La Belle Dame Sans Merci: 51:

"Red Thread"

Gaara in his study; an incongruous sight. He is deep in deliberation, no hallucinations this time.

Today his lady wife is scheduled to arrive. Mother doesn't think she'll like the girl, but Kankurou is pleased. Most everyone is pleased about this Hyuuga Hanabi, prodigy kunoichi, Leaf princess (the wedding is good excuse for rebellious elements to show up and bow without losing too much face).

If he had to get married he wanted Naruto, but at least it is not Uchiha. A girl five years his junior, with eyes that can see through stone, straight to the heart of things. He thinks that that intimidates him a little. He also anticipates it, the gaze that will be blank from seeing everything.

Idly, he wonders what she will think of the desert. The landscape of trees and waters from which she originates is utterly foreign to him, must foster a people different from the children raised by the harsh heat of his desert.

"Gaara." Kankurou's voice, thick and composed.

He nods, standing. "It is time?"

It is, and they descend the old staircase winding around the outside of the building, down onto the platform built for the occasion. Adhering to his brother's gesture, Gaara seats himself on the padded stool in the middle of it, lets his disinterested gaze sweep past the closest assembly (advisers, councilors, the higher ranked ninja and the anbu guard he will never need) and to the people below, the dirty, starved scavengers crowding the still partially demolished, badly dilapidated streets.

Someone has leaked the rumor the Leaf Bride will be bringing food for her dowry. Gaara does not know whether this information is accurate, but rather hopes it is.

Sound is muted but definitely present below them; he is fairly gratified to find it is not hostile. Certainly not happy whispers, no shouts of elation, but not hostile. A small step, but a necessary one none the less.

At length (i am not sure how long i waited, but i have waited all my life, though not for this) the Leaf party arrives. Their numbers are scarce; supposedly they too must have had their population shrunk by the long war. ANBU of both Leaf and Sand origin, and two that he thinks might be Sound (you killed my father, you bastards. thanks) and what has to be the girl. Long strides carry her forward fast, unhindered by the pale kimono, through the crowd, never looking sideways, to the platform and up the steps to it.

Belatedly he rises, steps forward to extend a hand.

If he fancied for even a second that Naruto was typical of Leaf ninja, and already Uchiha should have taken that illusion from him, he was gravely mistaken. Her hand is reddish with sunburn, fleshy when compared to the starved Sand denizens but not by much. She looks cold, with the pale hair and pale eyes, the inscrutable face.

Because he needs to imprint it into his consciousness that this is not a fight, and thus should not concentrate on her chakra (high level, tightly controlled, bloodline limit eyes activated) or her movements (silent, graceful). At first he thinks the mark close to the left edge of her mouth is a dimple, but when she steps up close, face perfectly on a level with his own, he discovers it is a scar, likely related to the thin white line gracing her lower lip and continuing over her chin, down her throat.

"I welcome you," he says, making his voice carry over the now silent masses, not quite lying. "My," short stop, long breath, "bride."

She inclines her head, not deeply enough, elegant and childish, makes an off-hand gesture that has her escort approach stationed Sand ANBU with several chests – the food he was hoping for? Probably, just don't sell the skin until you've killed the bear.

Together they retire into the Kazekage Palace, most of its towers erect again now, walking side by side, not looking at each other (does she need to look at him to see him? his knowledge of the byakugan is less extensive than it ought to be). Hidden from the masses, Kankurou approaches them, leads his brother and the Hyuuga bride and certain other grand names into a room prepared for the occasion.

"A pleasure," the puppet master says, nodding greeting, with the tones and the smile that declare he is being genuine.

She returns the gesture without comment, her gaze remarkably not lingering on the damage Kankurou's face has sustained (with tree hundred and sixty degrees vision, why should it need to?), accepting his offered hand without hesitation.

Gaara watches, strangely abstracted, mentally muttering back to Mother; Kankurou clearly gleans his situation and continues the few-worded conversation with Hanabi. Yes, Hanabi, Hyuuga Hanabi, that is her name.

"Correct," she says, from across a great divide. "The chests contain foodstuffs. Durable kinds. A gift from the Hokage, with contributions from the Sound Council."

