Of Gods and Monsters
Chapter 1: Yellow
Part 1: His Silhouette
The water streaked down the glass in cold tears, frosting it with mist. The window itself was cold, and the sky outside was overcast and grey, crowded with mourning storm clouds.
It was freezing. The ice. The ice crept over her lips, clawed her arms and wrenched at her face. The ice. The ice was so cold, it was so cold.
The grey light flooded the large, empty space, dominated only by the outline of the enormous entrance gate. Shadow and light streaked and darted, side by side under the cold, grey light, dancing about around the village's entrance gate, and beyond that, she could only see fog and shadow.
Lightning flashed, and she shuddered, dragging a clammy hand across her numb face. Gone, she felt listless, despair to the point of emptiness. She was exhausted, so exhausted, just tired of it all, and yet – No.
No. Look behind. Just a peek, just a glance. Don't I– didn't I–
Didn't I mean anything to you?
But still nothing, only the shape of his back, moving further and further away from her, towards the village's gates and away from the village. The constant shape of his silhouette, never altering, surrounded by a swirl of rain and fog. The constant shape.
He's not looking back.
Grief rushed up her throat, scratching at her insides until she choked, stuttered and a fresh round of tears sprang to her eyes. She clawed her pale hands at her face, willing the pain, the regret to just go away. The ice. It was so cold. Oh god, oh god.
Go away. Go away!
Brown eyes, liquid pools of warmth, frozen in shock.
Go away. Leave!
That lazy, handsome face, more familiar to her than anyone else. That face which had weathered the years and pain with her, the trials of hardship and friendship, she watched as that face seized up with pain, before anger, like a shade, shuttered over it.
Won't you let me explain? He had asked.
She had stopped shrieking at him abruptly, looking at him with damp, widened eyes, blue like the sky. She had paused to consider. And yet – He had explained. So many, many times. And she was tired of it, exhausted of his excuses.
Won't you let me explain?
No, she had said, as steadily as she could, although it meant that it was over, that they were over.
Maybe I should let him explain, some distant part of her mind had suggested. Maybe it would be reasonable. But was it not always reasonable, his excuses? She had tried to persuade herself to let it go, as if nothing was happening, as if they were the perfect couple.
As if he didn't love somebody else.
No, she had said.
I want you to leave.
So now that was that, he was leaving, and as a thin sheet of grey slowly clouded over him, he never turned back, not even once. Rain swallowed up his silhouette, and Ino covered her face and cried.
Part 2: The Dark Lady
She sifted the sand between her listless fingers, her face pale and drawn. Yellow hair that once shined a lustrous silver-gold now merely hung lank from her scalp, and her once clear eyes were now a muddy blue, rimmed with red. Lips were cracked and dry, the once easily flappable tongue silent for months.
The sand flowed like white water from her long fingers, landing lushly into the pot, before halting abruptly. Earth was dumped into the pot, and soon, like a thoughtless machine, Ino churned the mixture with a shovel.
She felt nothing now.
Her tears had been exhausted, as had those sleepless nights pervaded by nightmares and haunting thoughts. Finally concerned, her parents had forced her to seek a solution for those sleepless nights.
Using her medical nin certification, she had prescribed herself sleeping pills.
Now the only time she looked forward to was at night, when she could finally sleep dreamlessly. When she couldn't think, couldn't feel, couldn't dream. She was drifting in some nameless fog of grey, floating, bereft of all feeling and awareness. People walked past her without sound, their words deadened hums to her numbed mind, and they watched as Yamanaka Ino drifted about the village, becoming pale and sallow as she looked without recognition.
Like she was dead.
He had meant so much to her. Yamanaka Ino treasured only three things in her life: her village, her family and friends, and him.
Somewhere in her mind, she knew she was being pathetic, being that foolish, stupid, stupid girl. Was she not a shinobi? She was not a mewling child anymore, cooing over heart-shaped love letters. There were bigger things than her heartbreak over him, like the security of the village, her duties as heir and medic nin. But he had meant so much to her. She had loved him, trusted him implicitly, considered and planned for how they were going to settle down and start a family. He had watched over her for her entire life, and it was him that made her who she was, him that made her grow up, him that motivated her as a shinobi.
He made her.
What would she be without him? He had built her, the building blocks that made up Yamanaka Ino were mostly placed by him.
He was supposed to love her too.
Didn't he tell her that once? I love you too, Ino. Didn't he say that once? He did, he did, and it probably meant nothing to him then. Was it all a lie? Did the man she loved, loved her back simply because he was obligated too? Perhaps it was her fault, it was her fault that she was too forceful, too suffocating, if she had only lightened up, then maybe he would not have gone over to her.
