle to decide, just like when he'd been seven, should he take this life and stain his hand to show kindness? Should he be cruel and prolong someone's pain for his own selfish peace of mind?
Back when he'd been seven, he had stood over the scary figure of that malformed thing with a rock held high over his head, and he had asked himself the same thing. It had been simpler terms, easier things to decide, and what would the right thing to do and the decision, and he had thought… He'd thought of the reasons he would do anything at all, the reason he was thinking of killing an animal that doomed to death from the beginning.
He was there, and walking away was no longer an options, so the question now was, why would he choose either option? And he had wanted it dead, because it was disgusting, because the pain in its cry frizzled his nerves and hurt him in the first stirs of understanding that some things couldn't be helped, no matter how hard he wanted them to, no matter how hard someone tried to prevent them. If he had killed the bird, it would have been for himself, not for it.
The thing wanted it live, or it wouldn't have been trying so hard. The bird decision was clear. He'd taken the bird with him, to provide what little help he would been able to offer.
The baby bird lasted two days. The man lasted longer.
'It's not that we don't like you… you're only standing in the way.'
He saw them, the group of people he had met before, the people with whom he had patched for a peace and war. The missing nins.
They were standing right above him, one of them, the grey-haired, young and cocky as he simply watched the other and the leader, the infamous Otokage, the sennin, the Orochimaru…
He watched as the man drilled his sword into him and pierced him to the ground. He saw this and the man smiled and he, instead of looking into the golden-yellow eyes of his murderer, stared at him, seeing himself in the faintly mirroring glasses. He saw his own face, pale, paler, paling to the point of being grey, he saw his eyes, wide opened and filled with fear he thought he could hide, and his mouth, only vaguely opened in a silent scream of pain that took all his voice away.
He heard the laughter as the blood tainted so deep with red spilled through his mouth and polluted his perfect make up of a puppeteer, the vine swirls across his eyes, nose, lips. His heart fastened the heartbeat, rapid, panicked, pushing the life out of him, killing him.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt!... And they only stood and laughed. That couldn't be.
'Help!' he tried, opening his mouth, using his will, his strength, his fear 'Help me! They're murdering the prime man of the country! The life of Kazekage is being taken away! How dare you? How dare you! Abominable cowards!...'
He yelled it all and yet, it died in his voice chords like a heated soup, gurgling, steaming. And then the sword moved and he gasped, writhing up along the path as it was being taken away, the long phallic thing taking his innocence, because he was not guilty… not guilty!...
'Don't!...' he wanted to say, but the whisper died at his lips as the pair turned around, chuckling that they had what was not theirs, successful, obtained. 'Give it back!... My life is not yours!... '
And yet, he didn't have it. His blood poured out along with the ink that covered the skies and the floor, spinning from the dots to puddles, from puddles to rivers, from rivers to seas. Only his chest was colored red, scarlet red, and it looked like cherries and tasted like oceans, and he knew it was wrong, so very wrong, it colored his fingers violet and his lips blue and he couldn't get up even if he felt he had to run… he had to run for help!... Somewhere… To home… family…
'Help…' he rasped through his grey-blue mouth, feeling how his strength gave away, leaving him weak, unprotected, uncovered like a newborn baby. 'I'm dying…'
And he couldn't even lift his hand anymore.
And suddenly, out of nowhere in the dark there he was, the man, the Orochimaru, who laughed at him once more and sat near him, too close, too close… Like a robber, like a vulture near his dying dinner. He couldn't move even if he wanted to, tried to, panicked, scared like if he was not forty but only three, unable to do anything. He looked as pale long fingers got to his wound and drowned in it, gushing more blood, causing more pain, much more agonizing pain… He gasped, screamed, begged wordlessly. And the man only laughed, laughed, laughed…
'Please, stop!' he roared, finally pushing at one of his hands at his own will, gripping the claws with his own hand and squeezing is at tightly as he could. The man stopped and started wavering, like a big wave on the ocean…
And suddenly the hand was not inside his wound but over it and the face of his was no longer deathly pale, but he couldn't even see the features, it was so blurred. He had only grasped the glint of the blonde hair.
'Karu... ra?...' he rasped, and then his eyes had rolled to the back of his head, making him losing his grip, making him lose everything.
'Am I dead? Am I dead? Am I dead?...' chanted in his head in echoes as he had spiraled down into the abyss of unconsciousness. Maybe he had saw an angel…
In the end, the clue he'd needed from the beginning in had been the man.
He hadn't know who he was when he'd brought him, the brownish-red, reddish-brown of his hair not enough a tell tale feature for him to recognize after almost fifteen years, and his features somewhat distorted by the paint.
He had tried to wipe it off, but all he had managed was to smear a thinner coat over most of the redhead's face. He wasn't a puppeteer, and he didn't use their special make up. He had no idea how to remove it, and he wasn't about to use water to try it. He'd only been in the desert twice during his life, this being the second, but once you reached Wind country, water conservation grew on you, or you died of thirst on the first day.
The key was the name the man called him.
Karura. Karura-sama. The wife of Yondaime Kazekage.
The wife he had sacrificed to their bloodthirsty Sand deity.
Karura wasn't a common name at all. And no one would address the wife of the Kazekage so familiarly, dead or not. And the Yondaime Kazekage had hair this shade, didn't he? And would Orochimaru go so far as to try to strike a deal with the younger man. So far as to try to kill him?
It took him some time to find a suitable replacement.
It took him a comparatively shorter amount of time to disfigure it in a way that simply looked like if wildlife had done what it did best and continued the circle of life. No one would notice one less thief in the desert, and if no one had told him to beware lone travelers, then it was his fault.
More of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, really, but the thief was no one, and the Kazekage was more than just a clue.
He left the body with the other two and carefully erased his steps again, returning to the man who didn't get better and didn't get worse, just seemed stuck in between as if he didn't know which way he was supposed to go.
