prelude.
you'll come undone.
Fear is foreign to shinobi such as himself, shinobi who are meant to live and breathe amidst the unforgiving stench of death. Fear does not belong in the world of betrayal and the-village-over-your-life that he exists within, and yet.
And yet.
He is afraid of the stale air that surrounds him, the oppressive silence that compels his lips to fasten shut against the screams building in his throat, the thrumming chakra that binds his feet to the ground with its sheer enormity and anger; and most of all, he is afraid of them.
Whether they're man or woman, he can't tell, nor does he care. All he knows is that their gait oozes confidence, the very earth shifting around their feet to accommodate their movements. What was a disapproving quietude is now a volatile, overflowing buzz, liable to descend upon him at any moment in an avalanche of sturdy boulders and poison breath.
He is so, so afraid of this person who so effortlessly commands the reverence of his captors, this person who compels him to be bound here. And he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that should the shackles encircling his wrists and ankles be torn loose, it would make no difference to his cowering form before their presence.
In a different time, he held the same title as they do. He thought he was prepared; he thought he deserved it.
Now he knows that was purely his own naivety and nothing more. He may have survived a war but that single accomplishment is reduced to an act as simple as manipulating chakra in the eyes of this person, this person who lives and breathes for war, this person who kills and kills and kills and survives, this person who is undoubtedly and irrefutably the head of their Clan.
His Clan.
He draws a shuddering breath, his eyes pulled towards them against his will the moment they command it. He flinches.
They look so much like his mother.
It's such a pathetic notion, clinging to such a baseless hope (what hope? Atsuko is dead and he knows it, so why-) and yet he can't help the loosening of his stance, the softening of his eyes and the sudden onslaught of emotion that brings him near tears. He is a shinobi and he has no need for fear or attachment of any form and yet here he is, drowning in both.
He hates them. It's their fault he's in such a pathetic state.
He sees himself reflected in their brown eyes (eyes that shouldn't be so warm, eyes that shouldn't feel so familiar-) and he sees the desperation that grips him, the frenzied look his countenance provides and he thinks, they look more familiar than his own reflection. But there is nothing more to their eyes past the uncanny resemblance to one he held (holds, because he can never accept that she is gone) so dear, nothing within them to hint as to their thoughts or intents.
The perfect shinobi - everything he is not.
There is no malice that coats their words, no moments of hesitation or errors in judgement peeking through their impassive facade. Their words are simple, their questions simpler, their tone demanding despite its callousness, and his truths spill unbidden from lips that had yet refused to budge.
For a moment, they smile, and he sees it: the satisfaction swimming in the depths of murky brown eyes.
And, belatedly, he realises; they're human, too.
"I could have you killed," they muse, their tone just ambiguous enough to make him wonder as to the likelihood of its reality. "Tell me," they state, so simply and so casually, as if it is only natural that he should, "tell me, why should I not?"
He finds the will to resist the words he knows they expect, the blubbering pleas and promises of servitude that would have his life spared.
He has no reason to reply.
The knowledge of it is not enough to resist the way his body reacts to their voice; it is not enough to resist the way his throat itches to speak the moment the question falls from their lips.
"You," he says, slowly and meaningfully, ignoring the harsh chill of metal against his skin and the too-loud rattling of the chains as he struggles to straighten himself where he sits, eyes meeting defiantly with a brown pair that he refuses to allow to control him, and he says- "you have... no reason not to."
The consolation of death strips him of the fear that confinement provides and he feels as if he can breathe again. He meets the eyes that can no longer bind him, and he is so sure that he can secure his own brand of freedom with just a few more jabs and painted words, and-
They laugh.
It startles him out of his calculations and he jerks upright, staring wide-eyed at the person in front of him, words catching and dying in his throat. The momentary surety gives way to confusion and then, once more, a mind-numbing fear.
How dare he believe he could manipulate them to his whims?
"Perhaps, I do not," they say. Their eyes meet his like a predator staring down prey. He looks away. "And yet, I do."
A chill runs down his spine as they step closer, apathetic to the blood that is splattered on the ground and stains their sandals as they move. They lean forward, a cold hand reaching forward and grabbing his chin, forcing his gaze back to them. They smile.
"What better gift can there be for one who craves death than the refusal of it?"
Foreign chakra spills from their fingertips and invades his body, drawing a scream from his lips (but no, he's not supposed to show weakness, he can't he can't he can't-).
The Kiyomizu Clan have never been forgiving of deserters, intruders, or anything in between. Anyone who defies the decree of the clan head is one who reserves the right to face their greatest fears at their hand, because the Kiyomizu do not indulge in mercy killings. And now, irrespective of his once holding that very title, he is nothing but a pawn to be toyed with as they may require.
"Hanazono no Asagao, you claim yourself to be one of ours." Pain sears through his skull and to his nape, his ears ringing and his body aching against the hand that forces it upright; somehow, their voice cuts over the sound of his cries. "And from this moment forth, that is precisely what you shall be."