Chapter 4
Trees hurtled by Sakura as she sprinted down the trail left by the assassin. The shapes all seemed to blend together in the dark; broken branches and disheveled underbrush becoming a treacherous tunnel she followed at breakneck speeds. Still, the assassin was fast, and she could only see the silhouette of her mark in fleeting glimpses.
All at once, the forest gave way to an open field, with rolling expanses of tall grass like so many waves on a black ocean. The assassin cut a violent swath through the peaceful surface, throwing up foaming sprays of fireflies. Ahead, loomed the wooden walls of Shimogakure, with only a single guard in view.
His alarm cry became a choked gurgle as the assassin's hand became a bright arc of moonlight, razoring over his suddenly open throat. Without pause, the assassin took hold of the dying man before he hit the ground, hurling him at the oncoming medic. A backhanded swipe deflected the body without her breaking stride, but the momentary visual blind was enough. The assassin was gone.
The sentry's alert had been heard, though, and more guards began to fill the street, rappelling down from atop the wall and emerging from nearby stations to surround her. She swore, aware of the blood staining her clothes.
"You're under arrest," said one, stepping forward with a hand on the hilt of his sword. She looked around. There were easily a score of them, armed and armored. She could take them all on, certainly, but then what? If she lost the assassin, then she had no safe haven to return to. Time for a gambit.
"I yield," she said, slowly lowering her hands, "But the person who killed your man isn't me. He's in the city right now, probably heading toward the closest way out." The one who spoke glanced warily back over his shoulder at the guard behind him.
"Let them know," he said. His subordinate unslung the horn from his shoulder and let loose a long, resonant blast. Before the echoes had died off, the booms of heavy gates had already begun to sound out their report, and iron manacles had been fit around Sakura's wrists.
"If you're telling the truth," her jailer told her grimly, "We'll find the killer. In the meantime..."
o
The cell door clanged shut, casting a heavy pall of darkness over Sakura's surroundings. Her new accommodations were fairly standard; hay on the ground, stones in the walls, and iron around her wrists and ankles. She had no doubt that she would be able to break free easily, but then the village's guards would be after her and not the assassin. If they are even looking.
Then again, it was perhaps foolhardy to assume that those guards could do anything against a person who had managed to evade some of Konoha's best, even managing to kill two of their number. Either way, she couldn't just stay locked up. Slowly, making as little noise as possible, she began to gather up her chains, edging closer to the tiny barred window of her door to get a feel for her surroundings.
Footsteps. Voices. She recognized one of them – the gruff tone of the jailer – but the other was unfamiliar to her: a smooth, rich baritone that likely belonged to some official. They couldn't possibly have found the assassin this quickly. What were they here for?
She centered herself, pulling her legs in under her in a ready stance. If she didn't like their intentions, then her prison stay would be just have to be cut short.
Keys rattled and the lock clicked. There was a pause, and the door swung open with a groan. The figure of the jailer stepped back, and the mysterious other moved into the chamber. With the light behind the newcomer, Sakura couldn't make out his features, only the orange-red aura formed by the edges of the pale robes he wore. Definitely someone important. No guard would wear white clothes into a dingy jail cell.
"You are a long way from home," the voice intoned. Home. There was that word again. She didn't make any efforts to deny her origin, not when she wore the Uchiha crest in her hair. "You claim that you did not kill the guard, is this true?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She knew that this stranger – a man, by the sound of his voice – was intently studying her face, illuminated by the torchlight flickering through the doorway. What was he trying to discern from her? Still, staying silent was a waste of time for both of them. She nodded ever so slightly.
The man turned, and his silhouette shifted momentarily as his long queue of hair swayed past the line of his flowing sleeves. He glided through the threshold and murmured something to her jailer. There was a grumble of protest, but the jailer entered her field of vision and crouched in front of her, fitting keys to the locks around her joints until her restraints fell away.
"You're free to go," he grunted. She moved past him warily, expecting him to bury a knife in her back at any moment. There was no doubt that this newcomer had secured her release, but why? He was waiting for her outside the cell, his back turned. His hooded robes shone with a faint luster characteristic of high-quality silk and were draped over darker, leather garments. Strangely, these were fastened with belts around his waist and open-fingered gloves at his wrists. His ensemble was complete with splint mail bracers, affording him a level of protection and movement atypical of such expensive garb. Who was he?
"Come with me," the man said, his voice quiet and dignified, "We have much to talk about." When he turned, Sakura's breath caught. His eyes were like polished silver: mercurial and piercing. She knew those eyes. They were the eyes of a Hyuuga.
o
Sakura thought it best to remain silent as the Hyuuga guided her up the stairs to his hotel room. She didn't want to attract any more attention than her foreign clothes and bloodstains already did. The innkeeper had raised an eyebrow, but had remained mercifully discreet about it, and the remainder of the patrons seemed too engrossed by their drinks and quarrels to notice her.
His door opened into a clean, if somewhat unremarkable, room, furnished in rich, autumnal hues and tasteful rosewood furniture. There was a desk, a few chairs, a bed, and a cabinet; all functional pieces. Obviously, not his permanent residence, but enough personal belongings had been laid out to tell her that he was no stranger to it.
"You'll likely want to change out of those," the Hyuuga advised, handing her a neatly folded bundle of clothes, made of the same luxurious silk he wore, "The fit is less than ideal, but it will be less conspicuous than your current attire." She frowned.
"Who are you?" she asked, speaking for the first time since her release, "Why are you doing this?"
He paused in searching through one of his drawers. "It is of interest to me when a Konohagakure shinobi turns up so close to Kumogakure, without any backup." His lack of response to her first inquiry was not lost on her.
"That you know of," she pointed out. A wan smile crossed his lips.
"I assure you, visible and existent are the same thing to me," he said in response, then produced a long, jade ribbon, "You should perhaps remove that headband, as well. The people of this village do not view your kind favorably." "This village," she noted.
"And how do they view Hyuuga?" she asked, her tone level as she ignored the proffered band as she untied her plated headband.
"Some with suspicion, perhaps," he answered evenly, letting his hand fall to his side, "Most with indifference. It is no secret how the rest of my clan fared under Madara's tenure. There is little reason to doubt my loyalty to Kumogakure."
"Other than your history of abandoning villages?" she pressed. The Hyuuga was too unflappable for her liking, and she needed answers and action, not pointless discourse.
"Indeed," he acknowledged, opening a door to reveal an immaculate white bathroom, "You may use the facilities in any way you see fit. I will wait for you downstairs, in the tavern." He breezed past her, already reaching for the doorknob. Her hand fastened over his wrist, and he stopped, patiently waiting for her to act further.
"You think I'll still be here?" she asked quietly.
"Your attempted escape would be a most pointless venture for both of us," he responded, "As would any threats to my person you may have planned." Her emerald eyes met his, probing, but she could glean nothing from that unshakable, mirror-like silver gaze.
"Tell me your name," she demanded. He could not stay amorphous forever. There was a long silence as he held her stare, neither blinking or looking away. A light smile won over his features, perhaps the first genuine one he had given her, and he spoke.
"You may call me Neji." His slender, yet firm, fingers deftly extricated his arm from her grasp and pressed the ribbon into her hands. "Come down when you're ready."
With that, he was through the door and gone.
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