The wound was healed- well, closed- already, even if it had taken him over two days to get it right, but there was nothing he could do about blood loss. He didn't know the man's blood type and risking to give him a transfusion, even if he had had the equipment, would have been incredibly stupid. So he waited.
As a young man, he had never believed in signs. He didn't think he would have been able to change anything back then if he had when it had mattered, because nothing could have prepared him for what happened, nothing at all. But the fact Suna's uncontrollable monster had been brought to life just around the time Kyuubi's new vessel had been conceived…
Well, he wasn't so prone to believing in casualties, now.
So, the man could survive, or he could die. He might force him to drink and he might make him to swallow whatever things he forced down his mostly unresponsive throat, but that's all he could do. If the Kazekage survived, it would be a sign that he had done the right thing, that he was supposed to go on with his plans. And if the man died…
He waited.
As the sun slowly settled down, hiding behind the horizon as irregular droplet of orange juice on the reddish, thick sky, the sign of change could have been spotted.
It began slowly, unnoticed, almost transparent in the whole being. And it was a twitch of the middle finger of the right hand.
A few other signs could also have been seen to an observant eye – the heartbeat had speeded up, making a few stops on the way, but acting like a train that slowly got back on the track. Also, the sickish blue color on the nails and lips slowly got washed away, leaving the pale skin that in the bloody sunset looked like if the man had burned during the tanning.
A few minutes later, like linked, to the twitching joined the pointing finger of the same hand. They danced for a moment in a joint of nerves, then quieted down. And it seemed that the soul had finally left the body.
Silence.
A moment later the eyes of a man opened slightly, shining with jelly-like glint and lack of recognition in the deep blackness of the pupil.
There was movement next to him, slow and non threatening. In his state, a civilian could probably have killed him with a spoon and a bit of goodwill, but he supposed if he startled the man too badly, he'd move and tear all those frail bits and pieces of flesh he'd tried so hard to heal and create on the missing places. The person next to the redhead was clad in a large cloak, a loose hood covering his features partially, save from the tips of longish blond hair.
The movement was the settling of a mask over whatever was under the hood. Once he made sure the mask was in place, he produced a canteen from somewhere under the cloak, showing it up so the man could see it rather than just edge it closer to him.
'Are you thirsty?' a man's voice asked, faintly muffled by the object covering his face.
Black eyes turned to him, starring at him with widened pupils, making the man look thoroughly drugged or just drunk with fear. He was neither.
The complete lack of understanding shook him and pushed him over the edge of subjective silence in which he tried to gain back the stolen knowledge. He heard the wind howling outside as the walls around them looked dark, brown and utterly familiar. He tasted sand.
And then, like if something had suddenly clicked in his head, he jumped up, making the defensive movement. But none of the puppets came as his chakra threads were broken and he had managed only to get up to fall down back holding tightly on his chest as the sudden sharp pain pierced through his torso. Now if that didn't count like a fail at the defense, he didn't know what did.
The man next to him jerked back at the fast movement, ready to jump at a safe distance in case an attack came, but not really unpredictably, the redhead fell to his knees again.
Of course he would have, he was surprised he made it so far as his knees, considering he had just started to show signs of recovery less than a day ago. He made a gesture as if to reach for the redhead, then seemed to think better about it.
'Please don't move like that, I healed you as best as I could, but I'm no medic. If you strain the muscles, your wounds will tear.'
The voice explained calmly. He slowly reached for the redhead again, this time not drawing back.
'I'm going to help you back down, not hurt you, so please don't stab me.'
The red-haired man didn't react at first, still holding the one pose, seeming to be tightly shut around feeling what his nerves sent him. Then the quiet crack could be heard as he gritted his teeth and slowly rose his head up to look at the person in front of him. His gaze seemed to be clouded by pain, and yet still holding onto the strings of reality with no fear, only pride and hostility. Even if he was the one who was almost touching the ground with his forehead, his gaze showed clearly that from his point of view the one who was on his knees was the cloaked ninja.
'Don't touch me.' he said with a bit strained voice, sending a clear warning of cutting off both of the arms if at least the finger had dared to push at him. Who knew what the ninja could do – maybe even paralyze him or tie him up. Everything was possible, and he couldn't risk his freedom 'Who are you?'
There was a small pause, and when the voice came again, there was a faint ting of displeasure in it.
'The one who stitched the gaping hole in your chest.' The man said tightly. 'So if you won't have me help you, then at least don't be stupid to strain the muscles on your chest. Pushups are hardly what you should be doing now.'
The redhead kept on looking at him for a little longer, then, with a loud grunt he had pushed himself from his position back again to laying at his back. The moment his body was back in the horizontal pose he let out a strained moan, as the pain not only didn't go away, but rose up in the stinging that seemed to go right through him, getting both his chest and back. Oh yes, he was stabbed through, all right. But he could do things without help of strangers.
'I don't know you.' he said finally, when the breath had returned to him. His eyes were now once again aware of their surroundings, observing the man. He had never seen such mask. He was sure it looked similar to the one of ANBU, but it was not a known pattern. Also the cloak was a cover he didn't recognize. He slowly moved one of his hands up, wiping his mouth, only to frown in disgust as he saw that his paint was still on his face, and now, partially on his palm.
'Why… did you help me?'
'When I found you, you were still alive.' the man said, the previous displeasure still clear in the tone, though now it seemed less prominent. 'Do you want water or not?'
The man had looked at him again. It seemed that before every uttered sentence he either had to get a proper look or had to think through what he was going to say. The virtue, while being very helpful in diplomacy, seemed now to slow him down. Finally, the redhead rose one of his hand in an awaiting gesture.
