"Heheh, gomen, Itachi-san, but, it looks like this is the end for you…" the words of his former partner, Hoshigake Kisame, rang in his ears as he lie in the snow, bleeding anger and hate from the wounds that covered his now fragile body. He'd been left to bleed out and die, whether it would be from the cold or the blood loss, he didn't know, but he was going to die. A damp cough wracked his body and blood escaped his mouth, forming a steady river down his chin. His eyes stung as the hot liquid flowed over them, turning his vision red.
He made no move to get up, no move to even adjust the awkward position of his right leg, which was most likely broken. What was the point of trying to save him self? He had nothing left to live for. No one wanted him alive. He'd lost his place in the Akatsuki. He'd never felt so hopeless. In fact, he'd never felt hopeless in the first place. He fought still, to keep his eyes open, he at least wanted to see the surroundings in which he left the world. Everything was white, white and cold.
A slender figure approached from the distance, only visible because of the long, dark locks escaping from beneath a white hood. To his surprise, the figure broke into a run when it seemed to notice him. The body knelt beside him, and he heard a feminine voice asking him frantically if he was ok, or, at least that what he assumed was coming from her mouth.
The angel of death had finally come to relieve him of his misery. So often, he'd thought about ending it all himself. But no, he told himself he had a reason to live. That was to protect someone. But now that she had finally come for him, he closed his eyes, waiting for the noise in his ears to quiet, for the cold on his skin to disappear, for the metallic taste in his mouth to dissolve into nothing. And it seemed that it was, as warmth enveloped his aching body, and the world fell silent.
The slight splash of water and the feeling of a hot cloth on his cheek awoke him, and he slowly opened his eyes. There, was his angel of death, tending to him gently. He let out a groan as the hot water stung him, there was no need to hide weaknesses anymore, it was over.
She seemed surprised, and jumped at the sound of his voice, as her gaze drifted quickly from his cheek to his eyes. She was beautiful. Who knew death had such a face? Her features were clear cut and unmarked, eyes glowing brightly like pink diamonds. Smooth, shimmering black hair framed her perfectly, like a picture. She smiled softly at him, and he again felt overwhelmed with warmth.
"You're awake," she spoke softly, her voice like heaven's soft touch on his ears. "I'm so glad, your wounds were so bad, I, I didn't know if you were going to make it," relief laced her silky voice. She watched him carefully.
He just stared at her, his angel of death. Through blurred vision, he saw her, sitting so perfectly next to him. He was lying on cotton sheets, a blanket pulled over him, leaving his torso exposed. Her hands seemed to glow as they rested over him. He let out a calm breath.
"What happened to you?" she asked. "Oh, you probably shouldn't speak, there's no need to waste precious energy," she corrected herself quickly.
"Shouldn't you know the answer to that?" he responded, his voice was hoarse as his throat was burned. He watched as she furrowed her brow.
"What? No, I found you lying in the snow," she answered him, a bit confused. She pulled her hands away from his injuries and the glow dissipated.
"…" He said nothing; somehow, telling her she was his angel of death seemed like it would not be the right thing to say.
"Oh, I suppose I should just be glad that you're alive, after all, you were bleeding so much," she smiled at him with that smile. It was like a glimpse of peace, and it seemed to be meant for him and him alone.
But…alive? He wasn't alive…he was dead, right? If he was alive, then she was no angel of death. She was simply a girl trying to help him. With this realization, he expected the warmth he felt in her presence to disappear. But it remained.
Neither of them said any more, as she continued to dress his wounds, finishing by placing a bandage around his head, and a patch on his cheek. She pulled the cotton blanket over him, the end of it just below his chin. His eyes followed her carefully.
She stood, and looked around, before deciding on a direction in which to move and walking, no, 'walking' was such an unfitting word, she glided. She glided across the hardwood floor and out of his range of sight. He closed his eyes. The departure of her face had taken with it his desire to view his surroundings.
Sleep greeted him happily, and he drifted off.
In the next week or so, he was awake much more frequently, and he spoke to her a little bit more each day. He found out that her name was Miyagi Sumiko. What a perfect name. It was just as graceful as she herself. Soon, he was even able to sit up, with the help of Sumiko of course. With this new accomplishment, he was able to view his current residence with greater ease. To the right of his cotton bed, was a small room. There was a large stone fireplace a few feet away from the head of his cot, with an ever-present blaze eating hungrily at the wood that drowned in its depths. On the wall opposite him, was a single window, which held a white view. Beside it, was a door that led to the frigid cold outside. In the far corner was a small kitchen with an old stove and a fridge, separated by wooden counters, beneath which were cabinets. At the foot of his bed, not ten feet away, was a staircase, which led to two more rooms inside the small cottage. One was a bathroom, the other was, as he had learned, Sumiko's bedroom.
When they spoke, she did most of the talking, asking questions she didn't expect answers too. She would frequently ask his name, and then silently scold herself, saying he could tell her when he was ready. She was a medic Nin, and a fairly skilled shinobi. She didn't hold loyalties to any shinobi village, simply protected the small town a half a mile from her doorstep. In return, the people provided her with clothing, food, and firewood.
