Author's Note: Just revised this again. Please comment and tell me what you think. Thanks, Bears. :)
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i.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted
One need not be a house
The brain has corridors far surpassing material space.
Emily Dickinson
Almost-empty sake bottles are scattered around the desk and Tsunade likes to laugh at the irony. With her tendency to overcompensate fueled by her love of liquid courage, one would think she could at least finish the bottle. Narrowing her eyes, she picks one up, swishing the sake experimentally and wonders if she could chance taking another sip.
A part of her is grateful for the distraction. Grateful for the burn of alcohol as it slides down her throat. The other part, that overgrown weed of superstition she can't quite choke, shudders at the thought of downing those last drops.
It's always been a problem for her and even more so now. When she was younger—and less afraid—she could steel herself, armed with a blend of willpower and guilt, and swallow back the bile with that last gulp of guilt-burning alcohol. Back then, she was too self conscious to leave it unfinished at the bar. It made her look weak.
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Eyes barely open, Tsunade slams the bottle back down on the table and roars with laughter. The bar is tensely quiet and even the barkeep quivers silently behind the counter, his normally apathetic countenance just a little too pale beneath his dark facial tattoos. All the other men, bounty hunters and rogue nin themselves, pretend to be content with silence. After all, it's not every day the Konoha Sannin decide to waltz into an enemy bar and have a drink. Five miles into Mist territory, the village is used to outside threats and this bar has a reputation for being crueler than most. But still, stranger things have yet to happen.
"Shit," a man whispers from the bar, a little late to the game and only just now catching sight of the new arrivals.
Leaf headbands sit smugly on their foreheads and Tsunade already feels like laughing. The three of them are set up in the corner, packs pushed to the side to make way for commandeered bottles of shitty alcohol. Everyone in the bar, bounty hunters and rogue nin alike, is frozen and the Sannin are half-high off of the sheer adrenaline.
Jiraya props his legs up on the weathered stools and grins while Orochimaru only smirks in the shadows, nursing his own bottle. They're just over six miles into Mist territory, long since outdistancing the scouts and military camps. Now, they sit patiently, making jokes, playing the part, all the while waiting for the tension to snap, waiting, patiently waiting, for the enemy to make the first move.
It's not a massacre if you didn't start the war.
Eying the motley bunch around them, nervousness mostly hidden underneath their determinedly surly air, Tsunade gives it at least half an hour.
When she was younger, Tsunade bet on other things.
The fight is over ten minutes later and she owes Jiraya another three bottles of the crappy local brew. She was wrong again; big surprise.
She thinks absently about snatching them off the now-abandoned counters, but Jiraya is clearly too busy cleaning the blood off his kunai to remember the bet, much less call her out on it, so she puts it behind her. She has her own weapons to clean. Orochimaru sits on bar stool eying them bemusedly as his hands play with a kunai of his own, still warm and slightly sticky.
"Next town's only a couple miles off," he says, still smirking.
Jiraya and Tsunade laugh as they chime in together, "and Kami knows we need the exercise!"
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Tsunade is the first to admit they had something of a disastrous reputation back then.
They loved their village, loved their family, loved their creed. They were the kind of people that would risk everything.
She thought that together they were seraphim heralding the coming of a new age, promising prosperity, promising peace, and damning those who stood in the way. In the battle for peace, there was no middle ground. Tsunade knows deep down that is why people feared them. Because they believed they were doing the right thing.
Tsunade wishes she could blame her teachers, blame the legacy surrounding her, but some demons she has must simply claim as her own. She was young, but Tsunade knows it's no excuse.
In the end, they were terrifying, throwing themselves into every struggle with more force, more conviction, more righteous resolve than before. They gave too much of themselves and Tsunade wishes she could win it back. Compared to the world around them, the evil they thought they were defeating, they were just another shade of gray. She liked to think they were lighter than most.
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We told ourselves they weren't as human as us…
…and we thought we were right.