'Yes. Please.' he said, still not trusting him so much to drink his water, but knowing himself that he was able to recognize most of the poisons in the liquid. Years of failed trusts and beliefs led him to this like a rope. Besides, he had throat dry like the sand under his body. He could swear it started growing in his mouth like flowers and plants.
He wasn't that surprised about the fact the man knew how to be polite. He was even less surprised about the fact he didn't seem to like that little additive to the sentence very much. He didn't say anything though, merely uncorking the canteen and giving it to the redhead, then reaching to help him up.
He touched him as little as possible, apparently being strong enough to hold him half upright with only one hand supporting his upper back, seeming to be much effort involved on his part.
This time the redhead didn't give him much of a glance, instead his attention was pulled to the canteen.
He was tempted to take a good long swing of it, but he knew it was like diving into the dark waters without knowing how deep the lake was. So at first he had wetted his lips. As after five seconds they didn't seem to be going numb or stinging, he finally took the pleasure of swallowing one sip of the water. And gods, it tasted good. There was no happy man under the sun who didn't taste water on the desert while knowing the taste of thirst.
Now even the touching of the man stopped being so intrusive. Seeing as he really had no ill intentions – or at least, for now – the redhead had let his muscles finally relax a bit. His chest throbbed as he took the second and third sip, but there was no helping to this. At the fourth gulp the canteen was back to its owner hands.
'What were you doing there?' he asked, once again observing the mask. It was a bit foxy, reminded him of old masks of secret forces that ninja villages had somewhere in the past. It was interesting that someone had courage to wear something of similar look. 'That passage is not something that's used every week.'
On the desert such frequency was quite a lot.
The blond man didn't answer right away, instead lowering him back to lay on what seemed to be a folded shirt. Not the redhead's own, as it had been hastily ripped and used to stop the worst of the hemorrhage and then discarded when the blonde finally had time to properly wrap the wounds up on bandages. It didn't smell like the masked man either.
'I saw vultures.' and he had. Not very surprising, really. He supposed the redhead had been lucky he'd been found by the birds before the ants. Those wouldn't be so easily discouraged if they had scented food. 'I went to see what had happened.'
The man had almost opened his mouth to protest at such laconic way of answering – but at the word 'vultures' his gaze sharpened, quieting his voice shut. It said more than he needed. So, his both companions were dead. The day seemed to be getting worse than it already was. He let the information go through his brain and locked it away. They were not close to him, but they were not bad people. It was a hurtful loss.
'I still don't know who are you and where are you heading.' he muttered quietly. It didn't seem they were observed, but the cloaked man had his reasons to remain mysterious and he couldn't take that away from him. His hand twitched as another jug of pain pushed through his chest with efficiency.
'If you have your reasons, I understand. As indebted, I thank you for saving my life.' he muttered, then glanced upwards, frowning lightly, but without annoyance. 'May I at least know your name? I want to know whom to search for when I'll want to show you my gratitude.'
'I'm looking for things of value.' the (for all appearances) blond man answered, sitting on his knees in a formal, yet relaxed way. 'The ruins seemed as good a place as any.'
He didn't answer the question about his name, but at the same time he also didn't seem to really notice he hadn't, instead, the hood moved slightly, revealing the slits for the eyes on the mask. Unlike most of the figures, these were open, instead of closed in the usual squint, but there wasn't enough light for whatever sort of eye color to show. If there were eyes under the mask at all, that is.
'I trust you won't be trying to move too soon?'
The man's frown seemed to deepen, but he broke the eye contact with looking to his side and observing the walls around them. The mask with opened eyes had put his senses to alert – if there was no need for one to have them it didn't have any. The ninja could be as well one of the eye genjutsu masters. The legends of the famous rinnegan were enough to make anyone feel uneasy at such sight.
But at the same time he gained a useful information. The man was a gold digger - if not adventurer to that. It could only mean he was either a man whose village had been destroyed and he was one of few survivors, or that he was a missing nin. The option of being a civilian had already been crossed out as the person already said that there was medical healing used. He didn't dare to ask about which one the man really was.
'Only if you will tell me where are we.' He muttered, finding an interesting spot on the wall and looking at it 'Otherwise, I will have to look myself.'
'I don't think this is any particular sort of place.' the man said as he studied the more guarded expression of the redhead. Apparently he was completely coherent. What a wonder, after so much blood loss.'We are in some sort of natural cave in the grounds. I brought you here because it seemed better than staying too close to where I found you. As for better landmarks…' a hand reached up, touching the man's chest more or less at the same height the redhead's wounds was, only the cloaked man seemed to be fingering something under the material of the bandages. 'There is an oasis about five hours into the western lands, I don't know what the local name for it might be, I just called it 'lucky me'. Sunagakure is about eight hours to the southeast.'
The redhead's hand had immediately shot up, catching the hand on his chest in a steely grip as the full attention was back to the masked face. The man was once again looking at him with deeply warrant stare, filled with confusion, and maybe a hint of fear, mixed with more or less strain. The pale skin paled one tone even more.
'What do you think you're doing?' he whispered, getting an even tighter hold on the hand over his wound 'This hurts.'
And it resembled so vividly of his nightmare he couldn't help but have a very unpleasant déjà vu. If anything, he didn't want anyone's fingers in his wounds. He breathed now quicker, letting the other information slip inside his head like droplets of water. Eight hours from Sunagakure? It sounded like if the man had walked away for at least two hours, which was quite a distance, considering that he had to carry his body and walk at the undisturbed pace. He counted the dots on his internal map and searched for the oasis. He found one, just on the way there. It wasn't 'lucky me' of any kind, even if any oasis could be named like that. It was Isis' Tear. Funny, he thought that sands had already covered it completely.
The hand immediately stopped what it was doing.
'…well, maybe you should have thought of that before trying to play 'who was half dead yesterday yet jumping around today'.' The masked man pointed, making a gesture with his chin towards the redhead's chest. Under his hand, blood was spreading sluggishly. 'You ripped something open.'
