A/N: I don't own Naruto.

28

Odd, how a man so small in stature could appear so large.

Uncle's back rises up before me like a spire, thin and harsh-edged, blotting out the sun. Uncle is the only thing of stark solidity in a landscape of hazy watercolours of Kiri streets and Kiri skies. Mummers cautiously pass back and forth and back and forth between spectators I cannot see, whisper away in the very shell of my ear. I can't catch them. But the hate carries. The cruel intent and self-persevering fear, the 'think of the children' and the 'what should we do with it, are you sure it's human?' and the 'What if it kills us, maybe we should kill it first just to be sure' fill each whisper like air pushed into a balloon. They can't hurt me, I think, they can't hurt me, they can't, they can't.

But that doesn't stop the fear.

Uncle is the only thing unmoving. The colours of our surroundings ripple and sway with each hushed word, but Uncle remains unyielding. I reach for him if only for the comfort he will not give, for the stability he will not provide and the safety he will at whim take, but still I reach forward because he's Uncle. He's the only other one here and despite everything I love him. I just want to be near him, even knowing what that entails. It's only as my hands push through the air that suddenly has the consistency of thick soup, that I realise that these hands and these fingers are not mine anymore. They used to belong to a younger me, small and weak and useless. The surge of panic that I will not be strong enough to reach Uncle is suffocating.

The harder I push the more the world sharpens and folds in on itself around me until I'm dizzy with colours slipping past the dark pin of Uncle's back. The harder I push the thicker the air in my throat becomes until I'm wheezing. The harder I push the louder the whispers grow until they're an ominous crescendo. But the harder I push the closer to uncle I get, so I keep pushing.

Little fingers finally wrap around the material coating Uncle's back. I grin because I can breathe again and it's Uncle; although I know it's untrue, promises of safety and love swell darker at the word. The first sensation that something is wrong I push aside. Uncle has not returned the affectation but he has not pulled away; I teeter on a hesitant but powerful need to press myself into the warmth of his back. My fingers tighten, and only then I notice the thick, inky substance slipping through the gaps of my hand fisted in Uncle's back.

Uncle's back is gleaming dully like sunlight on an oil slick. Layers begin to peel away and coat my hands. Whatever is underneath is darker, it begins to bubble and pop then in other areas rot away while scattering black flaky chips. It's cold where it touches my skin and so heavy my arms shake, but I still grip on. I'm rooted, only capable of staring in open-mouthed horror as it works its greedy fingers up my arms. My body sags and jerks forward.

I finally cry out with a need to vocalise the terrible dread working through me. It's not too late to let go, I think and somehow I know that if I did I could run. The whispers and the unwelcome surroundings are unpleasant but it has to be better than this. Uncle's shoulders start to droop, and I know I won't be running. Instead my other arm shoots in, trying to dig out the that perfect image of uncle's back and what it represents from the vile substance.

It's heavy-as it reaches my shoulders and slips down the spine and up, curling around the skin of my neck.

It's cold- as it pushes into the corners of my eyes, and I feel my skin shuddering so violently I'm scared I won't be able to stop.

I don't want to die. Uncle, I don't want to die. I'm dragged closer towards the melting mess that was Uncle-he still has to be in there, he has to be-and I try to jerk back from the very heart of the cold, but I have no strength. The black comes coiling up over my head-I don't want to die, I can't breathe, please I don't want to die- and pulls down and down and down-

My eyes snap open. It's still night and the fire is close by but I feel cold. I try not to give into the urge to heave in mouthfuls of air. I know the old crone and her ox are most likely asleep and Gaara would hardly care, but I'm not used to sleeping near others and the paranoia is at that moment stifling.

Another nightmare.

Sometimes I could envy Gaara's apparent insomnia. When you're envying the devil child you know there's something seriously wrong with you. Blinking, I stare up at the canopy of tiny pin-pricks of light in a sea of blue. The stars in Kiri weren't always visible through the thick mist, but that thought brings another shiver and sends me shuffling closer to the fire. This is the second night we've been travelling with Isaka-san. She estimates that it'll take us roughly two and a half weeks to reach Takigakure. I chafe at how slow that is, but even I have to admit although slower, travelling this way has overcome a lot of problems. Namely food-although Isaka-san is unlikely to have any sweets to trade when we reach our destination.

