Chapter Seventy: A New Playtime

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It did not take long for the Uchiha who had experienced a particularly riveting fainting spell to feel the birth of a robust chakra flare at an alarming pace in his system—he was a young man, after all. Cleared of mucus, his nostrils expanded with the accompaniment of a stuffy sound, and his red lips parted with mirthless delight. His mind, responding to the sensory impulses, was entering into a state of wakefulness, alertness even.

Well, he was not that particularly alert; and his mind, almost too keen to remain in the peaceful state of sleep, had just begun to register the sounds collecting into his ears (like a meandering sludge), sensations creeping in menacing silence across his skin, and weights pressing against his genitals, which he could tell were still properly covered by his trousers.

His eyes opened just a crack to investigate, almost wrestling against the firmly entwined lashes—and he possessed such long ones, too! Light floated against his vision and filled up the vibrating lines of things around him: little white cups in an alcove, an expensive partition-screen patched with shadows, charms clinking together against the wind's playfulness, and . . . his flak jacket? This was most concerning; no wonder he could feel things going across his skin with such clarity!

And he strained his head and gazed upon the grinning face, framed in the wildest curls that had survived through the sweep of hurricane winds, of a feral creature that reared its head from the darkness that lay upon and between the valley of his trousers-covered thighs. Its smiling mouth, a lamenting crescent, rose above the sleeping peak of his loins in a slow ascent. Oh, Kami, what manner of creature was this that hungered for his flesh? Evil was a relative term (and he was the most beautiful and tragic man in the world!), but he could think of nothing else to define the wanton intent that radiated unchallenged from the countenance shrouded in the clichés of lofty pursuits, of which he was a part.

Darkness, like a man, drew in and hovered above, all menacing and ill-omened; then he saw a mean, watery mouth pursed over teeth a shade too white, bounded by a fine-cut moustache and beard. His Sharingan's perspective was constrained to things he could see—how awful was this state of weakness?

And when he caught sight of a gob of saliva dangling from the fallen commissures of the man's mouth that turned greedy, his hand moved fast, a Shinobi's lethal action, before his mind had had the opportunity to think of the right re-action for this hair-raising situation.

The Sharingan, still protesting in slow disobedience, fizzled and visited upon his eyes to convey the nature of the threat this man posed to his loins, which had remained unsullied by a man's hand—since that one terrible incident in the past, though he had washed his hands and mind clean of it, mostly.

His hand closed around the throat and dug into the folds; and he sensed rather than felt the beats galloping in heartfelt frenzy alongside his fingers that created dimpled pink depressions in the man's free-hanging skin. The pudgy man's eyes bulged like two unrelenting skin-rash protrusions, arms flailing about; his throat went hoarse with the building air stuffed tightly inside his lower respiratory-tract.

Slowly, his face changed shades, going from brilliant white to mellow blue in his sweat-beaten cheeks and brow; and when the old man looked as if he might pass his final breath in a choking sound that came forth as a sputtered and muffled, "y-you beautiful, cruel w-whore!", he thrust his knee into his pillow-y stomach, which caved into itself in wobbly waves, and threw him back. The man flew across the room and crashed into an expensive set of drawers, utterly destroying them.

The sound reverberated across the rooms; and soon, he heard thumping of heavy steps; and not a moment later, a rather flustered Suigetsu burst into the room whilst waving his Executioner's Blade, screaming things about his boss's un-touched posterior!

Suffice to say, he sat up straight at Suigetsu's shouts and relaxed his alert posture (almost immediately) when his mind figured out that his nipples were unharmed; his critical locations, uncompromised; then he looked down at his thigh, his Sharingan throbbing like the fat fool's ever-ready cock, in sheer anger: the man had ejaculated on his trousers and left a stain so big that it glared like Buddha's divine countenance in his Sharingan-dressed eyes. By the Sage, he would murder this bastard—murder him!

It took the combined efforts of Suigetsu and Serizawa to keep him from inflicting serious harm upon the randy rascal who lay out-cold on his back, an insolent cock as stiff as ever. Lord Sage, this whole ordeal disgusted him to no end—when would it end? Surely, not before it ended him!

Upon seeing his young Lord's misgivings, Serizawa took it upon himself to wash the stain clean from Itachi's trousers, with tear-filled eyes no less. He felt personally responsible for not resorting to harsher methods to pry the fool off his still-innocent Lord (Itachi's sexual adventures since his boyhood days with harlots not withstanding). Why, in his eyes, Itachi was still a stripling boy of twenty and nine! His poor Lord—his poor Commander.

Yet Itachi would have none of this fishy trousers' business. To make matters still worse, he refused to slip back into the clothes tainted by the man's ejaculations, not before the arrangement of new and pristine garments was made. Serizawa's Lord could be a picky prick sometimes, but he adored him just the same. Suigetsu, on the other hand, had had enough of Itachi's cool tantrums, but he was still so afraid of him that he bit his tongue, choosing silence.

When day went away in smooth resignation towards night, Itachi locked himself up in an onsen, assaulting his body with a scrub till harsh red blotches materialised across his skin in varied patterns (he looked as if he had been pecked silly by wild cocks!); but he did not care; he was clean, finally . . . he would have to force his mind to forget that he was taken advantage of, without his knowledge no less!

At night, the strange village glowed with stray vaporous globules that travelled upon air, which was quite cold and moist; and they had arisen in sheer numbers from the stream that burst forth from the tall mountain's side. Suspended in air, they danced to the winds' whims like faeries in garments pristine, held sway by moonlight strings; and when Men passed through them, they began their merry shudders.