It was her fault. This was all Ino's fault.
The shovel stabbed mechanically into the mixture repeatedly, shifting white sand into folds of dirt. Idly, her thoughts wandered to the small, innocent bottle of white pills sitting on her drawer in her room. She yearned to finish this tiresome task and retreat back into her room, where she would swallow those merciful sleeping pills that drowned her into an emotionless sleep. She was tired, just so tired, and yet why couldn't she let go? Why won't she just let him go?
She can't.
Weak.
Pathetic.
She barely heard the chime of the bells, nor the soft sound of the wooden door opening. A figure glided serenely into the shop and stood patiently in the large space surrounded by shelves of flowers, facing the counter where Ino herself stood. Lank, yellow hair parted from her eyes to look up into the watching face of Uchiha Mikoto. Serene, waiting and looking lovely even in a beige pinafore and black dress. Ino stopped her movements and stared briefly into the woman's eyes. "May I help you, Uchiha-san?"
A smile widened on her face. "Yes, I believe so. The Uchiha is holding a large event, and I wish for some assistance regarding the fauna." Ino pushed the pot away from her. Décor designing, she thought hollowly, too much effort and energy, she would be forced to run around the village running errands. "I will get my mother," Ino said coolly, and made to slink away, but Uchiha Mikoto stopped her with a firm "No."
"I would prefer Ino-san to perform this task instead."
No, thought Ino tiredly, I really don't want to. But she was drained of energy to argue, and besides, it would be rude to refuse the Uchiha matriarch. "I am afraid I will not be able to perform the task with optimum standards, Uchiha-san," she tried in one last shot, but Mikoto hummed, already dismissing Ino's argument as her eyes flashed, even though she was still smiling. "Well then, pity, I suppose I would have to make sure you do, won't I?"
There was something dark layered in that statement, something almost threatening. Ino instantly withdrew any intentions to argue further, spotting the dark look in Mikoto's gleaming eyes. The Uchiha matriarch was a figure of silent strength, even when dressed so simply, and she was a figure of authority and respect, as seen in the outline of her slim shoulders and sleek, jet black hair. "Of course," Ino said resignedly, "may I know what this event is about…?"
"A wedding," Mikoto stated simply, and Ino jolted as if slapped in the face. A wedding! How fine! People would be laughing, happy… in love. Married. Forever. A promise to be with each other till death did them part...
How ironic. "I see," Ino said in resignation, her blue eyes glittered dully. "Who is the lucky couple?"
Mikoto smiled serenely, a mysterious light dancing within her dark eyes. "Aburame Shino and Uchiha Mitsuki."
Shino! Shino was getting married! This piece of information slapped her out of her dead feeling, and she felt some life flood into her face as her eyes widened. Shino? Shino the bug guy? Shino the quiet one with the glasses from Team 8? Shino!
"I! I– I didn't hear about that!" Ino exclaimed, shocked, her yellow hair fluttered about her as she took a sudden step back and raised a too thin wrist to her heart, where it pulsed in maddened fashion. Mikoto merely continued smiling mysteriously as her dark eyes flashed almost, strangely– accusingly. "You haven't been rather participative in village events, dear."
Ino heard what the dark-haired woman said, but did not know how to respond, so she said nothing, pretending not to have heard. A thought floated across her mind; how withdrawn had she been from the village? How isolated had she been?
She raised her dull eyes to meet the mysterious dark ones of the Uchiha matriarch, now sparked with some semblance of sentience, the blue seemed just a shade brighter, and the older woman smiled inwardly.
"I… I will come to the compound later in the evening, to discuss the plans?" she stated, although it sounded more like a question. Mikoto's smile widened just a fraction when the blonde in front of her took initiative, finally showing some signs of her once vibrant personality.
"Then dinner," the dark-haired woman said airily. Outside, the daylight spilled into the shop and outlined her dark silhouette, long midnight-silk hair framing her fair face, lined with strength. Then Ino watched, stunned, as if stupefied by the lady, as Uchiha Mikoto glided royally out of the shop, and her shape disappearing, the simple pinafore and dress, into the streets of Konohagakure.
Part 3: Rook
Whisper, whisper, whisper.
Really, sometimes their voices carried under her skin and crawled around her neck. Six years, six years in that place working as a paper pusher and you'd think she would have grown used to their hushed voices bleeding through the walls. They were bodiless, and never, ever understandable, wafting through the air like some unpleasant scent.