I huff and stare sullenly at the fire. It's not making me feel warmer and trying to distract myself isn't working. I try the lullaby, comforting notes humming on my lips, and it helps. But not as much as Isobu-sama would. Why isn't he talking to me? It's been days now and I haven't heard so much as shy, rumbling laughter from him. Is he ignoring me? Did I irritate him? No, that's ridiculous. Isobu-sama will have his reasons.

"What are you doing?"

"Hurk!" I splutter.

It's only then that I realise Gaara has been on the other side of the fire; which would mean I've been staring broodily at the Jinchuriki and humming (which, even I'll admit, in my naturally child-like- youthful- voice sounds creepy) for the past whatever. Gaara just looks more annoyed than anything, well as far as I can tell he could just be perpetually constipated.

However since the events last night, I'm not tempted to be as difficult as I usually would with the red-head. He's still boring and we're by no means friends, but the confrontation last night has at least sculpted some form of stable footing between us. We may not like each other but we're working towards the same goal, so we can tolerate each other at least. 'Tolerate' seems like a good word for Gaara's attitude. He's not exactly for or against my company, it's just necessary and we're both relatively comfortable to allow the other to do what they like outside the parameters of that objective.

"Nothing," I reply, deliberately avoiding a fight, "what are you doing?"

"….nothing," Gaara replies after a lengthy pause.

Silence reigns. I place my chin in the palm of my hand, fingers over mouth and head turned away from the heat of the fire and Gaara. If Gaara ever decides to conquer an area it'd likely be renamed 'The Land of Silence' and everyone by law will be forced to endure either complete quiet or stilted awkward conversation. Maybe it's my company putting him on edge; he is a secret fan of mine after all. Or maybe he's speaking to his tailed beast? That thought brings another pang of worry. Maybe…Gaara knows something?

Moving my gaze across past the flames and to where Gaara is glaring at the shifting sheets of reds, oranges and golds, I can't help but itch to ask. That's odd in itself. Now there is someone to ask, to have someone who will answer (verbally or just glaring murderously at flora and fauna again). Uncle would usually dismiss questions and Hitoshi…well, you couldn't believe anything sliming out of his mouth (except for that of course, except for that); and neither were Jinchuriki so weren't really equipped to answer. Isobu-sama was the problem, and even if he wasn't…I loved Isobu-sama and I trusted him with my life but sometimes there were things of his I couldn't understand and things of mine he could not. How did you explain human eccentrics to a demon?

I coughed pointedly and Gaara looked up.

"The tailed beast inside you," I began, lifting my eyebrow and wiping at my sleeves to appear nonchalant, "it hasn't been acting differently has it?"

Gaara's expression was instantly suspicious, but he didn't verbally reply and I felt the need to elaborate.

"He did talk to you before didn't he?"

A sharp nod.

"And he's still talking to you now, right?"

Gaara made sure to glare at me a good while before, "…yes."

We lapsed into silence again. At least now I knew the problem with Isobu-sama was isolated but…good lord, it was like pulling teeth. Honestly.

"Is it cold in Suna?"

The words came out before I could do anything about them. I didn't want to talk to Gaara, I really, really didn't. Someone was likely trying to sabotage me. Taro was getting another kick to the gut in the morning, whether the ox was in on it or not.

"….What?" Gaara was, as usual, glaring.

I had to wonder if so much daily, no hourly intense glaring caused migraines. It likely didn't do wonders for the skin. It was a consoling thought that years from now I'd have perfectly baby smooth skin and youthful appearance while Gaara looked like he'd sucked on far too many lemons.

"Your clothes," I sighed looking the very image of a noble who was constantly having to put up with brain-damaged servants, "at first glance they look thin but they're layered, to conserve heat. The other Suna Shinobi were also wearing far thicker clothing than I expected."

Gaara looked at me like he was mildly surprised I'd come up with that. Did he think I was stupid! This coming from someone whose answer to everything was '….' or '….kill it'. And that I expected also applied to everyday issues like the opening of stubborn jar lids and the flushing of stubborn toilets.

Gaara (eventually) stopped looking sceptical, "….in Suna it's cold at night."

"Oh," I replied and shifted my attention back out at the night.