The man had looked at the spreading blood with a grimace that showed both displeasure and pain, then he immediately let go of the hand he was holding.
'I'm sorry.' he muttered quietly as he looked to the side, biting at his lower lip. He felt very uneasy already about the fact he had done something so careless, but the thing that he was at complete mercy of the stranger put him into pure embarrassment. That's not how the great Kazekage was supposed to be. And yet, that was the sad truth. It was good that the man didn't know who he was. Because then his status would be put into very deserved questioning.
If he didn't know better, the masked man would say this apology was actually meaningful. But of course, even if it had been, it was for his own well being. And the truth was, he should have warned him of what he was doing. He'd just been distracted, thinking what he could have done- He should have remembered the man was a Kage level ninja, half dead or not. His wrist throbbed lightly as a reminder, and he resisted the urge to rub at it.
The next few moment were spent in the silence barely interrupted by him removing bandages and carefully tearing away the pad he'd put on the wound. He hadn't really had anything at hand better than some standard disinfectant powder so he'd had to cover the wound as carefully as possible to prevent infection or flies from getting to it. He was pleased to see the skin didn't look abnormally red (or yellow, purple, green, blue), but it was still bleeding. From here, he had no idea if it was because superficial tissues had been damaged, or he'd ripped his best efforts at mending pierced lungs.
'Do you have blood in your lungs?' he asked bluntly, figuring the man would probably know better. Taste it, at least.
The redhead had moved quietly his tongue over his own teeth. No, he couldn't taste any blood. But he was ready to admit that he did, if only to have the wound covered. He couldn't look at it, he was never damaged so much at this area. It looked like if he was not only at losing position, but as if he was dying. Even if he felt that he was still in this life, the looks didn't make it be any more convincing.
'No.' he said, turning his gaze away 'Can you fix this?'
'I've been fixing it for the past days.' the man said, seemingly unaware of the redhead's discomfort as he dabbed the blood with the pad to be able to look at the split skin. 'It's just a disaster of a wound that doesn't want to close right. Your chakra is probably messed up after such a beating, so it's taking longer to heal.' He pressed his hand over the wound again, more carefully this time, the other joining it quickly as a light green glow enveloped the area.
'At least the one in your lungs seems to have closed all right… If I had thread, I wouldn't even worry with this.' He would have just stitched it close, then. He had briefly considered cauterizing the wound when he'd first brought the surprisingly still breathing redhead to this cave, but he'd been so weak he'd been afraid the shock would be what killed him. It seemed like too much a risk for a skin wound.
The black eyes looked at him for a long quiet moment. Then out of the blue, both of the healing hands were slapped away.
'What kind of man are you that you treat me with kids gloves? Do you think I can't take any pain?' he said finally, and made a hand seal. The chakra flashed at the brim of his fingers vividly, but then it died, leaving him with nothing. He was never good at it. Especially now, when his state was weakened. Black gaze once again had moved to the man, this time with pure demand shining in them, as he laid his hands over the torn skin.
'Burn it.' he rasped, frowning. The pain that vibrated from the opened skin on the thick desert air was more than maddening. He knew that he was able to bear it now, but if he was to be at mercy of that man and at risk of it opening again for another few days, he would go crazy. He couldn't lie here. He had a village to take care of. Who knew where Orochimaru and his followers went and what did they keep on planning.
'Cauterize it till there's only black skin and nothing else. And if you think I can't take it, then you're deeply mistaken.'
The cloaked man was glad for the mask, because it helped hide a not exactly endearing smile he directed at the redhead's antics. Fifteen years and not a single change, nothing he could point at, really.
More scars, and possibly more lines on his face, but the smeared paint was keeping those from being too noticeable. And not a fucking single white hair.
It wasn't fair. The blond knew that with his coloring he would naturally get them younger, one couldn't go against nature like that, but that this man didn't had a single one he could account for seemed somewhat unfair.
'I simply kept it open in case the wound underneath opened again.' he said tactfully instead, mopping the blood when it started gathering at the sudden movement. When he was done, he simply used a hand seal to gather chakra to mimic the man's previous actions. 'If you are so sure you won't be splitting a lung open again…'
The redhead cracked a smile, looking at the glowing chakra on both of the hands of his so called medic.
'Of course I'm not sure.' he muttered. How could he be? He hadn't got the slightest idea how the man had sealed it shut and he himself said he was not good at it. So it was highly possible that it would spill open. After all, if he didn't feel anything now didn't mean he won't be feeling it later. 'But there's only one way to see how it will work, right?'
The wind blew, making him feel the surroundings even more. His smile quickly diminished at the pain, but instead of letting it drill through him, he moved both of his own hands over his shirt and split it open as much as he could.
'Do it!' he shouted in a command he used when he wanted the immediate obedience. If the man didn't, he was ready to steer his hands onto his chest himself.
'Ah yes, the local's gratitude.' the man said nicely enough, yet it was impossible to ignore the thick mocking undertone. And really, why not? He might split a lung open again, sure, but somehow he doubted it. If his royal Highness was already up to throw a tantrum, he sincerely doubted he'd die overnight. If he remembered to stay still, that is.
'Stuff of legends.'
And he pressed his fingers to the wide slash so close to the center of the redhead's chest.
The major spasm went through the body underneath him as the first reaction for pain was to get away from the thing causing it – and yet, the redhead managed to stay in place, only nailing his very short fingernails into the flesh of the cloaked man as he kept on holding onto him. At the first second he had only closed his eyes, gritting his lips so harshly it seemed that at least some teeth should break under the pressure. A moment later the dull moan started vibrating from his clenched voice chords as he did nothing to let it out loud.
'Not yet…' he groaned not unclenching his jaw, and on his own pushed the burning palms closed to the wounded body. He felt the blood trickling and he knew the man was doing it very shallowly. Maybe he wanted to give him a good roasting and tried to be careful, but he had none of it. He liked things done quick and if that meant they had to be done rough, it was fine.
