"He isn't good enough, is he?"
Her question is one with no answer. She asks it only because she needs to hear it fall from her own jaded tongue, to wrap her mind around the solid fact of it. So much of her life has been dreams and tainted air. Something needs to be grounded. The wings she wears are made of dead hopes stuck together with the paste of fooling oneself; today they must be stripped away.
"No," he says. "He isn't."
She fancies the words have an almost-sad lilt to them, but knows that he is not capable of such a thing. No longer can he work such miracles as emotion and passion; the only magic he works now is that of death and silence, of cold and meticulous destruction. Somehow, though, he is still a beautiful creature to behold.
(in her eyes, at least)
"Do you ever wonder…what it would be like if he was?" she asks, thoughtfully.
"Always," he replies. It's the truth if she's ever heard him speak it (which is never; his truths are always drowned in the syrupy lies, the screams buried deep beneath in the sickness of too much sweet).
"And what…what is the outcome?" The question is cautious. She is still afraid of the process of ripping away (it is new to her—you must not expect so much); just as a child fears the dentist as he prepares to pull the tooth, extract the excruciating root with a silver shining fang.
"He dies; I live. His death at my hands." He blinks mutedly, seeming barely interested and very much bored. It amazes her how easily, smoothly he says the words, as if he has said them so many times that the taste has numbed to nothing but a distaste. They are a milky film, a truth worn to a thin plastic sheath that contains nothing more than a hole through which to fall.
Here we are,
falling again, only faster this time—
Will we ever learn…?
Somehow she doubts it. He may be a genius, and she may be sharp, but mistakes are ever cleverer, with mincing steps to match.
"He's coming soon. You'll be ready?" she asks, already knowing the answer. Her questions no longer have meaning, and still she asks them, kills them again and again in their dead-alive sleep as they lay, twitching in the grave. Is she really that useless?
"I've been waiting too long," he says, his eyes steadily red as ever. The sun burns and his eyes along with it; the red will never fade even as the sun dies to a warm glow, content to burrow in the embrace of its own ashes. He will out-burn the Sun! (think of that!)
Besides, there is no rain to wash the red away. She is nothing but a drop against a mountain-side of ancient royalty. She pretends that she has a role in the story, but knows she is nothing but an ink smear on the page; an "accident", so to speak. She was never meant to be.
But here she is, and so is he.
Together they ponder Fate.
X-x-x--x
Itasaku...? Well. It's supposed to be Itachi and Sakura discussing Sasuke. Something along those lines. Sorry it was very vague, and well, pointless. Starting to get into the writing groove again. ;;