Posted; Monday, March 28, 2016, 12:11 AM, Pacific Time Zone
SWALLOW THE SUN
"Understand that I do not fear mystical beings. The monsters I fear are not beasts, Orochimaru." The Hyūga snarled, as though disgusted with the mere utterance of his name. "The monsters that haunt me at night are nothing more than men like yourself. Men who hide in the dark of night and wait for the lull of sleep before taking what is not theirs to have."
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Prologue | ooo
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Darkness cannot drive away darkness, just is the same as hate cannot drive out hate. To cut the thick veil of darkness, one must have light. To escape the seductive pull of hate, one must have love. That is the way of the world. That is the law of nature. None can change that.
In the world of shinobi, darkness is in abundance, there is no room for silly notions like love, light. Children are not loved, children are tolerated. Women are not cherished, they are traded like the objects they are for the advancement of men. Men, though they rule the world of shinobi, are worthless without strength. And, in the world of shinobi, darkness is often mistaken for strength.
A sad prospect, really.
Shinobi without strength are birds without wings, fish without gills, beings without purpose. From the day they are born, shinobi are taught to fight, not love. From the age when they can stand, they are taught to run fast, because the enemy will be faster. They are taught to hold blades, to throw senbon with pinpoint accuracy, to be merciless, because the enemy will not hesitate. The enemy will hurt you, and you, as a capable shinobi, will kill him before he can. Shinobi are taught to kill, not to love. Never to love. Love, is weak.
Perhaps, that is why Hinata will never be shinobi in the truest sense of the word. Her nursemaid once chastised her that she had too much kindness, as though it were a sin, not a gift.
You see, Hinata is weak where her comrades are strong. The act of taking lives brings her sorrow, no matter how many she has taken. She cannot stomach the scent of blood, the sound of pain. Victory in battle does not bring her joy, only sadness. Because Hinata is weak, she does not fight. Because Hinata is weak, she falters when faced with the enemy. Because she is weak, she watches rather than acts.
It is ironic, really. Fate has a morbid sense of humor.
Hinata is weak where her comrades were strong. Because she was weak, she did not fight. Because she was weak, she faltered when faced with the enemy. Because she was weak, she watched her comrades fall, and as her world, came to an end.
And now, because of her weakness, she drags her dead leg behind her as she stumbles through the desert. The arid wind bites into her pale, bloodstained skin and tears at the remnants of what was her best kimono. Her left hand is numb and the fingers of her right sticky with blood, but she doesn't dare open her palm for fear of losing the gift inside. She is weak, weak in the truest sense of that word.
She falls gracelessly to the hot sand, uncaring of the way the heat burns her skin and irritates her wounds. She has no strength left. She cannot move.
She will die here.
As she fades in and out of lucidity, something deep within the recesses of her mind calls to her. A voice, as dry and withered as aged paper calls her name, somehow making the bluntness in the pronunciation a snake-like hiss.
"I can give you the world you desire…" It says in that horrid slithering hiss.
Unbidden, images flood her mind. A house, filled with sunshine and the smell of cinnamon. A smile, cheeky and dimpled with happy, bright blue-grey eyes. A masculine laugh, deep bellied and coarse. A navy blue summer dress, embroidered sunflowers sewn meticulously to the hem. A white hair ribbon, tied in the nest of a young girl's dark hair. A pair of red glasses, being pushed up a familiar aristocratic nose.
"I can bring back what was lost." The voice is closer now. Hinata cannot distinguish whether it is male or female.
Snippets of what was Hinata's life flash behind her closed lids. Singing her son's favorite lullaby. Dancing with her husband. Completing menial tasks with her baby girl. Making lunch for her son and his teammates because no one else will. The slide of bare skin against bare skin, pale fingers clutching handfuls of sunshine hair. Laughing with her daughter when they watch her favorite new show. What she wouldn't give to have that back.
"Seven treasures, that's all I ask for…" The voice pleads in a mock tender tone that unsettles her to the very core. Still, the thought of having her life—her world returned to her, and not only that, her world to her wishes, is enough to sends exhilaration coursing through her tired veins.
"What say you, woman with the white eyes?" A taunt, a tease as breath as foul as raw fish decay, flutters delicately against the shell of her ear. Hinata already has her answer, her heart beating so fast that it is impossible for her to be alive.
"What will you choose?" The dry voice fades into the distance as Hinata opens her eyes.
She is in a world of grey, the ground cool beneath her bare feet. To her right, is a brilliant shock of bright white light. To her left, is an all consuming blank black. From the left, the dry voice chuckles, one bony finger visible and beckoning. The skin of the finger is deathly pale, strangely wet, as though saturated with some sort of fluid. The finger's joints are gnarled painfully with the unmistakable curve of arthritis. Though she cringes, Hinata is too kind for petty things like disgust.
The light calls to her, draws her in with warmth and the whispers of gentle, loving, content, rest. But the dark has what she wants. With a bitter smile on her torn, once delicate lips, Hinata turns away from the warm light and into the oppressing dark.
Because Hinata wishes to be strong, wishes for what she has lost, wishes for everything that she has and has not had, she will choose the darkness. The light has only brought her grief in this world. The darkness will be her salvation in the next. All those who stand in her way be damned.
And so, begins our tale.
Eyes of a king, which see all, no matter how blind to sin
A pair of worn feet, which have no bounds, know no age
A tongue of malicious intent, which promises wicked things with perverse lies
A pair of righteous hands, which shed the blood of innocents in the name of justice
A swathe of unmarred skin, which does not know the touch of a mother
A heart of the undead, which belong only to one who knew your name
A fruit of a loveless union between a man and women which know the pain of losing their world
Bring me my seven treasures. I will return on the anniversary of the day which you wedded your beloved to collect my payments due. Best of luck, woman with the white eyes.
If you so fail, your soul is mine.
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Notes;
Criticism? Likes, dislikes? Tell me, I'd love to listen to what you have to say.