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She used to drink for the bravado. Sucking down the liquid courage left her dizzy with righteousness, but now she can't bring herself to finish them. Tsunade knows you can't find second chances at the bottom of a bottle, but nowadays she's too scared to even look. Can't bear to peer down at the empty bottom of the bottle because she's afraid that if she does, she might never come back up.
Some demons are patient, she thinks solemnly, pushing aside another almost empty bottle. But, she admits grimly, staring down at the village from her office window, they always charge interest. She's done all she can bear to do. Now, all that's left to her is the waiting.
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ii.
"Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin."
-Frankenstein
Shizune comes into the office then, bustling about with an intensity that should not be possible for someone her age. She clutches another pile of paperwork close against her body with one hand. The other holds a package. There are at least four bottles sitting a little too innocently on the desk, but Tsunade doesn't bother to hide them. Shizune makes no attempt at talking, just drops the smallish box onto her desk and leaves. She's learned not to frown at the sight anymore, but her eyes still look pained, as if she's counting down the bottles Tsunade has left in this life and always comes up a little shorter than she'd like.
For Tsunade, growing up was a little like forgetting how to breathe. Somewhere in the course of her life, somewhere before Jiraya died and sometime after Dan, she lost something, lost the instinctual half of her mind. Now, every breath feels like work and she only clings to the labor because there's a chance she might still be able to fix things.
Tsunade is a fixer, but she breaks more than she fixes. She consoles herself with the little she has done right and grips the memories with steel fingers, clutching them like a baby blanket through the nights when bad dreams and forced epiphanies drive her to the streets. Then she wanders, chakra concealed, dripping sake as she walks and lost in the haze of memories. Eyes closed and drunk beyond belief, the only sense left to her is smell. She raves through the streets, a quiet Bacchanal woman, taking in the sweet scent of wet concrete and summer rains. Somehow, it always feels like summer in Konoha.
Maybe that's why she always made herself leave.
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When she was younger—the glaze of time is so strong now she can't remember the year, only the feeling—she used to play pretend. Sometimes, if she stood in the right spot and the sun was low in the cloud-heavy sky, she could simply disappear. The shadows bent and blurred her form until she wasn't a girl anymore. She was the air. She didn't have to force each breath into her lungs, will herself to survive, to persist in her fool's errand of a life.
Because when she is the air, time holds little meaning anymore. She stands for hours, only she's not really standing because she is still the air and everyone knows the air doesn't stand, doesn't need legs to hold itself up, doesn't need to constantly prevent itself from buckling. The secret is in the thinking. Or rather, the unthinking. Occasionally, when she unthinks really hard, even that vague recollection of standing is washed away, forgotten in the sea of tingles that spreads across the floating mass that must be her, but isn't.
Then a devil cackles in her ears and she wakes up again, drawn back to herself by an intense desire for self-preservation.
Her hands come back first. She knows because she can still feel her palms pounding on his chest—'wake up,' she pleads, 'wake up, wake up'—in a last ditch effort to bring a dream back to life, screaming at the rain that deals with the devil aren't supposed to work this way. She was only deluding herself, but it worked for a little while.
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Her fault. Her blame.
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Mea Culpa. Mea Culpa.
Father, Father forgive me.
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For I have sinned
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When Shizune first catches her pretending again, twenty-three years later, Tsunade can't read the expression on her face. Shizune isn't old enough to remember these habits but she still looks disturbed. There is something in her dark eyes as she walks out of the Hokage office that makes Tsunade pause. She puzzles over the memory of it and wastes an afternoon recollecting all the pieces. A twitch of her eyebrows, a tightening of her jaw, the subtle widening of her eyes and dilation of her pupils, but she can't make them fit. There is always something missing. It's only recently that she's begun to wonder if the missing piece is her.
When pretending doesn't work—the aides are starting to give her odd looks—she tries looking, peering in the mirror as if staring long enough might force those unfamiliar eyes gazing back at her to divulge the secrets she knows are there. It's late and everyone is gone. She's set the wards on this room herself and keeps the guards at bay with a hundred feet of breathing space. She keeps forgetting what it was like to be truly alone.