She shoved red hair behind her ear, wiping non-existential sweat from her brow with cold, clammy hands. Sometimes, she wished she could be like Akira, purposely ignorant and shamelessly plugging in his clunky radio, letting loud music clog the air. Then perhaps, only then she could shove away the uneasy feeling that stroked at her whenever she sat in this dim, cold place, where messy mounds of paper were spread around her, their small, black print sometimes pricking at her eyes, and the light above her shone coldly and cruelly. God, she hated this place.
She couldn't wait to process the stack of forms in front of her, the only neat pile among a sea of carelessly tossed white. Then she would shove another pile into her large, cloth bag, hook it up onto her shoulder and stride out of this place, where she would then flee to her cozy apartment and let the smell of steaming tea drift temptingly over her.
Six years. Ha! As if that made any difference, if only, her clearance level simply became the highest, and she was awarded the title of senior executive, but besides that, nothing, not even an assistant to help her with her task, not even a damned working coffee machine in the lounge. She regretted it sometimes, working as only one of the six non-shinobi officers in ANBU. The paperwork, that goddamned paperwork, and not only that, there was the logistics which made her scream and pound at the wall sometimes, and the investigations. Dear god, whenever they had to investigate a certain somebody, the folks down at the Academy demanded a detailed paper trail going back ten years, and a detailed perspective on the subject's history. It may have sounded easy whenever some asshat pulled out a wad of documents from a neat, yellow package to begin some mission briefing, but the effort it took to access those documents were… frustrating.
That was an understatement. Really, sometimes she felt as if she had taken a really, very wrong turn in life: Underappreciated and underpaid, the classical standards of working class misery.
Quick fingers unsheathed a sheet of paper and she gave out a loud sigh when she recognized what it was. It was a politely-worded letter from the intelligence agency in Suna, requesting that at least some of Konoha's efforts be redirected to a strange case of mysteriously stricken villagers in a border village straddling the lines between the Land of Fire and the Land of Wind.
Politely-worded was the key thing. If they had been any blunter, they would have accompanied it with a middle finger. Ai sighed, and just as she was about to toss the paper into some unnamed pile, a statement struck out at her.
"… the village used to be the shrine to the Mokuzai Scroll, before it was stolen half a decade ago. Despite the loss of the scroll, the village still continues to be an important asset…"
Blah blah blah blah, Ai thought, but her fingers lingered above the words 'Mokuzai Scroll'. 'Mokuzai Scroll', the scroll of Wood and one of the legendary Six Scrolls of the Sage of Six Paths. Bullshit myths, Ai thought, the kind where if 'one gathers all the scrolls and some bibbity-bobbity boo, could gain the power of the legendary Sage'. It was all nonsense, with the scrolls of Wind and Iron already lost to the vestiges of history.
But still, wasn't the scroll of Water stolen three decades ago? It had caused an uproar then, but myths, as all fairytales do, eventually faded in time, as did their importance.
"… hallucinations, paranoia, high fever, rapidly thinning blood and in some extreme cases, deteriorating brain tissue. The patients are void of feeling."
Ai's skin chilled. Didn't an ANBU agent die with those symptoms two weeks ago? He had been rushed from the capital because those doctors there were witless to help him. She hurriedly dug through the piles of paper, carelessly pushing down the white stacks as the memories of the photographs rushed through her head. The man, with blood running down his chin from his nose, and his skin purpling, yet still claimed to not feel anything. Malaria, they said, as they hooked him up to the IV while she stood there waiting to interview him. Well, it couldn't be poison, his superior had said, because he had watched that little squint twenty-four hours a day on guard duty, and he shared the same meals as the rest of them.
Well, then how can it be bloody malaria? She had shot back impetuously at him. You guys were smack in the middle of Capital, how the hell did he get malaria?
Hell if I know, that infuriating agent had said back coolly. It's probably an isolated case.
Or not, thought Ai, as she surveyed the papers in front of her. Frustrated, she pushed her hair away from her face. It was probably just coincidence. Still, she knew that there had been some mafia activity there, and the occasional missing-nin popping out… Waaaaait at minute.
She stood up from her chair, and stared down disbelievingly at the papers. She had seen the signs before, a pattern… there was a pattern. Goddamn it!
"Kaito!" she yelled from her desk, "Kaito! Get me a damn continent map!"
As she strode briskly from the room, at the back of her mind, she compiled a list of ninja she wanted for an assignment, she knew she definitely wanted one shinobi though.
Uchiha Itachi.