Sealed With Fire
by Palatyne
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. The original characters, story and plot belong to Masashi Kishimoto, Shounen Jump, Shueisha, English editions to Viz Media, the anime to Studio Pierrot et. al.
Summary: She remembered his words clearly, more like a dream now than a memory. "How are you to pay for this, kunoichi?" He had asked her, his voice warning her that he would exact payment from her one way or another. [AU, SasuSaku and glimpses of a few other pairings]
Author's Note: Written for SasuSaku Month (Week 1 – Day 4 Prompt: Alternate Universe – Burning/Ignite).
Chapter One
Treaty
It was a stranger staring back at her in the mirror, a reflection that held much of the same features but made up so differently that she doubted anyone else would recognize.
Her long, pink hair was expertly done in an elaborate hairstyle. The front was cut into a stylish fringe, parted to the side. The rest was then swept up into in a small bun tilted almost precariously sideways, secured by a single ornament – a barrette of silver and crystal cherry blossoms that reflected the hue of her hair and glinted in the light. From there the length of her hair cascaded in soft waves down the side her head.
As she stared at her reflection she marveled at the strange color her eyes had taken. Her face was expertly painted in subtle shades that brought out the natural glow of her skin, with only the faintest pink on her cheeks and lips. But the artist made an exception with her eyes, where various bold hues of copper and gold dusted her eyelids like a natural sheen – turning the plain green of her eyes into stunning emerald orbs.
It was a beautiful reflection, she could admit that, but it was unfamiliar and not a little disconcerting.
She was waiting now for the kimono-dresser. The last person who would see her before she headed out, just one in the long list of professionals hired from across the Land of Fire to somehow transform the kunoichi of the Leaf into the ladies they were supposed to be, instead of the battle-hardened warriors that they were – to prepare them for the whirlwind of social events that now swept their village.
Everywhere in the village there was hushed kind of excitement in the air. The leaders of the village wanted to perpetuate a festive mood, a reminder to the people that this was to be a joyous occasion.
What the rest of the villagers were not made to witness, what the rest of the shinobi world didn't know was the long, arduous, often contentious and decades-long negotiation that preceded the announcement of the treaty.
In the end, it was decided that for the Hidden Leaf and its one wayward clan to be united once more, they must be bound to each other by stronger ties, by bonds that could only be induced by more intimate alliances among their shinobi.
Sacrifices had to be made.
She wondered what her parents would think about her situation, had they survived the border war that took their lives when she was a mere child. She wondered if they would have opposed it, not being as bound to strictures of their profession, not by bound by an unyielding sense of duty that bent the parents of the other kunoichi to the will of their leaders.
But in place of her parents now would be the Hokage, who will represent her not as a parent or her master but as the leader of their village.
They were told they had a choice, that they could refuse – but in the same breath the Hokage impressed upon them the importance of the treaty, what it meant to the lives of so many. That it will be their children and their grandchildren who will reap the fruits of their sacrifice.
Peace.
It was not the kind of speech that would fall on deaf ears, not when spoken to those who have been trained to devote their lives to their village, to perform their duty until death.
And this was part of their duty. Not only because the Daimyo, the council and their Hokage asked it of them, but because they themselves owed it to the rest of the village, to the rest of the land.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door, followed by the hurried entrance of a middle-aged woman dressed in a beautiful dark blue kimono, carrying a large, seemingly airtight storage box lined with white cloth.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments as the woman expertly opened the box, removing the layers of cloth protecting its contents and for a brief instant she caught a glimpse of shimmering silk.
She was instructed to undress, as the woman held out a robe made of light fabric which she guessed was the under robe. She turned around to face the mirror, loosening the ties of the dressing robe, shrugging it off of her shoulders.
"Oh my!" She heard the woman gasp
"Eh?"
She turned her head slightly only to see the look of surprise on the older woman's face.
The dressing robe had now fallen past her shoulders and down her waist, exposing the whole of her back.
She knew then what the woman saw, the sight that made her gasp so loudly.
She had forgotten about it in the blur of activities of the day, she forgot that today there would be one other person who would see it.
The three parallel scars on the right side of her back, just below her shoulder.
Yet even an expert would be hard-pressed to tell what inflicted the scars – for apart from the slight bunching of skin around the welt of each scar, they were mostly smooth and even, distinctive only because they were a shade or two darker than the rest of her skin.
But they were not the scars of a wound skillfully treated by sutures. Nor were they so grotesque that one could infer them to have been wounds improperly treated and left to heal so haphazardly.
They were made by an expert hand, though sealed not by needle and thread but of something else, something infinitely more painful.
It was rare now for shinobi to have such severe scars, what with the Iryo-nin now at their most advanced in decades. There were salves and creams now for every blemish of the skin and with the right use of healing chakra even the worst of scars could fade significantly if not erased completely.