She stops when she realizes she's crying, fat ugly tears dripping down the side of her face like she's a glass of sweating lemonade and it's the Konoha Summer of '34 all over again. Nawaki used to love lemonade. He said he liked the sweetness, but when she licks up a tear, it's only bitter. She chokes. She tells herself it's the taste and not the painful lump lodged in the back of her throat. Mirror phase over and done with—she's tired of staring at her face and ignoring the wrinkles—she turns to weapons on top of the alcohol. A tried and true shinobi tactic.
Now, she's always groping for the knife hidden under the desk since the First Hokage, first fiery governor of Konoha took this office.
It's a testament to tradition. Shizune calls it paranoia.
Drunk and far beyond any shreds of caution, she brings the ancient knife up to her face and wonders how it rusted. Everyone knows Konoha steel never rusts.
But that was before. Before she forgot some secrets were never meant to be resurrected.
Musing in her office-Shizune calls it drinking (or drowning, take your pick)-she wonders how it rusted, running against her palm. Pain flares up like an old wound, but she knows how to ignore pain better than anything else. She's had practice.
Back to the blade then, glinting in the afternoon light. Such a normal day, blue skies and busy streets, but it all fades into the background as she considers the weapon before her. Everyone knows Konoha steel never rusts. She glances down, the rust is smeared on her skin too and she raises it to her lips for a taste. She's already drunk; she might as well do something stupid. The crystal around her neck grows heavy and she should feel guilty and careful and suspicious, but the metal is already sliding across her tongue.
Except most metal doesn't taste this alive. It takes a moment but the taste this time around is something she recognizes and the expression that flits across her face is equal parts shock, horror, and happiness.
Blood. Her own, dripping down the side of her face and she feels like a cannibal, like she ate them alive, swallowed their souls, and all she can say is sorry. Jiraya, Orochimaru, Sarutobi-sensei, Nawaki, Dan, the list goes on forever, and the blood keeps pulsing from her hand. She stares down, finally realizing the source, a nick-she knows deep down it's more than a scratch-from the very knife she'd been so keen on testing. My own strength got away from me, she thinks giddily and then she wants to scream, but even her voice is terrified, clinging to her throat in fear. Shizune opens the door, and Tsunade wonders dimly if it's the alcohol or the blood loss making her eyesight fuzzy.
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Part of her wonders why that girl even bothers to stick around. Hair in a ratty bob, eyes too dark to fear a woman like her. and a baggy robe that dangles past her skinny knees. It's a wonder the girl isn't mistaken for an urchin. The other part wishes she had the strength to make her leave. But when her stick-thin figure appears in the doorway for the third time that night, it's all Tsunade can do to meet her eyes.
She can't help but see Dan staring back at her, solemn through the eyes of his niece. Then the girl sighs, sounding far too old for her years, her coming out in a warm puff of air on her cheek. It feels like grace as it wafts against her face, the sweet smell of cinnamon overpowering the familiar scent of alcohol and Tsunade holds her breath and lets hope diffuse like overpowering medication throughout her veins. She tells herself she will take her chances. She will take the odds on this girl, but part of her knows it's not a bet at all. Shizune will never taste her demons, never feel the curse in the crystal she carries. Not if she has any will left in her bones.
It is still a risk, but Tsunade is too selfish to say no.
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Now she's taking pictures. Black and white stills of the world around her. It comes in flashes. Dried potted plants. Desk drowning in paper work. Her own hand, caught in her gaze like guilty rebel. The wall of her office is now an unhealthy shade of cream, like half-churned butter left to rot in the sun. Paper litters her desk and the words are too close to her eyes and soon start to swim. Then, a sudden splash of observation.
Shizune is here.
Shizune is saying something.
How did she get here? One glowing green hand is pressed to her bleeding palm, and her dark hair is sticking to her sweaty scalp. Tsunade wants to put a hand to Shizune's forehead, see if she can sense a fever. She looks so very pale, but her hands don't move and she can't seem to focus.
Everything tilts slightly to the right and stays there for a while.
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iii.
"You're lucky, you two; no one on earth is giving you another thought. But I-I'm long in dying."
Garcin, No Exit
The necklace was dug up out of an old cardboard box in her grandfather's attic, buried under a multitude of S-level scrolls and guilty pleasure vinyl records. Grandfather's at a meeting, or headed that way, but the important part is that he won't be back for at least half an hour.
She's halfway up the pullout stairs before she even feels her feet moving, but she can't bring herself to stop. Her curiosity is persistent, poking, pleading, begging her like a fire without oxygen. She hurries up to the attic, brushing blonde hair out of her eyes in her hurry. Each step gives way softly under her bare feet, worn and almost damp in the tropical heat, not a squeak left in the wood.
One hand hits the top and she feels something tingle around her temples, some presence that only belongs in myths and ghost stories; it whispers thickly like a gremlin, hissing promises and bittersweet somethings in her ears. It tickles and she wants to laugh, but chokes instead on the musty attic air, the smell is suffocating, like a dangling bouquet of roses and dead racoon.
Sharp. And sweetly rancid.
Dappled sunlight fights its' way through the dusty window and creeps tiredly across the floor, turning the attic into a patchwork of light and dark spaces like a poorly drawn chessboard. Everything feels heavy. Even the empty air feels like salt water sliding down her throat and pressing down on her, hardly heavier than gravity, but it doesn't take more than a nudge.
She acquiesces, gives in eagerly, and the curse is lit like a match as she pulls the necklace free like Mordred might have Excalibur had he gotten there a long legend sooner. She clutches it excitedly. Possessively. Greedily. The look on her face is terrifying.
Because she is happy. Because after that moment, nothing will be able to stop her.
Dirty linen wrappings fall to the ground like the remnants of some dark chrysalis; Pandora's Box is opened once more and the maker is laughing in his empty grave, mocking her to the ends of the sky.
She doesn't notice. By now, every moment is watercolor, equal parts blend and brightness. The colors get all squeamish and wrapped up in one another until all she sees is the mesmerizing turquoise of the necklace flashing back and forth before her gleaming eyes like the swing of a sorcerer's pendulum, never wavering, ascent and descent, up and down, life and death, beginning and end, rise and fall, rise and fall.
The necklace is heavy in her fingers, loaded down with aged malevolence. A shiver tiptoes across her gut like a mouse finally scared into moving. Her eyes glaze over as she takes it in. The crystal is rough under her questing fingers, but the metal is warm like a handful of bright coals and turquoise embers glint back at her with entrancing visions of a past she never knew.
They fade as quickly as they came, leaving only ghost-shadows in their wake, just like sunspots on her vision.
The lingering smell of sulfur keeps her company, coating her tongue with the taste of ash.
Her thumb brushes it reverently, a gentle pressure, and the one time she doesn't bother with misgivings and regrets and be careful for what you wish for granddaughter, she gets struck by lightning. Sparks of pain shudder their way through her veins and her back arches in pain, but she doesn't notice.
She's far too busy with the question that stings against her skin.
What do you want, little one? What do you desire in that iceberg heart of yours?
Do you want me to tell you?
The voice giggles.
I can see it already. You want power, you want a secret, you want to change
Ideas fill her mind like colored caterpillar smoke and her eyesight is tinged with turquoise-colored flames. The smell of brimstone and stolen power sweeps her up and life whirls by in a giddy rush of love, and laughter, and fame, and fortune, and power, and arrogance, and dread, and desperation. The rush doesn't last forever and it always takes more than it gives.
Reality sneaks back in like an annoying dog she wishes would just run away, pushing things like duty, and honor, and people she should have taken care of and lines she shouldn't have crossed back into her arms until she's fifty-three again.
