regnant (adjective) – reigning; exercising authority
["Then, now, and always. This tie between them is til death." Sakura. Forward-looking. The things lost and gained. An underdog's ascension.]
—
They call themselves Akatsuki.
The volume is turned all the way down; she stares at the laptop glaring orange in her dark study room.
Dawn—of a new era, they claim, and they've brought along the fire and destruction of rebirth.
The news shows a burning sky and black, coiling smoke; a proud historical landmark, an entire section of the great city reduced to snapped rebars and broken rubbles.
It might have been the work of many, but watching the fire all she can see is him.
Her dear older cousin.
She drops her head into her hands, and imagines her shoulder blades creak and crumble from the powerlessness settling over them.
The fire glows brightly even through her closed eyelids. For a moment it feels as though she's there, burning and wasting away.
But the reality is that she isn't. She's here, safe and sound, and separated from the blood and carnage by the thin film of the screen.
And about a thousand miles of flight from Konoha.
She thinks about her cousin, looking upon the mass as if they're puppets and the razor-thin strings are wound around his fingers.
She thinks about her father, a near-stranger for all intent and purpose, trying to hold it all together in the Hokage Tower, while the rest of the council commence the customary finger-pointing.
She thinks about the millions of people (her people, she dares think) caught suddenly, fearfully at the forefront of a war they never knew was brewing in the background.
Her heart goes out to them all.
Father said once, she was too good. Cared too much, too soft to ever do anything, and perhaps he was right.
Perhaps, though, he was wrong (like he is on so many other things) because she knows she can be heartless too.
His blood through and through, she too knows how to completely ignore the cries and screams she's sure are echoing out of earshot, every second of every day of her sheltered little life.
And then there's this other part of her; this embittered, anarchistic part that's just waiting for it all to burn down to the ground.
It apparently soon will.
A not altogether unexpected end.
Konoha is corrupted. For all the beautiful people who fill its streets, all the courageous individuals who have led it, loved it and sacrificed for it, the truth remains that it is corrupted to the very core, rotting from the grounds up.
A sigh escapes her lips. She shuts the laptop and hugs her fluffy nightgown tighter around herself. The darkness that falls over her vision chills her to the bones.
"What now, Director?"
Her eyes flicker up to the pair of dark eyes outlined by blue morning light. Sasuke stands there on the other side of her desk, blends so well into the black with his uniform suit and tie, she's forgotten he's there.
And yet for the longest time, his was a constant presence by her side.
She's missed that. Missed him. But there are things you can no longer say at twenty like you did when you were eight and still thought the whole world would be your oyster.
She lowers her gaze away, trying not to linger on his prosthetic left arm as she does so.
He's always read her too well, and she doesn't want him to right now. For good measure, she spins around in her chair to face the window. Three-inch thick, floor-to-ceiling slabs of glass reveal to her the quiet calm below, the tranquil Kiri docks doused in silvery mist.
"This is my post, Sasuke." Kun, she desperately wants to add, but doesn't.
Her post. Her insulated bubble. Her cage.
The silence is tangible enough to choke on, and stretches on for long enough, it sparks a small hope he would let this go.
"Of course." His tone is light and unassuming when he speaks, but she flinches from it anyway. "And what will be mine?"
She bites her lip harder and refuses to say another word. It's not her call to make. She's done; it's back to her duty now, and phenomenal specimen that he is, he's not part of her research.
She's only made her move again this one time because she's been sure no harm would come to her or her little bubble. Or, more importantly, to him (her Sasuke-kun).
But it wasn't enough, was it? Sasori still won.
No risk no gain, her cousin has taught her that himself.
But the last time she's dared to risk, she's lost Sasuke his arm, and her him.
"Director."
She squeezes closed her eyes. And remembers begging her father to spare him. Remembers swearing to high heavens she'd behave from then on.
She also remembers the tall back of Sasori, only fifteen and in the ardent glow of daybreak, hair and eyes fiery, so brilliantly red. Red, like the rebellion he now spearheads.
"Sakura."
She snaps to her feet and rounds on him in a second. He doesn't even blink.
He's crossing the line. She wants to shout. He's crossing the line to be digging up a different tie between them and he better bury it right back and bury it deep.
He only holds her glare in that non-challenging way she knows is only a ruse, the deceptively submissive front he's mastered to an art, to survive in a society that believes his blood the greatest evil ever birthed by the planet.
But he and she don't argue. Not after everything that has happened. Certainly not before everything that hasn't.
Funny, though, how frequent their not-arguments are, considering how infrequently they get to meet these days.
His eyes are blood red now, the evidence of his mad legacy spinning lazily. How rare for him to be so transparent about his displeasure, but she supposes it's not something he needs to hide. Not before her.
He has never hidden from her, she remembers, and it placates her. Knocks the air out of her lungs at the same time, too, because she realizes she's forgotten that before she remembers.
And she remembers Sasuke.