Even if it had to hurt like that.
Another spasm went through his body as the short nails bit to the blood. His eyes opened showing the very clean whites, clearly pointing at the border line of pain and consciousness. And when the redhead looked like if he was about to faint, the pale hands pushed at the masked man and threw him away.
'Thanks.' He rasped through heavy breathing, slowly wiping the sweat from his eyebrow, then collapsing on the ground, boneless. 'Sorry.'
The dark-clad male caught himself against the opposite wall, staying in that position for a moment before gathering himself, but the redhead didn't give any signs of getting up anytime soon. He relaxed a bit at the sight of the man lying limp in the improvised pallet.
The blond walked back next to the wounded man as he cradled his wrist, the limb he held shaking lightly. The thin stripes of blood were nothing to worry about, shallow as they were, but the strength behind the grasp shocked him. He could still move it, but it hurt a bit, and he was sure it would swell in the next few minutes. If he'd grabbed him at the joint between wrist and hand, he had the feeling his hand would have popped out of place like an uncorked bottle.
'You know…' the mask stared down focusing for a moment on the faintly bloodied lips, but that was just a reaction to having them bitten that way- he didn't think the man had accidentally split a lung open.
How was he going to explain anything to such a man?
'…I think I liked you better when you were unconscious.'
The black stare had only shifted to look at him, as the man didn't do the slightest effort to do any movement, including shielding himself up from eventual backslash for what he did.
'Then knock me out.' he muttered faintly, but his nose worked too quick to foreshadow sleep or lack of consciousness 'It's not like I can do anything if you tried to kill me, nameless stranger.'
'I haven't been feeding you water for the past four days just to kill you, little bird.' the man in the cloak said easily sliding down to cross-legged position next to the redhead, hands holding his chin up.
'Or did you want to die?'
The man's head cocked slightly towards the right in a questioning stand, the action a bit more animalistic and expressive because of the static features of the mask.
The redhead's breath had stopped right in the middle of an inhale, as his whole attention focused on the mask. He felt alerted at the strange cutesy nickname that was suddenly spelt at him, that could only indicate that if anything, the person who was standing near him found him as threatening as the mentioned 'little bird'. It felt insulting, but yet, the feeling of scare was much more overwhelming. Especially as the cloaked man did… that. That movement.
Maybe he was too careless to trust him on staying as safe as he was for saving him. Maybe it was not a good natured person. Some people saved others only to take the happiness in watching them writhing in pain. For no reason.
Who said that village-less ninjas had to be sane? Crazy people were banished exactly for being unsociable. Now the worst he could do was to anger the man, if he really was not the person he wanted to see.
'I don't understand what you are talking about.' he muttered in a calm, hushed tone, trying to speak to him like to a child which needed soothing. He was not a very good father so it still didn't sound very kind. The Suna accent was not helping, but he tried. 'Why did you help me, then?'
'I mean I fed you like a bird.' the man said, making a small gesture with his hands as if to illustrate the point. 'Tilted your head back, poured water, made sure it didn't go to your lungs and all of that.'
He noticed the way the man was looking at him, rather than the tone. If anything, the situation seemed funny. Was Suna's majesty afraid of him? Not that he blamed him… he was pretty defenseless at this particular moment.
'…Well, you were better…have you ever tried to feed a baby bird? It's disgusting, they only start looking cute after a few weeks, before that they look like horrible bits of stuff with a giant mouth.'
The first time he had tried to feed the baby bird, it had snapped its beak open so wide and so suddenly he'd thought it had been trying to turn his head inside out. He had screamed and ran away for several minutes before daring to try again.
'You kept me alive for four days?' the redhead said, then closed his eyes like if he had just found a pencil he had lost and he was searching for many hours just right behind his ear. 'How rude of you to say those things.'
Then, with a grunt of pain, he turned to the side and caught a wall, only to start climbing up on his legs, using it as a support.
'I have to go back to the Sunagakure.' he said as he had finally managed to get up on his knees. 'I'm not sorry that you saw me as a screeching bird, but I'm indebted with your gratitude and if you want to get something for that, come by sometime. You will know where to find me.'
He was ready to dismiss everything to not start getting into the word battle with a stranger. He seemed to get weirder with every minute that passed by, telling stories about birds and comparing him to them. Not a moment will pass and he will start blaming him for the similarity and will try to snatch his throat to get peace of mind.
'I just said that you are more pleasant a thing to keep alive.' the man said, following his movement with the mask, his tone faintly amused. 'Comparatively speaking, that is.'
He watched the man struggle for a moment, making a sort of annoyed huff before getting up and walking up to him. He was pleased to note he was at least half a head taller than the redhead.
'We are on solid rocky cliff. If you insist on leaving, I'm going to have to take you down from here.' he pointed up, remaining close to the redhead, barely out of touching distance. 'And there are few ways I can do that without aggravating your wounds.'
Slinging one of the man's arms over his shoulders was out of question; it would pull not only the just cauterized skin of his chest, but also the one on his lungs. Slinging him over one shoulder would result on him digging his shoulder in more or less the same area, so that only left two options available.
He was nice enough to wait for the redhead to the same conclusion.
The man looked at him for a moment in complete silence. Then suddenly his face has turned into the mask of abhor. With one move, he turned around and started walking toward the exit.
'Thank you, but I will do it myself.' he muttered on his way 'My wound is not bleeding anymore and believe it or not, I'm skilled enough to climb down on my own.'
He was the damned Kazekage after all. After a murder attempt, but the title was binding. Besides, he still couldn't agree on the light way the man put things into existence. Words like 'fun', 'lucky' and 'nice' were not things he used to describe such situations.