Yoko told him that the village Suigetsu came from was special—that its chakra was special. He did not understand; though when he enquired more from her, she informed him of her ignorance: she had never stepped foot in the village since her childhood—she was not allowed back inside. The subject was closed . . .

The Lord of this village, Yoshimasa Shiba, was an odd sort of man. To say that he was relentless would be putting it lightly. In his pursuit of flesh, he courted all manner of creatures: men, women, and, sometimes, the in-between biological anomalies—he was not deterred. By day, he was an astute bureaucrat who managed the affairs beyond borders, fringes of this treacherous land; by night, he engaged in drunk merry-making and ran mating marathons till the first morning call from the biggest cock in the village—truly.

The sodomite Shiba, as he was known by dissidents (Yoko was quite infuriated having to reiterate their accusations), was a fool's fool, a romantique, an idealist . . . or something of the sort; however, Itachi could say for sure that he was in silent agreement with the dissidents: the man was a nuisance—a hunter without claws, a foppish dandy with a plumage too distracting for his perceived notions of manhood.

Presently, Itachi sat beneath the glaring light of a lantern. It was feeding on chakra-infused oil, and the flame burnt brighter than it normally would, releasing a vulgar red all over the table, sake, and occupants. A coquettish woman, who sat by the table, sang with a gottan in her hands:

In the evening they play

Shy women and men of may

The bright sun went down

And he went looking for his crown

He found it rising between his thighs

Excited at the sound of her cries!

The whole crowd cheered and clinked their sake-filled cups together in joyous laughter, but he could manage no more than a frown. By his side, Serizawa lowered his head and gaze when the woman disrobed herself and danced naked on the table with a feisty man—who was bare as day. This place was much too vulgar for his refined sensibilities.

To make matters more unpleasant, Shiba was quite fascinated by Itachi's arm, which he caressed with a love-sick grin that assailed the barely held-together contours of his youth-less mouth. Rough lines that etched the extremities of his eyes deepened with the expression on his countenance that appeared to resemble lechery. It was not a new tale for his facial muscles that seemed to ease into their routine with an effortless effect; and below the furious red, Itachi could say with surety that the man looked quite frightening.

Itachi ignored him, quite busy tasting the dango treats the servants had prepared. They were tender, sweetened just right. The texture was impeccable, and the sweetness dissolved on his tongue like butter—gooey and slippery! Itachi was on cloud nine, and he peeked up at the wisps of light, dispersing like excited fireflies, through his lashes, almost smiling at the feeling.

"I like the sight af ya takin' that into yor mouth," Shiba said, voice honeyed and thick.

He stopped chewing, looking down at Shiba's age-wrecked face glowing with want under the forest of rough hair, unable to swallow, unable to spit it out. Bubbles of air collected at the back of his throat, and he went into a fit of coughs, his hand going to his mouth. At that precise moment, Serizawa slammed a fist against his back, and he had to spit the damned candy out! The slimy dango-bits splattered across the table, and both dancers slipped as a result, landing flat on their buttocks. The woman, followed by the very drunk man, ran away screaming . . .

Shiba, to his utmost horror, appeared quite delighted at the way Itachi spat out his precious trove of spittle. "Ya naughty lil' minx!" Shiba remarked and winked, his hand bringing up the fan, holding it to his smiling lips.

A flame of colour radiated dangerously along Itachi's neck, burning brighter than the rashes he had created earlier; but before he could actually hurt the man, Suigetsu wedged himself between the two.

"Oh-kay, calm yor prick, ya rottin' tosser!" Suigetsu said, sat himself down, picked up a dango from the plate, which Itachi was never going to touch again—probably . . .

"The Hōzuki lad be talkin', and he's slimy," Shiba said, his smile almost vanishing from his red-speckled, puffy cheeks.

"And fer good reason," he said and munched noisily on the dango. "I need ta get in the village. Me bellend and bollocks might freeze and fall aff. Don't like it 'ere, mate—don't like it at all!"

Suigetsu slurped on the thick sauce as it dripped from the dango. Shiba's mouth curved down in annoyance. "I liked that beauty's manner of eatin'," he said, sighing, "ya disgust me, lad."

Itachi could tolerate the man's villainy no longer, so he got up and walked away—but not before he caught Suigetsu's words, "ya crazy? Spitters are quitters!" terrorise his mind; he pretended that he did not hear him . . .

"There he goes—" Shiba stopped and puffed out a bated breath, eyes still following Itachi, "—ya ruin me fun, lad."

Suigetsu passed his tongue over his teeth and looked over to Shiba whose face had gone sullen, and he looked dead serious.

"Shut it, ya mad ol' codger!" Suigetsu hissed and his eyes widened. "That thin' looks pretty as a candy, but it ain't the pot ya'd want ta stick yor beak into. Unless ya wanna lose it? Let's get back ta business. I need ta get into the village. Now!"

"I can't help ya," he said, quite off-handedly, passing his gaze over every man and woman packed into the small restaurant. The air had gone thick as mud with the smells of sweat, spices, and Sage knew what else.

"What—why?" he asked and wiped his hand across his cheeks. Quite a bit of sweat had gathered into large droplets along his cheekbones and nose; and in the red light, they looked like squishy boils from a nasty flora infection.

"Ya know why we call this the Water Sprout Village?" he spoke and looked at Suigetsu who shook his head twice. "It's 'cause af the water that comes frem the mountain. It loses its magic, but it's still special—the chakra it's got is special.