A younger and much less angry Sasuke (but quite angry still), choosing her, the pale, towheaded child over the flaming beacon that was Sasori.
Sasori, who's making differences, even if they are of the questionable sorts. Sasori, whose grand vision and greatness she could never match up to.
Where has that left them? Her in indefinite banishment, and Sasuke on a tighter leash than any other Root member.
And yet, here he is.
Her chest constricts.
Here he is, and he's risking everything, his life, his dream to restore his clan—all for what?
Her gaze drops to his arm. In a moment of wayward thinking, she imagines wrapping her hand around that metal wrist.
She imagines that's when he'll flinch. He'll flinch but he won't pull away, and she'll squeeze him reassuringly, even though he can't feel it, and rest her head against his chest where he can.
He'll smell like iron and gunpowder and death, which he's secretly self-conscious of, but which she won't mind. Never.
(Because to her he will always, always be life and black pine and blooming jasmine, and that vibrant flower garden back in the Konoha mansion; and carefree laughs under afternoon suns, and small hands holding onto even smaller hands, and a silly pinky promise-)
She'll just listen closely, carefully to his strong, steady heartbeats and attempt to match hers up to them. Just in fragile hope that she could be as steadfast as well.
But she doesn't do any of those. That's not how it works anymore.
She's Director Haruno, and he's Sasuke of the Roots.
She lifts her gaze to his again.
In those lazily spinning eyes are willingness, and a bright anger he doesn't direct at her (never does). And also, certainty. Such confidence he holds. For her, for them, for this partnership. After everything that had gone wrong and can still go wrong.
She can't even begin to imagine what he's gone through these past three years. How many scars are hidden under that immaculately pressed suit of his. How many more there are on his heart, made deliberately hard as steel.
Three long years have not broken him, and they shouldn't have broken her either.
It's about time she risks again, too.
Strange. The old wives' tales insist those lazily spinning eyes could make people lose their minds, yet every time she looks into them, she always comes to her senses instead.
He's alive. He's alive. He's alive.
She reminds herself of this fact, after spending so long pretending the opposite.
"What will we be doing?" he asks.
Run away, she wants to say. Sakura would in a heartbeat, but she's Director Haruno right now. And he's Sasuke of the Roots.
They'd be fine on the run. So, so fine; but no one else would be.
Konoha. The entirety of Fire Country. Milions and milions of people.
Because her father is quickly losing support, and if not her then ruthless Sasori. Or someone worse. Hopefully someone better—but until that is confirmed, she needs to play her part in this war.
She sucks in a breath, smells the iron and gunpowder deep in her lungs (all pine and jasmine), and squares her shoulders.
"We stop him."
He's alive. He's alive.
Sasuke's alive, and she's sending him out to tangle with death again.
But he smiles, with the tiniest curve of his lips, an approving sort of smile.
Then all is wiped clean, his eyes fading back to a subdued shade of black. He clasps his arms behind him and stands at attention.
"Your order, Director."
Her next step is crystal clear. In the deep recesses of her mind, in between researching volatile compounds and tasteless, odorless poisons, she's continued to keep track of the important players, continued to amateurishly scheme.
Senju. Hyuuga. Uzumaki.
"Get me in touch with Orochimaru."
There's a culled silence, a stillness Root members have instead of, say, a gasp of surprise. He's contemplative before dipping his head in acknowledgement.
"Very well." And he heads for the door.
"Sasuke." Kun, she still has to keep herself from saying. Be safe, she wants to tell him.
But she's not allowed to do any of that. Can't be soft, and most of all cannot care too much. Not if she wants this to go anywhere.
She thinks about Sasori who's stopped in the middle of polishing his puppets collection to pat her on the head, smiling kindly.
She thinks about her father coldly telling her to pack for Kiri when he could have left her and Sasuke to the council's not-mercy.
She thinks about Sasuke and endless blue skies, and the promise two children made about changing the world, never realizing it was so much bigger than the mansion grounds they called home.
She thinks about them all before banishing them; waves them away like hazy plumes of smoke.
This war is complicated enough without the added chains and tethers of personal feelings.
Sasuke waits for her to speak and does not rushes. Because that's how he is, and that's how they are.
They're co-conspirators, partners-in-crime in this bloody power struggle, and loyalty is about a good enough label for this tie between him and her.
(And just maybe, if they make it to the other side of it all-)
"Don't fail me," she says with her arms crossed and her back straight, and he holds her gaze over his shoulder for a length.
The sunrise glows brighter by the seconds behind her, and it casts this warm glow on his profile that mellow out the sharper edges in his features; soften his eyes.
"Aa."
That single syllable, sounded in the deep timber of his voice is so cripplingly nostalgic. The door clicks shut; he's gone and it takes her everything not to collapse against her desk.
It takes her everything, but she stands tall and proud as she turns around and basks in the light of a new day.
And, she supposes, that's about good enough for now.