Later in the afternoon she is standing beside the Kazekage on the dais outside, the sun utterly merciless overhead, red as the designs on Akatsuki cloaks.

She is in the desert. Here everyone can see for miles around, because there is nothing to be seen.

The appropriate hallowed phrases were memorized days ago, by both of them; they stutter out the old-fashioned words, mouths clumsy as no ninja limb should ever be.

Facing forward, impassively receiving the official's sermon, she Byakugan-watches the man beside her, the dwarfish redheaded creature who contains the Ichibi.

"Yes," she says, clear as crystal (not brittle). "I do."

The feast is as close to sumptuous as is possible, in a village suffering the after-effects of civil war and famine. Little enough touches her palate, as she's had small appetite for the last long years. Food is just fuel, and the less you need, the better off you are.

Finally, in the alien desert sunset, they are escorted to the private quarters of the Kazekage, left with just each other in the bedroom. Head tilted to the side, she takes stock; large windows with thick draperies, an antique bed, not a futon. White linen that will not receive any maiden's blood tonight (lost that to a training exercise when she was but a little girl).

Without words she starts removing her clothing, unknots the obi and puts it away.

"Gaara?" Because he's just standing there, his back against the wall close to the door, expression strange under the kanji she already hates.

"Ah?" He looks up, into her face – and they are both painfully neutral, and uncomfortable. "I never have, before."

"I see," she replies. "I believe it is in the contract."

Probably, he nods, he too undoing clasps, slipping free from thick layers of fabric. He leaves Mother watching over them there by the locked door.

Every time he has thought (heat, yearning, god, could someone touch) he has ended up with Naruto's name ghosting past his swollen lips.

Stepping out of his pants, he watches her kimono fall to the floor, leaving this strange impression of a doll. Her legs could be joints on any of Kankurou's murder puppets, and her flesh-body too is dollish; artificial, intended for use.

They look at each other, repeating the steps (jiraiya's sweat in the dirty room, the taste of liquor from his tongue, touch, taking, swallow and close your eyes); ('see, now, this doll does this, the other reacts like that… you get it?').

It is only much later, with linen scratching against his slick back, gasping, that he realizes the impossible: "You're not afraid of me."

She smiles, for the first time, and it's actually – he rather likes it. Not as much as he likes the way she moves a little, which sets his nerves firing, breath hissing, thoughts cascading into each other, ecstasy – anxiety – panic, red-hot, death-heavy, consciousness falling apart like a mountain of sand from the roar of liberated instinct, dubbed Shukaku.

"No," she says. And: "I am not afraid of anything."

After that it isn't Naruto's name he says, every time the world shatters into flame.

xxxxx

"Hello," Kankurou says – politeness, unnecessary announcement. You get used to warning for your presence, when among allies in a war. "How are you?"

"Hello," she repeats, sitting in a niche, sunlight on her hair, shadows protecting the mildly scalded skin of face and arms. "I'm fine."

He looks her over: there are some bandages here and there, stitches across her shoulder, but the marks are not so bad as to force her into baggy garments. Her feet are bare, beige-panted metal constructs.

Contemplating swiftly, cunning and daring as any successful battle commander, he rests a warm maimed hand on one of them.

"I'm a puppet master. I'd be interested in working with you on this matter."

"Yeah?" Her alien face offers a faint hint of a smile. "I'd like that."

"But," he doesn't remove his touch, not quite yet, "it went okay?"

"It did." She shrugs, rippling the stitches. "The healers say it's not a problem; I didn't think it was." A minimalist expression he can't decipher. "Anyone could predict Ichibi would act up, when Gaara lost control. I dealt with it."

"You certainly did." Sealed tenketsu until Shukaku almost exploded Gaara's skull in frustration; the demon will have to learn to be more cautious, or it'll kill its host – kill itself.

"Why did you agree to this?" he asks impulsively, honestly curious all of a sudden. Maimed princess, my darling, our savior. "I mean, of course I comprehend the reasoning at large, but I was made to understand you raised not the slightest objection."

And Leaf does not force, does not threaten. Not Naruto's village (don't let that change).

"Why should I? I was the obvious candidate." Her smirk turns introvert for a second before she offers, lighter now. "I like your sister. She sent some things with me for you." Reaching inside her discarded robe, protection for skin unused to the relentless desert sun should she venture outside, she liberates a leather folder and hands it over.

With all my love. This is Temari, so the phrase is nowhere in evidence, but you might consider it implicit in stacks of documentation detailing excellent info and progress, offers and deals.

Not to mention the personal letters, from her and from Sara (my niece, my god), the blurry photos of a little girl with a smile wide as victory and shaggy blond hair.

"I'm glad," he says, almost choked (where's my makeup when i need it? but it infected his ruined nose, he had to quit and has never taken it up again, for one reason or another).

xxxxx

He watches from a window, high in the tower of loneliness, a Rapunzel with short-cropped hair, as his brother trains with his wife on the courtyard down below.

They are in plain sight, moving fast, and he thinks he hears the tinkling, hesitant sound of a short laugh. A bark, sweet as dew.

I am eleven weeks married. The country is calmly ecstatic.

The Princess sent to slay the Dragon and save the Prince.

He does not feel he needs to be rescued. Naruto showed him that. Still, it'd be nice for someone to try.

(for myself to succeed, as i will, as i do, slowly and steadily, a grinding year of sanity adding to the last, on and on, circles)

The elders have died, and most of the Council is new; green, uncertain. Gaara will fight for them, will give them ideology and conviction and a struggle to the last, his life if need be, but he cannot provide for their everyday needs. There is not within his capability to plan, reckless political strategy dancing elegantly with patch-work solutions, brilliant feats and long-term achievements.

(there is within me a demon god, and a beating heart, blood like yours, and lungs that draw breath)

For almost as long as he can remember, his brother has run the operation. Kankurou is no longer alone in that. After all, Gaara's wife was raised a prospective heir of the Hyuuga Clan, a prospective Hokage in the making.

And he does trust her, as long as Kankurou is overseeing her decisions, and so clearly happy with it, even when they're arguing. Once they actually screamed at each other; it's the only time he's seen his chilly young wife upset.

Being married isn't so bad. You'd think it'd be intrusive because the participants might be regarded as having to be close, but such is not necessarily the case.

If nothing else, he warily enjoys attempting to procreate. They've learned which jutsu to use to keep Ichibi pliant, when it's necessary to block his chakra – it's basically a safe procedure.

He watches, quietly. Outside, flesh meets flesh, and laughter.

xxxxx

Hokage-sama,

Trouble abroad. Can't read Gaara too well, but I think he's pretty satisfied with the current state of affairs (he asked about naruto, i gave him good news, so be prepared to lie). Temari and Kankurou are particularly happy to be reunited; both her uncles have taken well to Sara.

It's pretty clear it's the wife and brother who run the country, and that it's the two of them who are actually

Ah, it's more or less safe, at least inside the village. No wonder, of course, ten months after reconstruction began.

There have been rumors of a pregnancy; I haven't had them confirmed. Nine months' marriage, yes, and it's pretty evident they do manage to consummate it, but she's still thin as a stick, I doubt she's bleeding properly. Though food's getting more plentiful, they shouldn't have to starve this year. Probably we can make good profit, guarding merchants from Fire Country.

–Nara Shikamaru, Registered Chuunin of the Hidden Village of Leaf

xxxxx

"Hello." Perhaps a redundant thing to say to your wife, but a workable greeting.

She looks up, a polite unnecessary movement, offers a smile. It's an expression she's cultivated, that comes to her fairly easily these days; she cannot remember it ever would, in Leaf (except before, but that is not real to her anymore).

Under his customary peculiar, childishly steady gaze she sits back in the large stuffed chair, away from the desk crowded with documents and crowned by one of Kankurou's puppets, no larger than a foot, which she is continually manipulating. It danced jerkily across the room while she approved a trading contract.

Good practice.

"It's very sunny today," he says.

"Why are you here?" Technically it is his office, but she left the three reunited siblings alone with pointed politeness less than twenty minutes ago.

He shrugs, uncomfortable. You do not lie to your spouse, he was told long ago. He supposes he'd better adhere. This is for the village, after all, and he rather likes her, as people go.

"Things are complicated."

"They usually are," she agrees. "Families especially."

"Will we have one?" It is asked in a tone of acute confusion.

"I suppose we should."

She must see he is upset, appalled at the nearness displayed downstairs by his sister and brother, envious of it as well.

He thinks of Sara, bright smiles, bright eyes. Could we have a child like that?

She looks a little amused and very blank but stands obediently, fingers lingering suggestively at the edge of her tank top, where it does not quite meet the hem of her pants. "Is that a proposition?"

"I – perhaps."

"Alright." Her eyes go distant, veiny (she is looking at the son of the kazekage that orochimaru assassinated. she is not looking at her husband). "There's no one in the vicinity."

Rustle of clothes, soft groans, sharp hisses.

"Do you still think of Naruto when we do this?" The question is asked without passion, in a spirit of absent curiosity. There is no nastiness in it.

He shifts a little on the floor, feeling the hardness of her metal leg against his shin, light fingertips catching in his sweaty hair. "Sometimes," he offers. "Not often, anymore."

(i think about you)

It leads him to a question, that languid line of thought; he has little experience, no real way of knowing whether she likes what they do, whether she hates it or enjoys it or doesn't care. "Do you? Think about somebody else."

"Does it upset you, if I do?"

He contemplates, startled. "No."

"Then yes, I suppose I do."

Don't ask, don't tell.

Actually it's sort of romantic; sometimes she imagines she is Naruto. Being helpless does not turn her on – she has always wanted to be the one to sweep in and save the princess, the brutal warrior on the blood-splattered white horse. The victor.

Besides, she's considered Sasuke hot since she was ten.

She thinks about that, and moves with Gaara, and watches Kankurou exchange upset words and tender glances with Temari.

xxxxx

"Hiya."

"Hello."

And they look at each other. It's all we can do (for now and ever?).

(castles made of sand)

"They have successfully departed, then?"

He nods, "They have."

They haven't seen each other much, during the long visit from Leaf.

Once, in a hallway when Sara had lost her way and he'd offered to look for her – and found her with Hanabi, little girl and larger. His sister-in-law bent down, offered an unaccustomedly uncertain smile, finally hefted the child. Sara sniffed, having apparently scratched her knee quite badly, looking large and bright.

Not that he noticed (until afterwards, when i went over the memory again and again with compulsion).

Hanabi, white and thin, with the child in her arms and a wry smile in his direction.

It's too late. It hasn't even begun, it cannot begin, and it's too late.

The phantom echo of a part long lost was pounding. Still is.

The child was traded, given into his large maimed hands without complaint. He could not speak; she would not.

That was then. They've talked now, if little.

Deliberate, dainty, she catches his hand with her fingers. Coarse skin strokes across his digits, a warm skeleton hand holding him mesmerized, prodding like a bird's beak at the stumps of what was his left middle and ring fingers.

Fine symbolism, there.

"I'm surprised you did not have these replaced."

"There was never the time. When there was, years later, they'd healed, I'd grown used to it."

Her other hand moves to his face, ethereal as a dandelion seed her nail ghosts over his twice-broken nose, past the scarred mouth with the missing teeth she must be able to see, anytime she wants, through his closed lips.

Grown used to it?

Not anymore.

"Gaara didn't take it too badly, did he? I was occupied with Temari and Sara – he retreated into himself a great deal...?"

"He's alright," she dismisses, removing her hand from his face but not her fingers from around his. "It's just the usual complications with him and the concept of family."

"Ah. You're much the same, aren't you? Uncannily talented younger sibling…" It's only half a tease, a little wistful.

She purses her lips, looking a childish granny. "I too killed my mother merely by entering into this world."

"That's not true," he says, husky. "Not for you and not for Gaara either. They died, but that's not the same as you killing them."

"It's a point of view."

"You're so much like each other," he says again, to remind himself. "Crazy prodigies, traumatized, with royally fucked-up backgrounds..."