"Don't ask me why—I don't know. It just is. And I can't get ya inside the village, 'cause I can't—I really can't. The Elder af the village, a sickly lookin' codger, comes an' goes as he pleases. We don't even know wher' he comes frem. It's a maze a' caves up ther'. Ya get lost and drown in the salt-water. If that doesn't do it, the smell 'ill kill ya . . . but they give us medicine, so we keep 'em secret safe. Yoko would've killed ya on sight had ya not been a Hōzuki—yor blood kept ya safe, lad."

Then he coughed and inserted the polished tip of a long pipe into his mouth to inhale tobacco. He seemed quite fond of traditional smoking. The smoke was filtered by water (the contraption that supplied the smoke was placed by his feet); he remembered his father being fond of this activity, too—the memory of him was quite hazy in his mind.

"Yoko a Sensor?" Suigetsu asked, watching Shiba nod, draw deep, and expel, from his wet nose and crinkled mouth, clouds of concentrated grey smoke in front of his confused face, afterwards. The man would not live past the end of next season, he imagined.

The noise in the restaurant had become unbearable: men and women sang strange songs, played old instruments, danced in drunken frenzy—they fell upon each other in wild laughter. The smell, cloying and spicy, hit his senses from all directions, making it difficult for him to ascertain the location of his presently irritated leader.

At last, Suigetsu located him, standing rigid and stern beneath the fiery light of the lantern in all his glory, all white and lovely in appearance, never in manner, with blush a shade too deep glaring on his cheeks, forehead, little portions of his throat. The hostess was absolutely smitten with him, all toothy smiles and pretty blushes; yet he treated her in the same manner he treated all potential lovers: she was not going to reach his floor-bed anytime soon. (His refusals were a blessing in disguise . . .)

By his side stood Jūgo who loomed over the tiny hostess; and in the light that coiled round them like twisty hatchlings, Suigetsu was surprised by the revelation that Jūgo was a little taller than the intimidating Uchiha, though that did not diminish his fearsome demeanour in his eyes—not one bit. He was still as ghastly as ever, as ghostly as ever.

He shivered, drawing his eyes and mind away from Itachi for moments of respite. Casting his gaze heavily upon Shiba, Suigetsu realised that Shiba was still looking at Itachi. He, along with his thoughtless cock, was starting to get on his nerves!

"Just point me ta the right place, and I'll look fer it meself. Yor no help ta me," he said and rose to his feet, with a pronounced shake of his head. Then he straightened his cloak—which smelt of sweat, spices, and sake now—and gazed at Shiba who seemed almost baffled at his suggestion.

"But ya might die, lad—why ya want ta die?" he asked and bounced to his feet, and the pipe's mouthpiece fell from his lips with a pop.

"Fuckin' Sage! I ain't got time fer this!" he said, loudly this time, a vein popping up in his strained temple.

"Ya wee lad—" Shiba stopped and wrung his hands together, visibility frustrated by the youth's temerity to investigate the caves, "—the cave's at the foot a' the mountain—by the Buddha's statue. Don't kill yorself, ya young fool. Why, when I was yor age—"

Suigetsu did not bother himself to listen to the man's stories of yesteryear; so he waded through the crowd and made his way towards the older Uchiha brother who had quite the temper to display tonight. Sometimes, he truly missed the younger one's company, more than he would like to admit.

"This sake tastes delightfully sweet . . . strange," Itachi spoke and placed the cup back on the tray the hostess carried—this simple gesture deepened her blush to an impossible shade of pink, but the cold winds of dismissal that blew from him next made the colour vanish utterly. Then her lively mouth and expression sagged in a sullen manner, and she briskly walked away into the curtain of bodies and faces that Suigetsu would never see again.

"I thought ya liked sweets, boss," Suigetsu spoke, a cautious smile still forming across his lips, and threw the hood over his head; it was a rough one, stitched haphazardly with a thick black thread to the rest of the garment. Itachi did not speak a word—his eyes appeared red-flecked without Sharingan. He was probably a little intoxicated on the taste of sake, and its effect was apparent in the concentrated pink colour spreading over his cheeks that were usually smooth, of almost dour white hue.

"Oh, Kami! Where didya come frem?" Suigetsu exclaimed, nearly jumping away from Shiba who had materialised between Itachi and him.

"Stay 'ere!" he pleaded whilst he held Itachi's thin long hand in his death-tight grasp. "I'll do anythin' fer ya!"

"He's weeping . . . " Jūgo said, without an emotion—though it was ghostly, his countenance exhibited the beginnings of a curious expression, and it frightened Suigetsu that he was even capable of it.

"Fuckin' wanker! As if we didn't hav' enough af 'em back in the Village," Suigetsu muttered, horrified by the dangerous, wrathful shade glowing in Itachi's eyes and cheeks. He was working himself into a rare version of anger; and as much disharmony this emotion created with his cultivated features, it spelt nothing but trouble for this man.

"Release my hand," Itachi spoke in a voice that was unusually calm. The man shook his head vehemently in response and pouted like a snot-nosed audacious child of one and ten.

"Yor askin' fer trouble, mate! His pointy hill ain't the spot ya want ta croak yor arse on. It blows too cold up ther'—it just blows!" Suigetsu warned whilst he took one slow and two quick steps backward.

Serizawa's teeth came together and snapped shut with force that Suigetsu thought he heard a creaky sound over the noise, his face possessed by rage. His Lord's rump was in peril—again—and he would lay down his life to protect its virtue, at all costs! (False-writer whores be damned! Evil was not a relative term!)