Trips to the 'Land of Silence' seemed like they'd be continual two-way journey on loop. I was frowning into the palm of my hand, wondering why I didn't just get up and wander off when Gaara shifted. Not the usually indifferent, idle movements that Gaara displayed, but a tiny twitch of his fingers that would have been easily overlooked. His jaw shifted and he looked ready to speak before withdrawing into silence again. I sighed. Because this was-

"Is it cold?"

"Pardon?" I frowned, looking back at Gaara.

"Is it…cold in Kirigakure…at night?" he repeated, stilted, raspy voice and serious.

If it had been anyone else I'd have taken that as a lewd come on (I grew up in Kiri, just because I hadn't been involved in all the leering and slobbering and such didn't mean I hadn't seen it) but Gaara was so self-assured and unapologetic and well…Gaara, the thought didn't even cross my mind. To be honest I was half-convinced that Gaara, if he reproduced would likely just glare at a boulder or something until another Gaara (fully grown and fully clothed) would materialise behind it. That was a disturbing mental image.

I smirked to myself, "it's always cold in Kirigakure."

Gaara nodded. I couldn't help allowing the smile to linger. It wasn't much, but the very fact Gaara had made some effort all the same was…I wasn't sure exactly, it wasn't quite comforting and wasn't quite encouraging either. Besides I didn't need one or the other. The simplest way to describe to would be…nice, I suppose, it was nice to be able to talk to someone. Even if that someone had as much charm and vocal skills as a dead fish (except you can eat a dead fish, Gaara on the other hand didn't look edible never mind appetising).

"Do you stay awake all night then?" I asked.

Gaara looked suspicious again but nodded anyway.

"That sounds dull," I sniffed, "I think if I had to stay awake all night with nothing but the coffin-dodger and her demented cow's orchestra of body functions to keep me entertained, I'd just level everything."

Gaara's replying glare was flat and somewhat tinged with dry humour.

I couldn't help chuckling at that, "riveting entertainment."

As it became quiet again save for the sound of the logs on the fire cracking and night time animals rustling about in underbrush, I wondered what that must be like for Gaara. What was it like to have never slept? Boring, most likely, and probably…lonely.

I got up and hunted around in Isaka-san's versatile supply of trade items. After much shuffling and many muttered curses, I finally pulled free what I was looking for.

When I sat myself again (this time a good arm and a half distance away from Gaara but not across the fire) I spread out a pack of cards, ink and brush before me. Shifting through the pack of cards I painted on the backs of each an image of an animal. With my task done, I looked up at Gaara expectantly while the paint dried.

"What?" Gaara looked highly unimpressed.

Meanwhile I was smug and rightly so.

"This is a game I invented," I preened.

Gaara continued to look blank and hostile but he was probably struck dumb by my brilliance again. That look continued throughout my explanation of the extremely overly complicated rules. Gaara watched in silence, neither confirming nor denying that he understood never mind was willing to play. I couldn't help the excitement and pride seeping into my voice as I spoke. The mechanics and rules of the game had become more and more convoluted as years went on, and having someone else to show it off to (and likely thrash at it) was enough to make me grin.

"…I've never heard of this," Gaara snatched up the cards and glowered over the tops of his hand.

"Of course you haven't," I smirked, "I invented it."

"Why?"

"What?" I frowned.

"Why did you invent it?" he replied, as deadly serious as ever (I was beginning to suspect that Gaara's head might explode or something if he even tried being cheerful, which was good because the image of a cheerful Gaara just seemed eerie).

I opened my mouth and promptly snapped it shut. I couldn't really confess that I'd invented it as a child when I'd been kept in the room with those three caretakers. And I couldn't really confess that it was because a) I couldn't read the other side of the cards so I'd had to draw animals on the back; and b) I had no one else to play with so I had added countless rules and counter-rules to make it entertaining enough to bother playing. In the tense silence that followed I was sorely tempted to snatch Gaara's cards away. The game suddenly seemed pathetic and I hated it and him for souring something else I'd prided myself over. I was caught between the urge to stalk off or hit him or rip the cards to shreds or-

"Ren-san."

I jerked up, "Isobu-sama?"

"Isobu-boku…thinks you should play the game," was Isobu-sama's only reply before I could feel him pulling back into me.