But there were those who chose to keep their scars, older shinobi who saw them not as imperfections in their appearance but as a mark of their experience, a reminder to all that they had survived and lived through whatever it was that scarred them
The scars on her back were a mark of a different kind. Most days it felt to her like a brand singed upon her skin, a constant reminder of the night it was made – a memento of a chance encounter in a strange forest.
Today was not a day she wanted the memory to surface. But her dreams the past nights had been of nothing else. She had wondered why this was so, why her mind would let her relive the memory over and over again.
She willed her mind to stay away from the memory, let it haunt her dreams instead of her waking hours.
She muttered something vague at the older woman, assuring her that the scars had been nothing serious. She was not keen on sharing the real story and the woman took the hint and proceeded to do what she was hired to do.
As she stood in nothing but her underwear over which a thin under robe had been draped, she watched from the mirror as the woman took out the length of the kimono and liquid splendor cascaded from her hands.
She could only watch as the dresser's expert hands folded, draped and secured each stretch and corner of fabric in a precise, methodical way.
As the silk came alive on her body, she marveled at the sight of it. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. She had worn a few simple kimonos herself and had seen the more exquisite creations worn by some of the more affluent ladies who had been their clients – mostly noble-born women of the Daimyo's circle.
But what the woman held in her hands was absolutely stunning.
"It is a garden of spring flowers." The woman intoned proudly and she finished her task and stood a step back from her handiwork.
Indeed it was.
The base color of the kimono was white, but splashed artfully across the length of it were several hues of light green that reminded her of meadows. Along the hem, then rising upwards towards the front of the kimono and across each sleeve was an elaborate and detailed pattern of spring flowers – plum, peach, peony, iris – lined in silver and reflecting the faintest shades of their natural colors.
Yet she knew enough of flowers to know that one spring blossom was missing from this decadent bouquet.
As if reading her thoughts, the older woman explained.
"You will be the main blossom."
The play on her name was not lost on her as she gaped at her reflection on the mirror. She looked like a character from one of their legends, as if she had stepped out of a decorative scroll or a wood-cut picture.
She smiled then, half in amusement at her incredulous transformation and half in sheer pleasure at the sight of her.
"Perfect for a future bride." The woman gushed.
She knew the woman meant well.
She knew the words were a meaningless comment.
But as she heard them it was as if her one moment of delight had been smothered. The awed smile on her face faded, swiftly replaced by the look of calm dispassion she had learned to wear to hide her true feelings from the world.
Sensing the drastic change in her demeanor, the kimono-dresser promptly proceeded with a few more tugs and pulls of the fabric, the finishing touches of the ensemble before excusing herself politely, bustling out of the dressing room as swiftly as she had come in.
As soon as the door closed, she carefully gathered the folds of the kimono as gently as she could and sat back on the chair, facing the mirror and once more staring at her strange, unsmiling reflection.
They were told they had a choice.
But she realized now, that like the beautiful woman staring back at her, it was all an illusion.
For there was no way she would refuse.
What the treaty would bring to their village was an end to the decades of bloodshed, an end to the hatred that had festered for nearly a century between the two factions. It was something that their ancestors could only dream about but which they had the chance to make real.
Her own sacrifice seemed insignificant.
She knew from the moment the words left the Hokage's lips that the she would obey.
Yet there was a part of her that felt the stirrings of despair, a part of her that came alive at night when she was most alone – her dreams invaded by the one memory that haunted her.
She realized now that whenever she thought of her future, each time she thought of how her fate would be sealed, her thoughts would inadvertently turn to that one memory.
The memory of the man in the forest, the man who had branded her with fire.
She would see him as if he were standing right in front of her, staring at her with his crimson eyes.
She realized then that her despair had sprung from hope. A hope that it would be his face that she would see when she entered the room where she would meet her intended, that it was to him that she would be bound – that the scars he placed on her skin were indeed his brand.
After all it was his clan that the village now wished to be joined with, that it was to the men of his clan that select kunoichi of the Leaf were to be given in marriage to seal their alliance.
But she despair now clutched at her heart because the hope she carried since the treaty's announcement, since she had acquiesced obediently to the Hokage's plea, had now been quashed so cruelly – just the night before, when the Hokage had given her the name and portrait of the man she was too meet today.
The man whose duty it was to ask for her hand, as it was her duty to accept.
As she took a glance at the portrait and saw the face of a man she had never seen before, she realized how foolish she had been.
How foolish it was to hope.
She closed her eyes and took a deep sigh, trying to fight off the desolation that was slowly taking root in her heart.
But as she did so her mind betrayed her, instantly taking her to the one memory she knew she must never indulge in again.
To be continued…