To You, To Me
Beginning
~ . ~
She wraps her arms around him with a long and weary sigh. He – bleary eyed, pale as pearls, and only barely on his feet – moves his, in turn: very slightly.
The candles on the walls flicker, burning in their erratic dances. The guards stand by on side. The prisoners glare out from the other. She ignores them: she can. His eyes drift in their direction. They are filthy and malnourished (starvation being their only means of rebellion), and spiteful of any who are met with release.
This is not a place for release. This is a place for punishment, for pain. To be released is to know the world is at its end. It is a time for public death. Except this one man who can barely walk, barely stand, and who betrayed the very village that is now releasing him to the world – a world that he fought to bring to its end so completely – once more.
The slight figure by his side, supporting him and changing her pace to match what he can manage, never allows her gaze to stray from his emaciated features. His cheeks are sallow. His lips are thin. His lips are white. His hands can barely feel the damp chill; never the sensation of touch, never the outer world. He looks ahead with eyes that see nothing more than shadows and nightmares.
~ . ~
At Home
~ . ~
She returns to him and crouches at his feet. He is sitting on a couch. A fire blazes opposite with brilliant luminosity. It deepens the gauntness of his face and skeletal body. The cloths seem as rags that hang off of him. He does not meet her gaze. He does not look away from the fire that he does not see. He does not move, does not react, does not think and does not feel.
Sighing, she rises up onto her kneels and leans forwards. Red is a colour that she vows determinedly to be rid of. The autumnal blanket is draped over his shoulders and knees until its ends touch the wooden floor.
She stays as she is for a moment. Her eyes do not stray yet. Her hands are weak and a chill have caught them. Yet, she yearns to touch his face.
The boy she knew, where has he gone?
~ . ~
Week One – Friday
~ . ~
He is sitting on a matching armchair in the same living room as before. He is sitting at an angle, awkwardly facing the fire to his right, yet far enough he has turned, to be able to see out of the window. The jutting space behind him allows for three windows. It is the small one – the one nearest to the left of the room – which he gazes sightlessly out through.
A small platter of snacks lies on the wooden table waiting to be touched. They are not solely for this broken man. There are guests, most of which have come, have left, have vowed not to return, not to see this broken man's saviour ever again.
She resides in the kitchen. A muted argument is tearing at the walls of the room in its utter fury. The destructive violence of the words sends something crashing. The resounding smash is not silenced, and cannot be ignored.
The broken man clutches at his ears suddenly. His jaw tenses, and his eyes widen exponentially. A sound catches in the back of his throat.
Knowing this, knowing his fragility, she runs. The doors fly open before her and swing to their close in relative quietness. She skids to a halt by him. Her hands clutch at his and she calls out his name. She cries out for response, for calmness. He is too far, too lost, too broken. She reaches for his face and cups his cheek in the offering of comfort.
Then, her eyes wander. She finds the one she was arguing with. His disapproval is painful. He turns, and the door is closed at long last.
Here, in this silence for all but this little man's whimpers and the crackling and hissing of the fireplace, she catches her own grief. She holds it in her hands and contemplates its immensity and the tears roll her face.
Still, she allows no emotion but the tears, and thus cannot speak to comfort, and knows that she failing.
~ . ~
Month One – End
~ . ~
He is sitting in a wooden chair. The world is bright and the breeze is cool. The flowers are wild in this garden. The wooden picket fence is low and many have paused to glare and shout of their devastating rage. They pass with mere words as blades and blades raised – some in threat, others in warning – and some more throw trash in.
Here, he blinks. The world is still at bay. He blinks. The colours are still dismal and grave. His longing has not subsided. He has not spoken a word of it to anyone.
His carer stares at him from within. She cannot go out but to place him there and lead him in. The fresh air is for his sake. It is not for her. It is never for her. She cannot breathe when out there with the voices and the glares and the filth. She cannot breathe in here with the knowledge of what lies in wait just beyond the door and windows and the oh-so-fragile walls.
She watches and she waits. He will awaken. He will. She was promised that he would. Her heart constricts, so ill at ease is she. Yet, he does not stir to her eyes. He is as motionless as when first brought from that all-consuming darkness.
~ . ~
Month Two – Median
~ . ~
He sits and stares and now a sound comes. It is so weak, so subdued. She wonders often if this is the man she had fought to bring back to life. He has not returned. He has come no closer than the first moment in that damp prison of most elite criminals.
She leans over and brushes the hair from his face. Her tired eyes shimmer with a veil of tears as she tries to smile. Her hand lingers a moment longer than necessary as she peers into him. Her wishes have yet to be answered. Her heart can barely stand this absence of visitors who are vying for her safety.
As she draws back, she almost laughs in bitterness. In trying to revive this most precious man she is losing herself. She sees her eyes grow dull. She feels her heart grow heavy. They see it too. They visit as often as possible. They offer what advice they are able to. They give her time to herself, time away from him.
She needs more. She needs to return to the ranks of the shinobi elite. She needs to walk the world beyond the village walls. She needs her comrades. That is what they fight for.
She sighs. She does not want to feed him today. She wants him to eat by himself. She cares not if it's by his hands or whether they are clean or not. She simply cannot bear for this to continue. She cannot be a guide to this blind man. She cannot be his salvation from the shadows.
Her cutlery is thrown down. The plate smashes and she takes sobbing breathes as she stumbles out from the room; unaware of the eyes following her every movement, unaware of the fear she has conjured, the distrust.
Author's Note: This is a short story. A few chapters more – just a few, I swear on it. I cannot draw such a thing as this out forever. Nonetheless, I did have to speed through these most important of dates in order to give a taste for her ache and his suffering. The others should be different.