Isobu-sama hadn't spoken for a while and although I wanted to coax more from him, I knew he wouldn't answer. Gaara was watching carefully, he didn't say anything when I brushed his earlier explanation aside.

…..

"The goat," Gaara placed said card over the pile in the northern encampment and through the river before turning it clockwise and placing both the rabbit and the dragon on their heads, "I win."

Frowning and clutching my cards to my chest I leaned forward, because he had to have made a mistake somewhere.

"That's a dog!" I yelled.

Gaara glanced apathetically at the card before returning his attention to where I was gesturing furiously.

"See," I demanded, "there are its tail and its ears! See!"

"…it looks like a goat," Gaara replied without the slightest hint of mortification in his tone over what was clearly a ridiculous mistake to make. That misshapen blob with twiggy legs and unfocused eyes was obviously a dog! Goat my ass, was Gaara blind?

Nevertheless Gaara instead produced a second card (this time one that was actually a goat) and repeated his previous move. I could do nothing to stop it as by the right of defeating my monkey by turning the moon card clockwise three times, pacing it three steps to the right then two to the right before sacrificing five locust riding monkey cards, Gaara had two goes while I was frozen.

After repositioning his new goat card, Gaara slowly looked up, "I win."

Isobu-sama chuckled while I mouthed wordlessly. I'd…lost? With a defiant 'humph' I kicked the cards away and stamped the ones closest into the grass.

Suffice to say it would be another hour before I was willing to go near them again.

Temari feels bruised. The village around her feels bruised. She doesn't like to admit it, but it's the truth.

Baki is still speaking with Chiyo-sama, still trying to persuade her to take up the now open title of Kazekage. She doesn't want it and Temari doesn't blame her. She remembers her father as a hard man, a cold man who was willing to sacrifice everything in the name of Sunagakure.

Even Gaara.

What was the start of it all? Was her father always so…distant and stern? Would mother, who she still remembers although she's ashamed by how few and how murky those memories have grown with the years, have loved a man like that? Did the village do this to father or did father do this to the village? Temari can't tell.

She wonders if her fixation on the cause is an attempt to shift the gnawing sense of guilt whenever she thinks of Gaara. Thinking of her brother (and there's no point in denying that he was, still is and always will be her brother) invokes such a clamouring mess of emotions that Temari, despite her skill and level-head, can't untangle. But the guilt stays. She can blame Gaara's suffering on the village, she can blame it on the Kazekage but she cannot remove herself from the part she played. Temari is many things but she is not a coward. She can't run from this.

And now he's gone.

And Sunagakure, in one moment have lost both their Kazekage and their Jinchuriki.

And there was a Kiri spy captured yesterday, though one captured doesn't necessarily mean just one in the village.

And there's likely to be more, from the other villages when they get news (something Temari feels is unavoidable after Kirigakure has been given the information to detract any blame either Suna or Konoha would be saddled with after Kiri's Jinchuriki escaped).

And after the reparations, the loss of the power Ichibi wields and the shinobi lost in the attack on Konoha they are definitely not at their strongest.

And they're sending out a team to recover Gaara tomorrow, but Temari doesn't know the details, doesn't know what 'recover' entails because she is a shinobi and a shinobi is only told what they need to know.

And.

And.

And.

And, in the frigid night air with sandstone at her back and waiting for the verdict of a monster's grandmother, Temari can't help wondering if he would have stayed, had she been a better sister.

A/N:

Sorry, not a very long chapter this week :[ However I do have a reason, there is something important I would like to know from my readers regarding the story. The story already has a plan that it'll go along but what I'm interested in is whether or not you enjoy these interactions between the characters? As in that I mean, I've got ideas and stuff but do you enjoy reading them or do they detract from the story or I don't know XD Obviously you need them or it'd be a
list of 'and then this happened then this then this' and I definitely do not want the Jinchuriki (whoever they may be ;p ) to just be buddy-buddy ten minutes after meeting each other.

BUT do you think I should add more or less as a reader…because I'm not entirely sure. Hopefully that all makes sense XD

Anyway hope everyone's in character.

Plus I LOVE the idea of Nagato and Ren hulking it over who's the better god XD In my mind it always ends in a prissy bitch-fight with Nagato throwing down some 'yo momma's and Ren yanking his hair while he squeals.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing :D