The Killer and The Artist
A/N: I had one year to plan how this story should have gone before, and I have a year to catch up. If you're familiar with Love-in-idleness, consider this as a prequel of sorts, and an exploration in writing character more than anything.
I had thought of deleting Martyrdom is an Art to make way for this one, but considered against it. That being said, some chapters here are going to intersect and have basically the same content, but it seemed a waste to just replace all current chapters with this one.
In short, Martyrdom is an Art will no longer be updated, it will only be kept here (and not on AO3, where the "replacement" has been done) for archiving purposes/reference.
He thought he would break her, but he was the one who broke in the end.
In this dream, he is thirty-five.
He is a victor.
In this dream, this war-torn land had finally given up.
In this dream, he had what he sought all his life; beyond the love he had wanted as a child, beyond the fear he had earned in his adolescence, and beyond the infamy he had achieved as an adult is this.
This picture of perfection.
In this dream, he is looking at her.
It is the summer. The famous blade Murai is lying at her feet. There are two swords protruding from her palms; the wakizashi is Yamenokayama, the katana is Kunishige.
Those are her swords.
The whistling blade of Kunishige is now equipped with poison, the viscous liquid shining in the light. The electric blade of Yamenokayama is now enhanced with an abrasive liquid, now allowing it to cut through virtually anything, and leave a painful acid behind. Murai, with its lightning-sharp blade and impossible weightlessness...
Murai, the blade she had promised him.
He mutters his gratitude under his breath.
"You have my thanks."
He closes her slack jaws, pushes Yamenokayama and Kunishige back into her body.
And suddenly she looks like herself again, mouth tight and body stiff, posture rigid and eyes unwavering. It was a wise decision that he had kept her eyes the way they always were when directed at him.
"Hyakurai."
It is the name he had given her, the name that would ensure his would never be forgotten. She is the lightning bolt that would etch his name in stone.
But suddenly, he is awoken by the sound of explosions.
So another day has dawned.
And she has not yet returned.
In this dream, she is thirty-four.
She is a lover.
In this dream, this war-torn land has finally achieved peace.
In this dream, she had what she sought all her life; beyond the adventure she had longed for as a child, beyond the recognition she had hoped for as an adolescent, and beyond the peace she had desired when she had grown into an adult is this.
This picture of home.
In this dream, she is looking at the courtyard.
It is the summer. A pot of tea and two cups are placed beside her. There is a man sitting with his head against her shoulder.
It is him.
Him, with his red hair and brown eyes. Him, with his small frame and young face. Him, with his beating heart and tender flesh. Him, human and hers.
Hers.
She whispers to herself a quiet admission, a hopeful statement.
"Welcome home."
She brushes his hair from his eyes as he breathes deeply.
And suddenly the silence is filled with the sound of his breathing, the whisper of the breeze, the sound of flowing water, the distant sound of bokken clashing.
He lifts his head from her shoulder to press a kiss to her cheek.
"Welcome home." He says.
And he twines his fingers with hers, laughs when she tells him how childlike his actions are, before kissing her properly on the mouth.
But alas, like all the times she has dreamed, she is awoken by a burst of sound, a flash of light.
"We've won the war!"
And, as if by instinct, she grimaces.
Just like a child.
Of course it was a dream.
He was thirty-five when he died.
But today, years and years before these such dreams have occurred, they are children.
He is eleven years old, the child puppetry prodigy of Sunagakure.
She is ten years old, the sharp daughter of Yūkō's best swordsmith.
A war is looming above them, and the thunderous allure of battle echoes in the halls of their homes.
He is Sasori, not yet the international criminal.
She is Shikai, not yet the indestructible mercenary.
They are children; young and ambitious children bred for war.
A/N: Yeah, that last part had me cringing too. Sorry, I just couldn't think of a better way to transition to the next chapter. Updates will be up every 30th or 31st of the month. Thanks.
Feedback is always appreciated.