"I was never scorned," she points out, sharp enough. "My family loved me, in their way." Her mouth forms a strange shape. "I do not feel alone or traumatized now."

It's true she's looking better than when she arrived, almost a year ago. She's smiling more, has gained several pounds and a reddish tan.

Perfect is a cold, precise word, and he feels it is not the only adjective fit to describe her anymore.

(watching them from the far end of the corridor, unnoticed, gaara does not speak)

xxxxx

After fifteen months of marriage Hanabi suffers a miscarriage. Supposedly she's in no danger, was only ten weeks along.

She shouldn't have lost it. There is no reason why she would have tripped, did not block properly, fell – why she felt she could not have the baby, and acted accordingly, subconsciously or not.

Lying in the dim bedchamber, she does not feel incapacitated. The dizzy weakness that accompanies shocked blood-loss has receded, though a thin trickle of redness still seeps from her. I am bored.

Aching, in some inconceivable inside way.

Gaara is fiddling with something in the outside room, murmuring with the lost child's alleged grandmother. Every one of the councilors and midwives where in touching agreement that it was for the best that the Kazekage be kept away from the unfortunate business. Blood tends to excite Ichibi, confuse the demon's host, and Hanabi is not in any condition to fight him.

There's really no one else who can, with any hope of success.

This means that the man impatiently forcing his way through the attendants is her brother-in-law. He jerks the door open, ignorant of the rising tide of protests, slams it decisively shut behind him.

Her hair is blindingly white against the pillow, a beacon.

He stumbles forward on irresistible momentum, landing on the bedside, feeling the luxurious mattress dip under his weight. She eases herself up on an elbow, collapses to half-sit.

And once again they are staring, and her meager body warmth is reaching out to embrace him.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me! Why did you need to…?"

"Is that of any importance?" What's done is done, isn't it?

('holy shit. you're lusting after gaara's wife.'

'temari. i'm a bloody enuch. who i want to fuck is of no particular consequence')

"Yes it damn well is, you stupid girl. You could have hurt yourself!"

Her eyes are ordinary and luminous. For the first time she looks tragic, in a romantic sense of the word.

She doesn't say: Because I want my children to be yours.

It cannot begin, but there's a palm cupping the nape of his neck and he is not fighting it, not at all.

This is impossible.

He thought he knew what he lost, when they took his manhood from him, was neither a child nor a virgin, felt it didn't signal the end of the world, wasn't as important as they seemed to think. Frustrating, painful, but at least he'd lived, before, and lives still, and learned to live with the handicap.

How wrong I was.

In another world he leans forward, closes the gap, and there is warmth and softness between them, she's on her back, he eases inside, they push each other upward, into something brilliant.

There is no world for us to have but this one.

Even if it were not physically impossible, they could never. We both know that.

Her wrist still hangs weakly around his neck; he relaxes into the touch.

"I'm glad you're alright."

"I'm glad you're here."

He presses a kiss that masquerades as chaste to her brow; she draws a deep breath, catches the thickly scarred tip of his nose against a soft spot below her ear.

They can never happen.

(we already have)

xxxxx

Gaara is watching events unfold again. It is strange; he is not the adviser, not particularly cautious, nor the one equipped with Bloodline Limit eyes.

Despite these striking disqualifications, watching appears to be all he can do. He watched the war, watched the victims struggle and fall, and he is watching now, as others rule his country. He does not mind.

He presses his mouth to every patch of skin he can reach, raining kisses over her face, under her jaw, below her ears, along every scar. It is not sexual; and then her mouth is open over his, and he thinks he knows what starlight tastes like; their upper bodies are pressed seamlessly into the togetherness, and incautious hands are mapping out roads to paradise. He cannot imagine how he could ever let go of this person he should never hold.

And that is not me.

He cannot help imagining that which is not a memory, even though he professes he is fine with it.

There is a love story unfolding in the desert. He wishes he were part of it.

Wants to love, and is growing to love the girl whom his brother is utterly taken with, even as, perhaps, they love each other, the brothers.

It is a tale entirely of almost.

–and almost is never enough, but nearly always it has to suffice.

A love story in the desert. Not Gaara's.

xxxxxxxxxx