Duplicitous
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"Why didn't you do it?" A voice hissed, dark, ominous and raspy.
"Do what?" He knew what. He just wouldn't admit it.
"Kill him. Why didn't you kill him?" The voice lowered dangerously. He was losing his patience.
"I couldn't."
"Why?" The voice continued to question relentlessly. He wouldn't give up until receiving a fathomable answer.
"I couldn't." He repeated.
"You won't defeat him without it. Your strength will not match his."
"I don't care." There was a hint of anger in his tone.
"Without it you are weak."
"I don't care." Why wouldn't he just drop the argument and let him be?
"You won't defeat him." The voice sounded haunting. It was worming its way into his mind. The words repeated themselves over and over in his head.
"It's not worth his life." Confidence. It was distinct in the way he spoke. Even at the risk of being unable to accomplish his life-long ambition, he would not kill that boy.
Silence…
"There is another way." The voice dulled to a whisper.
"Tell me." Unhesitant. He was willing to do anything.
"It can be acquired in a different way. Although the method still involves death."
"Tell me." He was not fazed.
"Sasuke," Cold, duplicitous eyes met with obsidian hues. "Would you be willing to put aside the lives of a Mother and child to accomplish your goal?"
He spoke without faltering. His decision was made. "Yes."
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He felt cold. Colder than he'd felt in a long time. The air around him was dry and icy, and stung with every leap he took. Everywhere his gaze fell upon was encased in ice and snow. There was no flora visible. No trees, bushes or dirt. Even the sky was painted a pure ashen. It was like running through death.
With every breath he forced out of his lungs, a small puff of oxygen appeared. It hung in the air, coiling and billowing in the frosty atmosphere, before dispersing into the chill. He watched the clouds of air escape his lips with blasé uninterest. Sometimes he would exhale forcefully, just to watch the larger trails of smoke encircle his face.
The sharp, frozen branches lashed at his body and left long scratches along his arms and legs. Even with the influence of his Sharingan, the bare limbs still appeared invisible. The wounds burned with each passing gust of wind, and thin lines of blood trickled out and became stiff upon contacting the cold.
He was forced to shut his eyes as a thick entwinement of twisted pines headed his way. When he burst through them, the affects wore heavy. Solid, ice-encased needles stuck to his figure, and a long, jagged slit ran across his cheek.
It was painful, but he disregarded it. His mind was set upon the mission he had to accomplish. He couldn't let himself be distracted by pain. His heart was numb and bitter. He had to make the rest of himself that way. Invulnerable.
He focused his mind on the task ahead. Little information was given, only coordinates. He was ordered to kill, hastily and mercilessly, and leave no evidence behind. Rather stupid, was his opinion on the matter. There will be blood and carcasses on the floor. How can you kill and not leave evidence?
Despite the setbacks, he was downright determined to complete this task. He had had the chance to do it before, but let it slip past, for as he had once said, it was not worth it. He was given a second chance, fortunately, but he wouldn't let this one escape.
He swore an oath at that moment, right then as he leapt from tree-to-tree in the middle of a deserted forest. He swore to achieve his goal, and let nothing stand in his way. He had been hindered before, but not this time. This time he was alone. No one could stand in his way. No one could stop him.
And as he ran through the dense forest, with only his inflated ego and iniquitous desires as company, he let his mind wander.
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The cottage was partially buried beneath a layer of thick snow. The surrounding foliage acted as an embrace over the diminutive house, and camouflaged it completely. Nevertheless, he was able to find it with ease.
He sprung onto the roof, crouched low, and ducked behind the small chimney. All senses were on immediate alert for any noises or indications that someone was near. Even though it was obvious due to the dark clouds of smoke billowing from the chimney.
And yet, he remained rigid. He had to be completely sure, for despite his animosity, he did not want to go through this again. He had been raised only to slaughter who had wronged him in the past, but that didn't make him a killer. He was growing colder and more powerful with each passing day, but that didn't give him the right to selfishly murder the innocent.
He would only do this once.
Slowly, nimbly, he slipped off of the roof and hit the ground soundlessly. The two feet of snow underfoot made it harder for him to walk, but it also silenced his footsteps.
It took him only a second to find the door. Like the rest of the cottage, it was small and made of smooth, polished wood. The knob was of brass, and in it he could clearly see his reflection staring back at him. There was a sign above the door. A hand-carved sign with a piece of wire hooked around it.
With numb, pale fingers, he gently pushed away the ice clinging to the sign, so the words upon it could be visible. It was painted in a young mans' messy scrawl; the letters were mashed together, many of them backwards, but the word itself spoke great meaning. Irasshai. A formal welcome.
Unconsciously, he ran his thumb over the letters. The paint had peeled and worn out over time, and he found it quite easy to pick off the crumbling specks. He removed his hand from the sign, and brought it down to the pouch strapped to his leg. Quiet as he could, he snapped it open and plucked out a long, sharp kunai knife.
His favorite. He had received it several years ago, back when he was still an Academy student. The other children just thought of it as a practice weapon, but he came to realize that it was far more than that. It was a symbol of his skills; it represented what he would do, how he would do it, and how far he would go. It was his first ninja weapon, and he treasured it.
It showed many signs of use. The pointed end was not as sharp as it once had been, and even though he took great care in cleaning all of his weapons, there were still stains of blood on it. It was like they always said; once you kill, you're stained forever.
He ran the kunai along his finger to ensure it would do a commendable job. The end pricked and left a small gash on the surface of his skin. Warm crimson liquid seeped from it and ran down his finger to pool in his palm. Yes, this will do the job.
He raised his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood clean, shuddering as the metallic taste streaked across his tongue. It was time. No more hesitating; it was now or never. There was no turning back.
He extended his hand just barely above the sign and let it hover there, though only for a second, before delivering a sharp knock to the surface. The sound that followed echoed in his ears like a gong being hit a thousand times. It hurt.
There was silence from inside. The sound of slight shuffling was hardly audible, and then the knob turned, and the door creaked open only ajar.
"Hello?" A woman stood there. A short, slender woman with long brown hair. The Mother. Brown eyes flickered across the face of the tall boy, fine brows furrowing curiously.
"Who are-" she was cut short as he arbitrarily clenched his kunai and dug it deep into her neck. Eyes widened, pupils dilated and became lifeless, mouth opened agape. She gasped once, coughed, and fell forward. Dead.
He twisted the knife in her flesh and quickly tugged it out. The woman limply fell against him, and he took it upon himself to spare a moment to set her gently on the ground. Blood gushed from the wound rapidly, pouring onto the ground and trailing across the wooden floors, staining them a deep scarlet.
One down, one to go.
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The house was quiet. Much too quiet. It would almost seem as if the woman were the only one inhabiting the home. Had he not seen the many toys and infant items scattered about, he would have immediately assumed that.
Albeit the most apt to harm had been killed (The Mother, even though she didn't appear too threatening,) he still thought it most wise to shuffle within the shadows and remain silent and unknown. He knew from experience that children had sensitive hearing, and also possessed a knack for hiding in small, over-looked places.
As his dark obsidian orbs scanned the area, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of person possibly lived in this house. He was the type who based their first impressions on how a person lives. Where they dwell says a lot about them.
Whoever resided here was obviously very flaky, sloppy and negligent, and it was evident due to the piles of trash, toys and dirty clothes scattered about. There were moldy cups here and there, some so old that the labels were indecipherable.
There were small messily-jotted notes stuck unkemptly on every wall, most of them written in the same uphill chicken scratch. The letters were meshed together and most of them were spelled incorrectly, much like the sign on the door. These, however, appeared to be written in adult hand, for it was moderately neater.
Strange. There was something oddly familiar about that writing style. But he could not place it.
The floor boards below him creaked as he nonchalantly ambled down a dark hallway. The walls of which were covered in old, fading pictures with tattered ends. What was on the pictures wasn't visible, for the dust that had collected upon them enveloped them effectively.
His foot came in contact with something solid. He tensed up immediately and ceased in mid-step. The area still remained unoccupied, he was sure of that. And as he discovered, the item he came near to tripping on turned out to be nothing but an empty, dirt encrusted infant bottle.
He roughly kicked the bottle to one side. So apparently, the child he was expected to kill was not so much a child but more an infant. He didn't know if that would make it more difficult or easy.
Killing an infant would be much easier than killing a child. Infants are quiet, motionless and unaware. It would be quite simple.
However, taking the life of a baby is a sin within a sin. Even he was brutally aware of that.
Nonetheless, he would still do it. His mind was made up. He needed it.
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He soon came upon a door at the very end of the hallway. One similar in both height and width to the one at the front of the house. This one also had a sign wired to the wood.
Unlike the Irasshai poster, this one was written in neat, elegant Kanji. He openly admitted that whoever wrote this had Kanji skills that surpassed even his own. The symbols were bright and multicolored, and stood out against the dullness of the house.
Sayumi.
This was it. He was absolutely certain that this was the infant's room. He would have to be hasty and ruthless. No hesitating, no mercy. He would go in, do it, and leave. Then he would attain it.
He brought the kunai to his face and glared at the crimson-stained blade. Onyx eyes flickered for a moment, and a sound resembling a blade through exposed flesh was heard.
The beautiful sign now sported a large, angry slash right across the middle. Rivulets of blood oozed from within the slit and dribbled down the wood. It was almost as if the letters themselves were bleeding.
He clenched the door knob tightly, gave it a violent squeeze, and slowly pushed it open.
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He could not do it.
He just could not do it.
Some strange, unknown force restrained him. It would not allow him to kill this child. He extended the blade above his head and brought it down for a swift cut, but every attempt failed. Something was blocking. Something was shielding. But what?
His own fear; was that it? His emotions had lost since dispersed within himself. He couldn't recall what it was like to feel fear. The suppressing apprehensiveness erupting from inside his soul, the rush of terror gripping his body, the waves of anxiety sweeping over him like the sweat dripping from his forehead. He hadn't felt it for a very long time.
No, this couldn't be it. Definitely not. He, undoubtedly, would never experience fear from eradicating. He had fought many times before, severely injured several people, both physically and emotionally. And not once did he ever acquire even an ounce of fear.
So then, what was it?
Regret, perhaps? A feeling of remorse gained only by the knowing that he had mercilessly slaughtered an innocent woman and her infant daughter. Indubitably. As he had stated once before, he had severely injured several people, both physically and emotionally. No fear ever accompanied from coercively compelling pain from someone; no fear, no regret.
He was growing frustrated. He just wanted to finish the job and obtain what he desired. It seemed so simple; it was so simple. The kid was asleep, and would never notice. He could effortlessly jab a kunai in her chest and never break a sweat.
So why hadn't he done it? And why, suddenly, was he beginning to sweat?
Time was of precious value at the moment. At any passing second, someone could possibly discover what he had done. This dwelling was easily spotted through the sleet and foliage; one could enter it at any time.
His teeth were clenched so taut it made his jaw ache. The kunai still held high above him quivered violently in his hand. The pale fingers coiled around the handle were rigid and white.
The beads of sweat dotting his forehead finally formed into small drops and dribbled down his face. Small noises, sounding very much like suppressed grunts, emitted from the back of his throat.
He cursed and screamed at himself mentally, Do it! Hurry up and do it! What are you wasting time for?! But his body would not comply. It was as if his brain was disconnected from his body.
His obsidian eyes were narrowed into slits; the illuminating shine that once radiated off them had disappeared, leaving only dark, endless voids. The onyx hues were unfocused and staring, fixated upon something that he himself was not actually seeing.
He was trapped in a trance. His mind was in a battle over whether or not to consent. He couldn't break out of it. He felt as though he were falling, falling through an endless abyss, through the very core of his soul, into the burning heart of his being.
And then it happened. Pale eyelids twitched. Thick, ebony eyelashes quivered. Then slowly lifted, like an opening. Eyes were revealed, wide, vivid orbs illuminating in the dark.
He shuddered. He could see his reflection mirroring in those eyes. And it frightened him. Disheveled raven strands framing a moist, pallid face. Dull, chapped lips curled into an expression of distraught. Coal eyes expanded into ovals, swirling with a mixture of anticipation and pain…and was that…fear lurking within them?
It was transfixing. He was actually, truly, scared. Why? Because.
Because the eyes were blue.
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He sprinted through the forest, so agilely and swift, as if Satan himself were nipping at his heels. The fluffy specks of snow that had fallen earlier had changed into thick heaves of ice. They fell heavily around him and made it impossible to see, and upon making contact with the wind, hit him with such force it evoked his skin to feel scorched.
Despite the incredible cold, his face and cheeks were painted a deep scarlet. He was admittedly scared. Of what, he wasn't sure. He just knew that it was there.
He couldn't do it. He didn't do it. The infant was still alive. He had attempted many times, but to no avail. Try as he might, he just couldn't take the life of that child.
Some unknown ambiance had protected her. A shield, of sorts. An unbreakable shield. Or at least, that's what he assumed. But in the back of his mind, where he kept insignificant thoughts, he was brutally aware of the true reason behind his merciful act.
Those blue eyes…
They looked just like…
He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a string of curses. He had failed. He was weak. He would never obtain it and accomplish his goal. All because of…
He glared icily down at the kunai still clutched tightly in his hand. The silver tip now displayed a deep red streak, tinted a light russet from the bitter air. He had tried several times to wipe away the darkening blood, but it proved futile. It would never come off.
The blood of the woman had washed off with ease; mayhap because he had felt neither regret nor hesitation whilst killing her. But the blood of the infant stained his blade forever. The child was a survivor; she had come face-to-face with death and lived. He wanted the world to acknowledge that.
He left his mark on her. With the apex of the knife, he had engraved his sign upon her skin. The symbol for Chi. Life. It would remain with her forever, a dark jagged scar from the past. To remind her—and him—of what he had done.
The pale fingers coiled around the kunai slowly unraveled, and the knife plunged to the snow-covered ground. He wouldn't carry a tainted kunai. He couldn't carry a tainted kunai.
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"You have obtained it?" The same ominous, dark voice hissed.
"…" Silence. There was no response he could give.
Did you kill them? The Mother and child?" Anticipation.
"…Yes." He wouldn't admit the truth. Not to him.
"Congratulations, Sasuke." Acerbic. The words contained sardonicism.
Safely concealed within the darkness, he allowed a smirk to grace his features. He would never know.
"You have just murdered the wife and daughter of Uzumaki Naruto." Acid; that was the only word used to describe it. His words burned like acid.
The grin on his face faded.
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(Sayumi. Origin: Japanese. Meaning: Sayu—Control, Influence. Mi—Sixth Zodiac Sign.)
Oh, Don't Bother To Conceal It. You're Confused. I Can See It. Unfortunately, I'm Going To Be Cruel And Not Offer An Explanation. I Will Let You Figure Out This One On Your Own. Be Creative.
Fortunately, I Will Offer One Hint:
How Far Would Sasuke Go To Obtain The Mangekyo Sharingan?