The memories trickle away sulkily and she is left standing at her desk, big, pretty eyes widened to the whites, face blank with shock, and clutching a necklace hidden deep in her green overcoat pocket. The metal stings her skin and she lets go hurriedly. Shizune has gone, leaving behind an arm hastily bandaged. Tsunade knows she'll be back in mere seconds with trusted friends. The office walls might as well be made of glass-she would know, half the spies are hers-and she's worried her face is too. Did they see through her? And all she can do is start working, hands moving briskly over the various forms, mind already tackling an overgrown tangle of polite threats and diplomatic rebuttals.
She's hoping some debts go away if you ignore them.
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Sometimes she wonders —not out loud, never out loud—but sometimes, when the sun is hiding behind the clouds and the shadows grip her like nails in a coffin, if she might have been done things differently. If something could have been different. If she had any say in the matter at all. If she could've turned down that deal with the devil. If she could have tried harder. If her precious people would still be alive. Because she doesn't want the power anymore, nor the beauty. She knows all too well it's not worth the plague of death that follows her now.
Still, she wonders if…if, if, if…and then the sun breaks through the clouds and highlights the shiny plaque with her name on it and the title she doesn't deserve. She stares solemnly around at the circular office, the piles of neglected paperwork, the distant view of the city pulsing under the smog filled sky. Her city. She sighs.
A pen scratches paper.
A cough of an impatient aide.
A muffled thud of the necklace as it falls back against her skin, heavy with shame.
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The man with a demon-tail laughs in his hovel, bony hands playing half-heartedly with a little ball of string.
Free will. Fate.
Sometimes it's all just a sliding scale.
And who ever said demons play fair?
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iv.
Two months later, the scar on her arm is gone and Naruto is back from yet another one of his C-rank-turned-pro-bono-charity-case missions. She doesn't have to ask if it's a success. By now, it's just a matter of finding out who he saved this time around. He doesn't notice the booze on her desk at first, far too busy rambling excitedly about some new recruit he'd barely snatched from the clutches of darkness. Sure enough, there is yet another surly teenage rebel standing uncomfortably a few paces behind him. Sasuke is standing a few steps away, glaring as if he might be replaced.
Naruto continues talking, oblivious to the discomfort of his newfound friend. His blond hair is long now, not at all unlike Minato's, Tsunade decides, and he stands with the presence and height of a man nearly in his prime. As he turns to leave, he leaves time roiling in the wake behind him and suddenly the present is sharper than the past for the first time in decades. The crystal stings her thigh through the hidden pocket of her pants, but she ignores it. She laughs at his jokes because if she didn't she might start crying.
Naruto's grin leaves sunspots on her vision.
He shouldn't have mattered to her. She shouldn't have cared, but his face looked a little too much like hope for her to resist. Looking back, Tsunade can't quite pinpoint what it was about him that sucked people in like quicksand. His blonde hair and blue eyes felt like eerie reminders of noble bygone days, when Konoha probably wasn't a better place but people liked to think so anyways. With time all things become more beautiful, though, more brave, more heroic. He brought that back with him, Naruto did. That sense of purpose. Of having honor again. Even though Tsunade knew they'd never had it in the first place.
Her devil told her so and he isn't in the habit of making mistakes.
Now that Naruto is back, Tsunade breathes a little easier and lets herself take another little sip of alcohol. Naruto notices and his eyes narrow. He turns around and walks up to her desk, planting his face firmly in front of her own. His eyes, a darker blue than they used to be, glint in the midday light like pools of holy water. She pretends not to catch the words-I need you to stop. Konoha needs you. I need you. She can read his face, though, and wonders dimly when Naruto grew up.
As he leans forward, her necklace slips out from under his shirt, dangling before her stares for a long moment at the crystal, suddenly grateful that Naruto still can't tell it's a fake.
She'll pay her debts, but she'll be damned if her own foolishness lets another savior slip through the cracks.
After all, some burdens aren't meant to be shared.
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The necklace sits heavy in her pocket; Tsunade takes another swig of alcohol and this time, she finishes the bottle.
Fin
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it. Please read and review.