"Oh, ta lov' a beauty so cold without havin' the delight af samplin' the flesh—Dear Sage, ya hav' made 'is cock cold. Make it warm fer me!" he wailed and pressed Itachi's knuckled-hand to his temple. " 'e can hop down ta the cav' like a lil' hare after I've had his—"

And he did not get a chance to complete his sentence. The young Lord upon him unleashed his anger. Wails from Shiba, friend, and foe filled the restaurant, and by the time Itachi was through with him, Suigetsu did not think his dangling old testicles had survived the assault.

Itachi walked through the door with an angry and smooth strut (Serizawa, imitating Itachi's demeanour, left the same way). He left poor ol' Shiba in a comatose state, with his cock sticking straight up—a monument to the unrelenting lust of this love-sick fool.

"Af all the thin's ta get mad over—it's the dam' bunny rabbit that pushes ya over the edge?" Suigetsu whispered, winched at the sight of the wilting cock, ran out the door, too! Jūgo was not far behind . . .

When they reached the foot of the mountain, inside its lumbering shadow which was coal black against the black that covered the forest's bed, it was night. A breeze came from the midst of trees and pulled sounds and smells of flora along. Their noses were blocked with mucus again—damned spores!

Itachi instructed them not to linger and turned to the cave, his Sharingan lighting up like a predictable wildfire, contained in the blacks of his eyes. Though to their surprise, he immediately made vanish the brilliant red, leaving behind the same dull tone of colour.

He stepped into the cave's mouth, a blacker shadow against softer black inside the cave. Everyone else followed with slow steps; and not a moment too soon, salt-tinted air filled up their nostrils and cleared them of all mucus. The air inside the cave dripped so thickly with a briny odour that every man felt as though he was inhaling a fistful of salt!

Itachi, for a moment, wedged his nose in the crook of his elbow. His Sharingan came and went, a truer! feline in the dark. He could see nothing! A great chakra was suspended before his vision, a thick veil made from innumerable silk layers without the craftsmanship of a delicate and careful hand, in thick clouds. It possessed the colour that flowed in Suigetsu's system, only more potent and of heavier hue.

It was no use—he would have to make do without his Sharingan. Without a word, Serizawa understood, and, placing a hand over his nose, he breathed through his mouth: the air, heavy as an unmoving sludge, burnt his lungs; however, it was not so unbearable.

Both Uchihas kindled flames over their free hands: light radiated outwards and upwards and glimpsed over wet stones. The cave's walls, tarred with the same brush, were brilliant black, shining. Occasionally, they saw streaks of silver embedded in-between the crevices that cradled many flowers with shades pretty: blue, red, yellow, they grew across the walls in clusters and trembled against the air stirred with their presence. Sounds from water resonated in the empty pathways inside the cave, but it came from all directions, sublime and mellow—it was impossible to know the source of the sound's making.

The sandal-sucking mud exuded a nerve-shaking scent as they went deeper into the cave. Their sandals squelched and went into the soft ground; and Itachi noticed that the water falling in crisscrossing streams from the walls had a bluer shade. Alarmed that they might lose their way in this unforgivable maze, Itachi instructed Jūgo to locate water. The large man complied, and within moments, he was able to direct them to an appropriate section where clear water slapped against the stones.

The beaded mask of droplets fell away from the walls as they went further in, hip-deep in water now. Replaced by a venous cover of tree-roots, walls grew higher, and cave, wider. In the fire's light, Itachi saw luminescent fish of colours bright swimming about his legs. The water was crystal clear, and the smell of salt, gone; however, a new smell had occupied the space between the flourishing garden that spread unchecked on the walls. It was strangely reminiscent of the one the spores-releasing flowers in the village exuded, but it did not block off his nostrils.

"What is that smell?" Itachi spoke as though he was thinking out loud. Everyone stopped, and fish flurried to the surface, mouths flapping to grab the strange droplets falling from roots, and swam back down.

"He who smelt it, dealt it!" Suigetsu spat out in a frenzied pitch, and then went as quiet as a punished child afterwards when he realised that it was Itachi who had posed the question. The salt in the air had not been kind to his senses that were going berserk.

"It smells like the flowers in the village," Serizawa spoke, and Jūgo nodded in agreement.

"They have the same energy, but it feels more powerful here," Jūgo said, his voice heavier than the other two, almost thick like the salt-filled air in the previous section of the cave.

"I don't know, mate—" Suigetsu stopped and slumped down on a large and smooth stone, a portion of which was present above water, "—I want ta get the fuck out-ta 'ere. Fuck this village, mate—just fuck it!"

"Giving up so soon?" Itachi asked, his mouth smiling in the fire's light. "I did not think you to be a prophet of chatter. Not always."

"That ain't nice!" Suigetsu returned, in the same pitch. "Whatdoya know? Why, I've been livin' a life a' lies. Lies!

"Me pa and mum didn't sleep in the same bed. I got ta know 'bout knobbin' frem a shifty juice-vendor! I was a wee lad a' ten. Deep down, me thinks he wanted me baby-smooth arse. The faggit!"

And silence. Suigetsu breathed deeply for some moments, disturbing air and nerves, and again he launched into raptures about his troubled past life, with more fervour this time: "pa went 'way, and I'd ta cover me arse with his smelly rags. They stank, mate—they stank!

"A-Spot, P-Spot, O-Spot, G-Spot—they don't exist! They don't! It's a lie—everything's a lie! Yor fancy eye can dismantle the puss' and put it back tagether. Me can't! Last lass slapped the shit out-ta me. She urinated in me face! Ya hear me? Me face! Me fuckin' face!" And then his voice turned into sobbing pleas for a better time, a good time—everyone stared dumbfounded, though Itachi's expression was less perceivable behind his usual mask.