On this particular day, she had been redressing his wounds; with fresh bandages she'd picked up the day before when she went to town. She asked him again, "What's your name?" before shaking her head. "Forgive, me, I keep asking you the same question, there's no need to answer if you don't feel the time is appropriate-"
"Itachi." he cut her off quietly. "My name is Itachi."
She blinked, her pink gaze resting in his own charcoal eyes for a moment. "Itachi," she repeated slowly, committing it to memory. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Itachi. I don't suppose you have a surname as well? Oh! There I go again," she smiled sheepishly.
"Uchiha," He answered her. He expected her to back away from him quickly, as so many shinobi would, or to show fear, and then call him a criminal, a disgusting, loathsome creature who didn't deserve to roam the earth.
But, "Uchiha Itachi," she didn't. "Well, I finally have something to call you, hm?" She just smiled. This so surprised him that he gave her a questioning glance.
"You don't recognize," he started, to be answered by her nod.
"I know who you are. But, as far as I'm concerned, Itachi, I've nothing to fear from you. You've shown no intention of harming me thus far, and though you may think me a fool I do not fear you." she stated firmly, though not harshly. She placed his sullen bandages into the bowl that rested on the small stool to his right, and stood, lifting it and leaving his side, to dispose of them in the fire. Her next move was to the kitchen, where she checked on the rice she had previously been boiling, and began scooping the food into two small bowls.
He watched her, finding no signs of worry, her gaze was not wary of him, in fact, she did not treat him any differently now that she knew his identity then she had not minutes ago when he'd been nothing more to her then an injured teenager, centimeters from death.
It…confused him. It really did. How someone could know who he was and not look at him with hatred or disgust, but Miyagi Sumiko was not by any means a common person. She was a rarity. He, well, he liked it. The way she could speak to him with ease, he was even comfortable with her lack of respect for him, when she called him 'Itachi' as opposed to 'Uchiha-san', or even just 'Itachi-san'. She didn't seem to be one that was fond of formalities. Every time he referred to her as 'Miyagi-san' she would immediately correct him.
"Sumiko, just Sumiko." she corrected him again when he thanked her for the bowl of rice she placed in his fragile hands. "Really, you've no need to be so polite," she sat on the stool and ate with him, as she had been doing since his arrival, whether he was awake or not, she would eat with him.
He picked up a few grains of the steaming white rice with his chopsticks and placed them in his mouth. "Yes, of course." he answered.
"Hm," she smiled, chewing her dinner smoothly behind her rose-colored lips. "Your wounds are healing nicely, though I'm afraid you're going to have a number of scars on your torso, as well as your right leg and your cheek."
"I expected as much," he said between bites of rice. The soft crackle of the fire and the heat it presented calmed him, even if he was still quite on edge.
"You're sixteen, right?" she asked, he nodded. "What a wonderful age to be, I was sixteen not very long ago, but, I do miss it. The innocence," she paused, realizing he was definitely without the innocence of your typical sixteen-year-old boy. "I'm sorry."
"Hn," by this he meant that it was ok, he didn't mind. Though she couldn't read the tones of his voice very well just yet, and so she just assumed the meaning of his one-syllable answers.
"Well, anyway, I'm eighteen now, so not that much older then you are, ne?" she continued. It was so strange to him, how casual she was. "I remember the day I turned sixteen, I went into town to celebrate a bit, and bought myself a beautiful new cloak, it was silk, and the storekeeper gave it to me at such a cheap price, I was so grateful. I still have it, only to be worn for special occasions of course." she winked, for what reason he did not know. But it suited her.
He closed his eyes momentarily, reopening them with his gaze focused on his lap.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, concerned. "Oh, you probably just don't want to hear stories about the shopping habits of a silly teenage girl, do you?" she laughed lightly to herself. "Sorry, sometimes I just can't seem to shut my mouth," Sumiko smiled at him, glancing at his half full bowl of rice.
She sighed. He hadn't been eating much of anything. The thing was, he should have a hearty appetite, because his body required the energy to heal its self. A bit of a frown appeared on her face.
He ran his fingers over the edge of the china he held in his hands. What was he doing? He was being taken care of as though he were a useless, pathetic child, and, he could think of nothing but the face of his host when he closed his eyes. He had more pressing matters. His survival, for one thing, was something that should be much more prominent in his mind then her eyes.
"Itachi, you really should eat more, your body can't heal its self if it doesn't have the energy," she informed him gently.
He already knew this. Why was he listening to anything she said? It's not as though clothes shopping was something he would ever want to hear about. Plus, she was telling him how well he was healing. Of course he was healing well. He was Uchiha Itachi. He was a fast healer. A sigh escaped him, and a decision was formed. As soon as he was healed, he would leave her, and he would never come back.
Author's Note: Oh my god. I'm so annoyed with myself. I am working at this very moment on French Braid, and it will be updated by tomorrow. But, I came up with this idea some time ago, and I wrote this one night when my friend signed off of AIM (ihearttoast09, check her out people, her stories kick ass, she rocks). I also have a new theory, if I post more stories, I'll have more variety, and when I lose inspiration for one story, I won't have to force myself to work on it, and I can work on another.
So, my newest excuse for taking so long is : my grades sucked and my mom stole away my internet access, and I can only write at my mother's house, because no one reads over my shoulder. XP I hate that. I got it back today.
So, now that I've put you throught the pain of an unorganized rant, I simply request that you read, and review.
-Wicka