'I never said you weren't. I'm just implying you had a sword go through a lung, not skimmed or grazed or poked. Clean through. And then had it healed by a non professional.'
He followed him, maintaining the same distance.
'Not that having you hacking up blood the first couple day wasn't entertaining, but I think that it would be a better idea to bear with it for six seconds instead of forcing yourself to climb down. And besides… You are still going to have to walk eight hours.'
And the sun had gone down, but the man could barely keep himself upright.
'I have the feeling you should save your strength.'
'That's correct. You're right.' said the red-haired man as he finally walked up to the hole that could be named as the entrance. The light was gone, turned into the velvet covered with thousands of millions pearls and diamonds. The endless lake of treasures. 'I should save my strength.'
He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the cold air. It smelled of home and it was the most right scent on the world. The cold temperature worked like the sweetest balm on his burned skin. The pretty moment.
He let it pass. Then he looked down.
Now that was surely a high cliff. Nothing he wouldn't be able to handle, for sure. Not that he felt so freshened right now. With calm expression he looked down at himself. His naked torso looked still too horrible for his own tastes. He turned around to ask about the place of hiding of his own shirt, but when he saw the animalistic mask shining in the starlight, he decided against it. The cloaked figure looked now like a messenger of death itself, and he didn't want to check himself if he could win with gods. Maybe the man wasn't there at all, and he was now stuck in his own private hell of afterlife.
He blinked and let the hand he used for support against the wall fall down to his thigh. From the position he was in, only the whites of his eyes could be seen on the light of the sky.
'But I don't trust you enough to give up myself willingly to the hands of someone like you.'
And as carefully as he could, the redhead kneeled down and slowly moved his feet over the vertical wall. When he found the place he could stand on, he lowered himself down, losing the man from his sight.
There was silence from the top of the cliff.
Of course he wouldn't trust him. It was in the man's nature to be stubborn and distrustful, and yet…
An ivory face with blue markings peeked over the edge
'I feel like if I should stop you.' the man said, tone back to quiet thoughtfulness '…you are walking into a snake's nest."
Despite the words, he didn't seem particularly inclined to move from where he was, or actively try to do anything to the man climbing down.
The redhead didn't look up. He was too busy trying to find the supportive crack on the wall for his hands. He hadn't climbed down enough to say he was doing it right and he was already feeling the strain on his burns. Gods damn it.
'The desert snakes live in the sands.' he muttered when he finally found the crack on his left and lowered himself more 'You won't scare me like that, I know this place like my own hand.'
Though he couldn't wear off the unpleasant similarity the word snake held to the man of long hair and tongue. That bastard was going to pay.
'Do you?' the man shifted a little, a few strands of fair hair slipping in between the mask and the hood 'Then why hasn't anyone come search for you, yet?'
That made the man stop for a brief second. But after frowning, the redhead resumed on climbing down.
'Maybe because I was assumed to have died in battle.' he answered simply. If he could, he'd shrug, but that gesture would have cost him a broken neck 'I'm a ninja, it's common for the likes of me to vaporize in a jutsu. Nobody cares what has happened to the body.'
And the real answer moved him much more.
He knew that if anything, he was the prime man of the country and the searching parties should have been started no longer than three hours after his disappearance. He made sure of that to inform his two most trusted ANBUs to make sure of it if he didn't come back before that time. When he was stabbed to death, he had taken the pill that slowed his body functions, including the blood circulation, so he could have hoped for being rescued before he had bled to death. But instead of waking up in his own room or hospital, he was eight hours away from Sunagakure and at mercy of some stranger who decided to help him out of unspoken whim (well, not anymore, he was now climbing down).
Searching parties should have had found him on the second day the latest, eight hours was nothing for his ninjas on those deserts. And even if the man had hidden him, he should be able to see the traces of smoke coming up the sky in sign that the alerted state of the country has happened. Instead, when he had rose his head to look at the direction of his village, only the silent starry sky greeted him, and nothing more.
Almost like if nothing was there.
The whole village couldn't have died in the four days, right?
Dear gods, he hoped Orochimaru didn't make sure to make it so. He put the foot down on another crack and slipped, sliding down a few meters, while scrapping his hands on the pat surface. When his fingers had finally caught on another crack, he was missing a fingernail on his third finger of left hand.
And it hurt like bitch, only not so much as his burned chest he had also wiped on the wall. He groaned in pain.
Shit.
There was another huff, somewhat amplified by the mask, and then the masked man was next to him. Not being half dead had its perky advantages, like being able to control one's chakra and stick to surfaces easily.
Without a word- and certainly not waiting for any cooperation- he grabbed the man by the hips and yanked him away from the rocky unevenness of the wall like he would have done a particularly stubborn cat.
Keeping the man close wasn't a very advisable situation, if one had any options available, as the scene with trying to cauterize his wound had already stated rather clearly. Thinking it the best option, he kept the man's back to his chest, one arm sweeping to circle him around the legs to pin them, the other holding his lower back.
It was over two dozen meters free fall after that, and for a moment he was worried the redhead's considerable weight would upset his balance, but thankfully he aimed the correct amount of chakra to his legs. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but he was able to land the both of them on the ground, or the bit of it around the jagged and heat-split rocks allowed one to see.
The rocks were still unpleasantly heated, even more so than the cave.
'There, was that so terrible?'
He immediately planted the man on the burning rock, giving him the two feet of personal space he seemed to be intent on maintaining unless it was absolutely necessary.
'You are too stubborn.' the masked man said in displeasure, smoothing the edges of the large cloak. 'All redheads seem to be.'
There was silence after that, the man seeming content to stare at the wounded man, shaking his head at the sight of sand and tiny bits of quartz embedded on raw skin.
'I'll give you advice, not that I think you will follow it.' he said in the same displeased tone, as if the redhead had done something to personally offend him. If he had, it would be difficult to say what could it have been, because he had obviously known the wounded nin would get hurt trying to climb down the cliff.