"I see the salt has affected his head," Itachi remarked, ignoring Suigetsu's air-piercing wails. "Can you Sense a way out? I can only tolerate so much of this emotionally-charged . . . episode."

Jūgo placed his hand on the portion of wall that had escaped the onslaught of flora and merged with the energy coursing and surging through this cave's excited veins. It did not take long for the cave to speak to his otherworldly senses and grant him a glimpse at the door that awaited their arrival.

When Jūgo backed away, his palms covered in droplets, Itachi asked him to lead the way; and in a small instance of fascination with floating chakra, Itachi's hand landed on a sharp edge of a protruding-rock in the wall; the stone went in deep, and instantly, blood erupted from the cut and fell down in droplets, which shone crimson in water.

The fish were particularly ravenous, swimming around with mouths open, to collect the red that coagulated like a solid bead, almost in resistance to the chakra-filled water: his blood had waged a war against the invasion. He did not understand. He raised his hand and looked at the large red droplets, slipping away from a string of smaller ones, that collected without opposition over his skin; and when it fell down from his fingertip, creating a slight pink hue upon contact with the water's surface, it changed its form into a semi-solid state, yet again. Strange—very strange.

"Itachi-Sama—" Serizawa said and stopped in surprise, his hands reaching out to grab hold of Itachi's injured one.

"It is just a cut," Itachi spoke, pushed his good hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small cloth. It was white and he wound it around his hand to stop the bleeding. Blood soaked through the fabric, and red spots appeared soon after; but, at least, he had stopped the bleeding.

They set out to the cave's exit, a reluctant Suigetsu in tow. With Jūgo as their guide, it did not take long for them to reach the mouth, upon which moonlight's airy garment lay. The air outside was fresh, stuffed full of fragrances pleasant. Moon hung majestic in the night that was clear, calm, cool. It cast a heavier shade over the mountain, compelling its sinister half to run further into the night on the other side; and there, sleeping as if a dimpling babe, lay a lake—silver applied to its surface that rippled slightly with night's breaths.

Itachi looked up at the horizon where dawn merged with dark, together joined in a fool's act of pleasure. The spectacle lasted for some moments over the horizon's rising arc; and at last, light conquered and spilt forth and came down as curling waves through mist that covered the mountains.

Morning broke upon the valley, and a sense of relief filled the men as they gazed upon the droplets that rose up from the lake—laughing faeries! And when they touched Itachi's cut, he felt a soothing sensation affect his nerves, profoundly. He unwound the red-dappled cloth and noticed how the droplets collected between the broken tissue and settled there: his wound was healing, faster than it normally would!

". . . strange," Itachi spoke, his voice dripping with a softer tone. Suigetsu did not say a word. This place was very strange—stranger than he had imagined . . .

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They trod the benign face of the mountain, decorated with lush foliage, upon which a net of shimmering droplets rested—each suffused with morning's colour, each hanging from the most delicate strings spiders had created with love at morn. Upon reaching the summit, they noticed a settlement by an energetic stream that was still releasing droplets up into the air—it sang in delight. Never before had Itachi felt that he was in a stranger's land; yet, now, he was not so sure of this sentiment.

The chakra-carrying particles, bright as confused stars, were everywhere, dispersed by every natural source of water that originated from the tallest, most wondrous mountain in their gazes, in front of which crawled its softest shadow. Itachi did not allow them to be distracted by this place's beauty; as inviting as it was, they had to climb down and reach the settlement.

And so they did, invigorated by the droplets as they collided with their sweat-coated pores, went into their blood-streams to mingle with the essence of them; for Uchiha men, this enjoyment did not come easy: their chakra rejected the invaders and the promised unholy union; formed a cocoon around them; travelled in form of bumpy protrusions, visible in the veins, before they vanished after a few moments (which caused them an immense surge of pain). This reaction become more and more mellow as time passed by; their chakra reacted strongly with each entry till it became potent enough to kill the substance as soon as it breached their veins. It was the strangest thing . . . was it Autumn who created a miracle for her children? Itachi could not say with certitude.

After reaching the mountain's foot, they located shade below the large trees, their limbs thick with leaves. Few slivers of yellow, reaching the leaves-covered ground, passed through the droplets that hung in the air, persistent. They did not linger and set their course to the point where the village lay.

When they were close to the settlement, around which a boundary of brightly coloured flowers was made, an old man emerged from a grove of trees that bore the freshest succulent fruits: he appeared frail, thin, withered; a stick in hand, he walked with a great stoop; he wore loose-fitting, porous clothing; and upon noticing Itachi, his large eyes became abnormally larger as though he was about to experience a painful stroke with a smile.

His walk became faster and wobblier, his poorly-cut wooden-stick going back and forth—back and forth. He stopped just short of Itachi and took his hand in his trembling fist, his grey-tinted eyes misting. In the morning, his tears that went into the grooves in his face were bright.

"He'd said som' lad frem his clan 'ill come, and her' ya are!" he said, an excited inflection coming into the murmur of his voice.

"A man from my clan?" Itachi asked (in confusion) and gently settled his own hand over the man's that had formed a fist around his own.

The man nodded and pointed his stick towards a place that was beyond this village, a place he could not see. "I came frem ther'—beyond the 'ill," he explained, bringing his stick back down. "Come come!" Then he pulled his hand back and, without speaking another word, began marching at an unnaturally brisk pace towards the wilderness of another forest.

Needless to say, they had little choice but to follow; and so they did, treading amidst chakra droplets that presented an unrelenting state against the gentle rain: they rose whilst it came down, going up to gather at the cloud's soft underbelly in great numbers—penetrating white against surrendering grey. The men kept walking without respite in the rain that remained blissfully light and soft and tender.

At last, after walking for so long, the old man led them into a cave hidden by the overgrowth of shrubbery. It was less a cave and more a tunnel that lead to a shrine that was . . . empty and quiet. Water gathered in natural stone-basins and slipped down into the channels it had carved out over the years.

"It rises frem the 'eart a' the mountain. We're blessed, lads!" he said, excited, whilst he mounted the stone-stairs made by man's hands, not Nature's. His voice penetrated the place's silence, and droplets, almost motionless before, vibrated and produced a resonating sound peaking to a disarming crescendo. Then they went inert, hanging in the air like attentive faeries' heads.

"Come—sit sit!" he said, his voice still jubilant, affected a bit by his quick and rough breathing—he was tired. He took off his withered-sandals made of aged-leather that had probably lasted him a lifetime and settled by a sunken fireplace; it was cold.

They did the same and sat down, save Jūgo. He was much too fascinated by the birds that swooped down and landed on his hands and trilled of their stories to the man who was most understanding of their troubles.

"Strange lad!" The old man smiled and re-kindled the fireplace with a rudimentary Katon Jutsu. Just a few spittle-like flames went out from his dry-as-sand mouth, but, thankfully, they were enough to warm the coals again.

"Ya don't want ta know," Suigetsu said at last, feeling quite well after the unfortunate loss of control in the previous cave. He, mercifully, had his wits about him now.

Silence . . . none of them spoke, gazes wandering like children in search of grander things. Beneath the light, pouring forth from a large hole in the cave's roof, stood two stone-statues, their stone-bosoms warmed by air's mercy. Sun was going lower now, casting an intense shadow that crept along the floor. It would be dusk soon—they had spent the whole day walking.

Feeling the need to start the conversation, Itachi spoke first: "Are you a Sensor? You could not have known who I was without this skill."

The old man smiled at the sight of Itachi's Sharingan that greeted him with a manufactured warmth he could not reject, nor resist; and his wind-beaten face grew jovial; his cheeks, tight. "Aye!" he said. "Me pa taught it ta me. So lon' ago that I don't remember much af it. Times a' war, ya see. Many lads and lasses came runnin' fer refuge. We Hōzuki had ta protect 'em. It was hard livin' back in the day, lad. Hard livin'!"

"Y-Yor—" Suigetsu exclaimed, almost jumping to his feet. Bewilderment was as apparent as night on his face.

"His chakra is less potent than yours, but he is a Hōzuki," Itachi spoke, his tone a bit sweeter than usual, Sharingan's fires sleeping beneath the eyes' winter now. "Is that not true . . . ?"

The old man laughed, and his laughter had a deep rumbling sound that lingered in the cave, tinkling air and droplets alike. "Takashi Hōzuki, lad," he paused and took a quick sip from a leather water-bottle that hung from his hip, "old age hit me hard—couple a' years back. Me back's ruined, but I ain't goin' down easy."

Takashi took in a great breath, straightened his posture with his cane, and tried to look like a retired militia soldier, though Itachi would not be surprised if he was one in his youth. "What 'ill ya lads eat?" he asked and rubbed his right eye clean. "We caught good fish in the mornin'. A fat one. Haruko an' Haruo are makin' a feast fer ta-night. I'll eat in the evenin', but ya lads look hungry."

"I'll take a—"

"We will eat with you at dusk," Itachi cut across Suigetsu, ignoring his long-winded groan that seemed to go on without a promised end. "I would like to know more about the man you knew. The man from my clan?"

Takashi's grip tightened on the rough top of the wooden-cane, and swollen veins in his hand swelled up more. At length he spoke, his voice steadier than before: "I was a wee lad back when the Uchiha came ta the village. He was a young lad. Couldn't hav' been older than ya. A war was goin' on in his home village, and he said he was wanderin' the lands in self-exile.

"He settled down in a 'ouse by a stream not far frem 'ere. Then he grew sick one spring night. The cold af this place got 'im. And when autumn came, he was gone—just like that. We couldn't sav' 'im, lad. We tried, but we couldn't. His chakra rejected the water 'ere, and sickness took 'im. Shame—he was just a lad." Then he was shaking his head, positively grief-stricken.

Itachi parted his lips to ask Takashi of something, but he forestalled him: "we buried 'im by the 'ouse. He wanted us ta carve the name af his brother on the gravestone. Even when he was dyin', he loved 'im. It broke me heart." He dragged in a rough breath, calming his lasting sense of sorrow, and began again with a faint smile coming to his lips this time: "ya see, he had wonderful eyes—M-Mangekyō—Eternal Mangekyō he called 'im. I never understood, but he said that they was memories af his brother. Special eyes!"

It was no use waiting for a cosmic anchor to fall and drag him down to the depths of worries. This was not what he was expecting when he took this journey, in an attempt to lead his wayward child away from truth. This was not how it was supposed to be; and he whispered before he could control his tongue—such was his shock that even he lost the iron-will command over his senses: "Uchiha Madara . . . "

"Aye, Madara—that was the lad's name!" Takashi yelled, and his voice became cheerful, all sadness gone from his face and tone. "After 'e passed 'way, we kept the lad's eyes safe in the pure water frem the mountain. It's blessed, ya see. Kept 'em in this shrine. He had many scrolls with 'im, too. Can't say I understood even one af 'em. I couldn't even read 'em—they was just lines fer me.

