This week is Konan and Nagato.
I literally wrote this drabblet in a quarter of an hour. T'was fun to write though.
Konan labels herself as the Lover, a title she can never escape. She therefore has to wear the facade that goes with it.
Enjoy, I own nothing.
She's the Lover. The one who picks up all of His pieces when He's fallen down. But she fears He has fallen too far this time, much too far.
A crow is calling across the blank, devoid plain of her mind, a crow with His face and His name.
She waits; head bowed politely, hands folding in the way she knows He will approve of. But He will not return tonight, nor any other night. And she knows this.
The clock in the hall rings, tapping out the time with its sombre melody. She sits and listens as the time goes by, counting the seconds, minutes, hours He's been gone for.
Her head tips forward and His hands are not there to stop the startling flow of blue hair that washes like a wave down her shoulders, pooling in the red silk lap of her kimono.
His long, clever, deft fingers do not tighten around the hair, pulling it back and behind her ears. Then perhaps, if He was in a good mood, He'd lay a feather light kiss on her cheek, soft as a candle flame, quick as the wick it burns.
Her head lifts, the morning bell is ringing, blurring time and sense. It takes her back to memoirs of snow and dogs and the three of them. How she misses those days, bitterly so.
"My Lady..." She lifts her head. She must after all, she is the Lover. "It's..." Her eyes barely cross their face, and she knows it is Him.
He has fallen indeed.
Her lips form the three syllables; a sad smile passes her lips briefly. She stands – allows her hand to linger for a moment on the doorframe. They take this as a sign of weakness, and move back. But she continues down the stairs.
She must not lose the Lover, even in her grief.
And then her palm presses to His cold, deadened cheek, and she allows herself to mourn. Tears falling and rolling down His cheeks.
Nagato.