Red. The color of his hair. The color of blood. The color of betrayal.
"The slowest to heal are the wounds of the heart. Some of them don't even heal at all." The words shutter into his head unbidden, even as their speaker presently utters nothing.
Pale eyes watch the betrayal stain the older the man, the crimson rivulets that run along bruised flesh and splatter on cloth. The mask has been peeled off, letting honeyed locks fall and frame a familiar face that is caked with blood.
Yashamaru? Why--
The boy takes a step back, shuts his eyes.
Because he knows
that the face is also his mother's. Because the color of betrayal
burns. Because there's this pain that hammers at the left part of his
chest, threatening to burst.
Because he knows that this is the heart-hurt, and he has no love to heal it.