"He kept takin' 'bout gatherin' lost light fer the fadin' light af 'is eyes—rise ta a new light with his bloodline's power—somethin' like that. Me never understood a word af it. Ya see, he gav' his eyes ta me as a partin' gift, but I wouldn't hav' none af it. The lad was gone. The eyes was as good as nothin' fer me."

A bird's song swelled in Itachi's direction and broke doubts' shells in his mind; and from the slimy egg-shells came little hatchlings—ready to strike, ready to consume, ready to lay waste. He did not understand a word of it. Fading Light? Gathering light? Rising light? What manner of obscure language was this? In a sudden rush of memories, rising like restless spectres from forgotten graves, he thought of all the years he had spent under his father's tutelage: he was never taught anything of the sort. Had Madara gone mad whilst being affected by the mind-consuming affliction? Had his father been less truthful to him? He had to know more—he had to!

And so, calming the swarm of doubts going across his mind, he spoke, dying to know more of the man he never knew—dying to know more of the man in Uchiha tales: "where are the eyes and scrolls now? Perhaps I will be able to read them." He kept his face smooth as marble, not a line appeared to disturb the contours of his fine features.

"Ah, lad," Takashi said and stopped for a moment to breathe in the fresh, invigorating air, "I gave 'em all away. Me wanted ta meet yor Clan, but it was feared in war. We was afraid. And we don't let any Hōzuki back in who leaves frem 'ere. Rules are rules."

"Gave them away? To whom?" Itachi asked and felt curiosity over-power his mind. He was like a child now, curious and anxious and playful—this was . . . almost like an adventure, a new playtime!

"Hōzuki Sosuke," he said and scratched his chin, upon which few prickly hairs still grew, "said he came frem Mist. We don't trust 'em."

"Suigetsu's father?" Itachi asked and cast a curious eye over Suigetsu's bone-white face. His hands were shaking, and the trickster's smile he always wore on his lips was not there.

"Aye aye! This lad be Sosuke's son?" Takashi asked and emitted a bubble of laughter, afterwards. "The Mountain Kami's blessed us today! How's yor pa, lad? He said that he'd spoken ta an Uchiha, and then he took aff. I haven't seen 'im in years!" Takashi strained his neck as though he was trying to take a good look at Suigetsu, his eyes widening in anticipation.

"H-He—" Suigetsu stopped and gulped down the stone in his throat, "—me pa's dead . . . "

Takashi's smile disappeared slowly, and an expression of shock overtook his countenance. "Kami . . . may Sage hav' mercy on 'im. He was a good man." And he was shaking his head again whilst his face appeared sorrowful.

"Why did he come here? Did he ever say why?" Itachi asked and pulled the weight of his gaze from over Suigetsu's senses. It was a warning. He was asked to stay quiet and observe. Poor Hōzuki child—he did not know how cruel winter could be to lost children!

"He came 'ere searching fer us. His village folk wanted the water, but it loses its power when it's taken 'way frem the mountain. Fools! Said he didn't trust 'em and that evil changelin', Yagura!" he said and created the widest smile his elastic mouth could manage. "The water was so powerful in the past. Hōzukis—we was the first clan who came 'ere, and we was the first to join with the water. We're children af this mountain. The chakra ain't the same, lads. The mountain's gone ta sleep. The Kami sleeps. He might wake up som' day, but we don't know fer sure. Why, in the past, it could bring dead ta life! Blessed—we're blessed, lads!" And then he let out another short bark of laughter that travelled from one end of the cave to the other, booming.

"I see that Mist did not destroy your village out of fear that the sleeping Kami might grow . . . distant still," Itachi spoke, and his pink-smile was sublime on his white-face, bewitching.

"Aye, lad," Takashi sighed out and relaxed his posture, "evil business between villages. Evil business. Evil men." And his eyebrows went so far up that they vanished in the midst of deep lines in his brow. "They wanted ta control this power ta battle the famous Uchiha chakra that comes frem the lands. It never got 'em anywhere."

"Content with just the water in Water Sprout? Poor men of Mist," Itachi spoke, and his mouth's colour deepened richly—ah, the threatening red spreading in winter's unmoving bosom.

"Yor a clever lad. What's yor name?" Takashi asked and placed the crooked cane in his lap.

"Fuyuhito," Itachi spoke, and the word came out in a breathy sort of sound from his coloured lips, and rose up. "If it is not too much trouble, I would like to see Madara's grave."

"Ya can take the path up frem 'ere—another poor lad's also buried up there," Takashi said, got to his feet, leant on the walking-stick to keep his balance. "I'll send food there fer ya."

"Thank you for your generosity. I will see you at dusk," he spoke and left the shrine. Suigetsu, still reluctant to go after Itachi to the Uchiha ancestor's grave, got up, bowed, and left, too. He had little choice in the matter, but he was much too curious to stop now!

When they left the shrine, sun cast a soft gaze upon this land. Autumn had failed to complete its reaping here. Slow-waving boughs, laden with berries, flanked their path and cooled their breasts. They trod the stone-pathway, broken up by rain and neglect. A blanket of leaves covered the pathway that must have been carved out with care in this land. It was linked to various patches of fruit-bearing tree plantations that, though growing wildly, still showed the discipline of human hands.

At last, the pathway brought them to the heart of a luscious grove of trees, of which many fed ravenously on the stream's water and produced berries as rich as the shade of a harlot's lips. A well-maintained wooden house, constructed in traditional Uchiha architecture-style, stood strong beneath the far-reaching branches of a large tree: its shade was impenetrable, its limbs numerous that held upon the structure in a shadow-grip.