'I won't try to convince you to trust me either, I can already tell it's not going to work. Instead I will tell you to trust your natural lack of trust for everyone, and not go to Suna. But as you are going to go anyway…'
There was a faint rustle as he looked inside his robe, producing the same shirt he had removed from the man he had murdered to have a proper coverage for the man's disappearance.
'You might know your lands, but you obviously don't know your people. They haven't looked for you, because you never went missing… There's someone with your face sitting in your chair, and please don't think your council didn't know it, because they are ninja too. And the only reason they haven't come finish the job is because they think you are dead already.'
The redhead looked at him, his eyes widening every passing second as the man talked. His help at the climbing was so sudden he had went completely stupid and let his actually move himself around like a rag doll, even if he still held in both of his hands a piece of rock he held onto when the man had simply scrapped him off the wall. He was about to ask what was so outstanding in the color of his hair that it was mentioned along with some other unknown redheads who had shared bad opinion with him, but the words died at his mouth at the upcoming sentences.
The man knew. The man knew who he was.
And more, he seemed to know much more about what was happening in his home than he himself. And it made so much sense it was terrifying. He was sure he hadn't given himself away; he still had the cheap make up on his face also. But about his people, he didn't know.
'How…' he asked finally, observing him with intense gaze, trying to pierce through the foxy mask 'How do you… who are you?'
There was silence, from the dark figure for a few seconds, as the man thought over his words.
'…I'm called Ono.' The voice said, the anger slipping from his voice as if it had never been there. 'And I know because you can't be in two places at the same time, not with the wounds you had and no clones to account for.' If he had been a clone or a genjutsu, either would have dispelled.
'I was looking for Orochimaru and I found you, so I take he didn't like your answer to whatever he proposed.' The odd thing was that the Kazekage's council had apparently liked it enough to agree to have their kage replaced by an S ranked criminal.
'I'd think better about going back now. I'd think better about going back at all, Kazekage-sama.' The man said gravelly, turning around and slowly starting to walk away. 'Your only safety remains on the fact you don't need to kill a man who is already dead. Alive you are a threat to whatever they are planning.'
Hopefully that would be blunt enough, even for a redhead.
'Think about it… If you are still alive by then, I might have a proposition for you, should you wish to talk to me again.'
With a hand seal, the clone was gone. The cloak remained, being carried by the cool night wind for a couple meters before pooling on the edge of an utterly sun burnt bush.
The red-haired man stared in silence at the spot where the man was standing right a moment before and let the wind play with his hair as it blew, giving him chills. Nights on the desert were cold.
Ono-san. So his name was Ono-san.
It didn't tell him anything, but was a shown respect he learned to appreciate. He straightened, letting the stones in his hands fall right to his sides and walked up to the shirt that was left in the sand, the shirt of unknown ninja. It was a bit too big in waist and too small in the arm width, showing him that it indeed wasn't his shirt. But it suited. He wore it, looking at the starry sky, seeing the Northern Star that pointed right at the direction of his village. The village that thought of him dead.
After a moment, he looked down at the remaining cloak also. It flapped quietly on the wind, showing him that wind was careless, chilly and completely oblivious to everything. He closed the distance between himself and the object, and, after feeling the texture of it in his hands, he wore it like a second skin.
'Daichi.' He muttered, as he had hidden his face in the black cowl. 'And my name is Daichi.'
He smiled faintly, feeling the material fluttering around him and the hood covering his face. The cloth was too big and hid him completely. All the better.
In silence, with his eyes only for one direction, the Suna's Fourth Kazekage started the long march toward his home.
#+#+#+#+#+#
The sun was lazily traveling up from its bed shed when the small dot of a cloaked figure had finally reached the brims of Suna. The sky shone in the vast tangelo color that had both greeted and parted every inhibitor of the desert. It didn't mean much, because every day was hot and the signs of a change were read from the air. But this time the message to the redhead was negatively clear. The journey that should have taken him eight hours took him ten – he was cold after the night and dehydrated after the long march. To add to that, his chest still hurt like hell and just didn't want to stop. He regretted burning his skin so deeply.
The idea of staying under the care of someone else seemed to be now much more than tempting. But he didn't dare to think about that too much. It was not time for such wishes. Even if seeing the village intact and silent actually wounded him much more than the deep skin burns. The worst from it all was the jounin who slept awake on his guard, like if nothing on the earth had happened. Like if his life didn't mean anything to his people.
'Is that to what I'm sacrificing myself for?' he whispered under his breath with a bitter expression, and quietly turned to the side. He was not going to enter the village from the front. He was aware of the cloaked man's ('Ono-san's' he refined himself) words, but he was not that stupid to dismiss all warnings that came with them. One was never careful enough after his own death.
The door which he opened, lied in the sands, invisible for anyone who didn't know they were there. He built them himself when nobody was looking, through many sleepless nights. Gods knew he had reasons to stay awake.
After entering the seamless glass that looked like a bubble soap, he heard the door behind him closing under the mountain of earth and dust, while the lines of the same door appeared in front of him, proposing him an exit. It was an old teleporting jutsu. Some of the youngsters didn't remember it and called it even 'magic'. People were ignorant toward their heritage these days.
He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, listening to his own breath. Everything is going to be all right. A lie, but nothing else was that much soothing as a positive thinking in complete silence.
When the moment was gone, he opened the door to the new room. The rich opened spaces greeted him with familiarity. Everything was on its destined place.
Only it wasn't, because he had never left the bed undone like that. Or he had never had cracked glass in the photos. And certainly he had never broke his father's vase and left the porcelain lay on the floor to stain the Persian carpet.
He felt the helplessness falling on him like a heavy, soaked curtain, as he knew he couldn't do anything to repair this. His things were not his anymore. Someone had lived here for him.