Oddly, he could not see a grave anywhere; but before he could make up his mind to mount a steep flight of stone-stairs, cut into the stone made brittle by water, a boy came running from the forest; and his hands cradled a strange bag made of cotton, knotted at the top.

With a small voice, he told them that he brought food, and that Takashi had gone to attend to a sickly woman that lived a few miles away from here. It would take him a while to return. He requested them to stay at this house for the night. After that, he arranged food for them on the low table inside the house and ran away.

Itachi wanted to ask Takashi more questions, but it was no use staying here for the night; so he sat down and ate the fragrant food that was well-made and enjoyed the time of respite this place provided. Suigetsu had not spoken a word, and Serizawa, as obedient as ever, never spoke out of turn. Jūgo, the mysterious man from caves, ate and walked away into the forest without speaking a word. This place delighted him—Itachi could tell. All for the better.

And when signs of dusk changed the sky and night sang with siren's calls through the forest, its natural instruments to make music, he climbed the stairs and came upon a lonely mound of a lonely man in a lonely earth. There stood a tree over the bump in the earth, its shadow going across the gravestone ever so slowly. It read: Izuna, we lived together and died alone; let us live, be born again . . . together.

Itachi's shadow fell upon the grave, thick and black. It invaded the tree's territory. In his core spread a silence that cooled off his worries. He did not know what to say to this dead man. He never had any sentiments to spare for the dead. There was another grave at the foot of another tree. It, too, was another bump in the earth. He did not bother to read what was written on the gravestone, but Suigetsu's wailing informed him that he was a Hōzuki.

"Do you know this man?" he asked Suigetsu and glimpsed at Serizawa who appeared to have been affected by sentimentality in this graveyard.

"No—" Suigetsu coughed out and wiped his nose on his sleeve: a bit of mucus was left dangling from his right nostril.

"All these tears for a man you do not know? I admire your spirit," Itachi remarked, his tone a little mischievous, a little detached.

" 'e could be me lon' lost Hōzuki brother—first cousin-fiftieth-removed. Ya never know. They bred like fuckin' rabbits in those days, mate! Rabbits!" he said, alternating between hysterics and whimpering, his eyes a little crazed, a little red.

"A lot of removals," Itachi spoke, and from his mouth came a visible warm breath; it was getting cold, and sun was going down, fast. He could no longer see half of it, hidden as it was behind the pointed peaks below the horizon.

Then Suigetsu came rushing, his cloak's ends bunched up in his hands. "What doya see—in the grave?" he asked, suddenly, urging Itachi to take a glimpse at the secret world of the dead through a different vision. If only it were ever that easy . . .

"Bones . . . and some missing bones," Itachi spoke, eyes burning in Sharingan's fires, and behind his back, he heard an audible sniffle from Serizawa.

"Yor sense a' humour's rotten, mate!" Suigetsu remarked and his face fell and he began weeping again with new vehemence.

"Why do you not rest here? Take a long respite from the messy business of your father's demise. It is poetic, your vengeance that involves a wayward child you have got hold of," Itachi spoke and turned to face Suigetsu. Behind Itachi's back, black made the skin and mouth of sky; and they trembled, writhed with surges of lust, bled red everywhere in frenzy.

"Yor not takin' me back, are ya?" Suigetsu smiled, and the dimple in his smile deepened and his smile spread wider.

"Oh, Suigetsu," Itachi spoke, his voice infused with coming winter's emotion that chilled the Hōzuki in his core, "you poor, lost boy from Rain. Your father's death . . . tragic business, yet you drag along my child to play with you in a manner I do not want."

Suigetsu did not speak, tongue stuck good in his jaw. He could not even see Itachi's face, only his eyes, and it had become a cliché now—an endless source of his shame.

"Stay, live, enjoy," Itachi continued in a voice smoother than this land's songs, "why do you burden these people with the threat of village business? Mangetsu . . . a dead man can only write so many missives before his rotten hand grows weary. Let this dead man rest. Let this end. Let this go."

And still Suigetsu did not speak as he looked at the lights flickering to life amidst the trees. It was as if blinking eyes had opened up, upon a faceless face hiding in the night, to look at him and his shame and express glee with a laughing mouth mouth-less.

"Stay . . . in this village," Itachi paused and leant his head down a bit as though to pour the wraith of Sharingan straight into Suigetsu's eyes, "for that is what you will do. You will not whisper of this to anyone. You will not come to Konoha, not if I do not summon you. Consider your little adventure in Konoha finished . . . now, in this night. Lovely . . . it is so lovely here."

Then Itachi took one step back and turned his face and body towards the red that came from the sky, as if at his calling; and when the colour touched and penetrated deeply his lips and bosom, they, too, took on the shade and sang with an illusion of spring's songs: Winter's tricks to lure in lost and mischievous children.

Suigetsu made no movement to stop Itachi as he descended the stairs and disappeared from view in the far shadow of the grove; so he turned around, brushed dust off his cloak, sat down by the grave of the lonely Uchiha in the earth, sang his mother's song to him—his eyes were truthful this time . . .

In the darkening shade beneath the trees, Itachi kept walking and spoke: "send a letter to the councilman in the capital. Ask him to arrange a meeting—a private meeting. I need to get this done before I return to Konoha."

Serizawa, a little confused, did not share his concerns with his Lord and asked: "with whom, Itachi-Sama?"

"The Daimyō," Itachi spoke, and his voice sounded as clear as sinister songs to Serizawa's ears; yet he did not question his Lord and kept following him in silence through the forest . . .

# # # # # #

EN: A-Spot, P-Spot, O-Spot, and G-Spot, along with a few other spots, do exist.