And he had the good idea who it could be. His despair grew as he saw that his finest, whitest sheets were now laying squeezed out on the floor, but it was also stained. With semen.
But before he could show his displeasure, he heard the quick steps coming toward the direction of his room. Without much of thinking, he grabbed the small decorative knife he had always kept behind the mirror – it held little to no value as a decoration as it was too unwieldy and too old to look good, and as a weapon it was as good as sharpened kunai.
He never used it, because it belonged to his grandfather – the distant man who left the feeling of cruel coldness even at the brim of the brightest day, but now it was the only thing he could reach for from this spot not making it look suspicious. As quietly as he could he crept back behind the invisible door (thanks gods, he didn't close them after he entered the room. He rarely used them so he was not very careful with it). A few seconds later, through the tight crevice of the door-frame, he saw… himself.
And he was naked, obscurely naked, with his finest sheet tied around his waist like if it was a mere towel, with hair wet and dripping with such a waste of water he could barely breathe. A few steps away, the figure of his youngest son walked behind him, waddling a bit from the heaviness of the gourd that rarely left him since his birth. He felt his blood running cold at the sight.
'Gaara, my child.' spoke 'Daichi' from the other side with strangely seductive tone – as inappropriate as his wear, if not worse (the redhead felt blood freezing in his veins as the gaze of that man turned toward Gaara, holding nothing but unfulfilled need, wondering for once to whom really the stains on the sheets belonged. It couldn't be his youngest, right?) 'You know I care about you, even if I don't show it too much… please, bring forth your gratitude as son and do me a favor.'
The boy did nothing, but stood there, looking at him with mint cold glare, so full of hate and remorse, like always.
The 'Daichi' didn't seem to be moved by that to the slightest.
'Please, help me conquer the Konoha in the nearest future.'
Daichi felt his heart stopping its beat. Konoha? That… imitation of a doppelganger wanted to attack Konoha? Was this person completely crazy? But then he saw the yellow flash in his mirrored eyes and he knew he couldn't lie to himself anymore. Orochimaru just didn't go away. And if anyone was crazy enough to do such things, it was him.
He moved his gaze at his youngest child, feeling that whatever happened now, he couldn't stop it, no matter how much he wanted it.
'Gaara, my child.' started the man again. The kid twitched, the movement almost indistinguishable. But he knew the symptoms and ticks of his better than anyone. He was his supervisor for most of the time. 'Such a gifted person as you should know better than waste your talent-'
'You are not my father.' sounded in with a heavy asthmatic voice, interrupting. The slick, seductive smile froze on the perfectly copied lips, showing, if anything, signs of shock. The redhead didn't do anything to change his position. 'I don't know who you are.'
'You-' started the double with completely different tone of voice, sounding this time so much more like the original owner 'If you will tell anyone-'
'I will help you destroy Konoha.' Interrupted again. 'Daichi' once again stopped, looking at the red-haired kid with pleasant surprise. 'And then I will kill you for trying to lie to me and taking away everything I never had.'
And he walked away. He had imagined it, for sure, but he could have sworn that the minty gaze that never looked to the sides searching for enemies, turned left and looked directly at him. He felt his knees going weak.
But he couldn't let himself be overwhelmed by the situation as the second person had still been there, and if he had dared to breathe louder, his cover would be blown. For a moment he thought that the fake was also looking at him, but then his posture had turned away and shamelessly untied the sheets, letting the expensive object fall on the floor, uncovering his back completely. The moment later another person entered the room, much to his distaste it was a servant he had always been fond of. He was also quite young, the favorite child of the service.
'Sajin, my child.' said his voice from the side of the room he could not see. It was much deeper now and much more seductive than he would have liked 'Come here and be my pleasure for the good beginning of this sacred day.'
He saw the servant, little brown-haired boy move reluctantly.
'Run!' he wanted to shout at him 'Run, or you will regret it!' but then the tray that was held in small hands fell on the floor and the boy has almost leapt toward the figure he could not see.
'Kazekage-sama!' he heard spoken in childish, frail voice, so young, too young, and too excited for its own good 'Oh, Kazekage-sama!... I admired you from so long!...'
He closed his eyes. Oh, dear lords.
And when the long morning was over and both user and the used one took their own paths, he finally dared to close the door shut and let out the horrified sound.
He could not speak of how much he dreaded what has happened and how he feared of what he still did not see.
'The library.' He muttered in a croaky voice, turning to the door. 'Take me to the library.'
And he didn't waste his time anymore.
#+#+#+#+#+#
The Moon shone coldly with its tiniest piece on the duke blue sky, ignoring him, mocking him, living away from everyone else's problems. He never felt much more alone than through the journey he took through the desert, going along with the whispering noises of scorpions and cooking atmosphere of the highest temperatures. This time it took him above twelve hours of non-stopping walk to get back to the place he went back from, both the cause being the heaviness of his provisional luggage filled with scrolls, clothes he held in his spare closet near the training grounds and everything he found obtainable and yet, valuable through the spying around his own house – and also the fact he lost the way when the sun went down and covered all traces that he could recognize in the daylight.
He was lucky (ha, 'lucky me', he thought pitifully) that he had finally found the dry bush to which he said goodbye this morning. Instead he would have probably died wandering in the sands. His chest hurt like if he had nails stabbed through it, his hands were numb from carrying too much and his legs had blisters from walking under the worst temperature on the most hot sands. He looked at the lonely plant and spreaded his hands, letting his luggage fall down on the sand. A breath later he also fell down on his knees, uncovering his head from the cowl on the chilly night air. His road ended here. He had nowhere else to go.
'Please' he muttered, rising his gaze toward the crevice on the cliff as there were not many other objects he could look at 'Please, Ono-san… I don't know what to do. I have nowhere to go. I'm alone. Help me.'
And when nobody answered, he had bended on his fours and cried.