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A rose-troubled sky—night, solemn, a visitor in passing to all that existed in glimpses. Primordial—Time was God. It weaved and spun and stitched her life, little seams that connected each patch to the next; and her life was completed, a colourful drapery made by Nature's hands in infancy.
Spillings about the sky—red like wars, purple like Kings, pink like loves. Her love was softer, not like Sharingan, not like he. No, he was red and white and purple—a King whose red was louder than his majestic purple, chaste white, portent black! Its passion was fiercest: it affrighted her heart; but, in dreams, she chased its light that entrapped memories of him . . . one after the other. One merged with another and became the next and then the next till every single sensation, reverie, wish was a blur, which was of a singular hue.
Beyond the threshold, she stood still under the sky that was angry to-night, like most nights that shivered to the storm's lashings. He had gone off to a realm unknown, left her. Distressed, she had run off to Naruto, asked him of Sasuke's strange abilities, of which she knew little.
He had smiled, told her not to worry, assured her of his return; yet night took into its bowl the yellows and rippled and released shades ominous. Emptiness prevailed in his house, haunted by the dead, felled by the brother when they had lived; she bewailed his absence.
Their ghosts left their bodies and scarred his house, its wounds wailing gullets through which wind moved and terrified her—still more. O', to be naught! The house's tongues bothered her heart; distressed, a lantern in hand, she went to the room he used nightly for writing. It was in order, everything neatly arranged: byways of his clan's Kinjutsus filled the cabinets; brushes stood in light-reflecting ink-pots, few of which were empty; swords rested in ornamental rack; an ink-wash painting, drained of hues, hung in the alcove.
On his table rested a half-finished missive: he had written it with a steady-hand, made lovely the strokes with care. She sat down, turned up the lantern's flame that brightened the scroll, and looked. It was a letter to an Uchiha—his dead kinsman? She did not understand him. Secrets curled about with dread round him, but he chose not to share.
He had only written a line that spoke of his disinterest in Naruto's Leaf, nothing more. She could see resentment in his words, hidden away in the flowing black that had dried up hours ago. The strokes gave away more of his heart than his countenance ever did; he was more forthcoming when he spoke through inks.
Outside, storm unleashed its fury amidst a show of lights and shadows, an intermittent dance between nature's wills: inside, she sat in stillness, which was overtaken by rage the sky unleashed upon his house, upon her . . .
When storm died down and went off to the west, she had gone off to bed, with a hope that he would be home when she awoke; yet the house was empty whilst hues flowed down the changing sky's finery. Soon, yellows grew sharp, brightened the arc where they constellated, slanted down in taut threads that wove through air.
She bathed in the onsen, prepared food, sat by the table where they ate every morning. Then she waited—waited—till yellows unforgiving burnt on her cheeks by noon. Hearing feet crunching outside on the dried-up leaves, her face opened up in a smile, and she stood up to greet him; but her smile vanished when her eyes settled upon the woman with hair of spring, who stood by a broken lantern that abutted the wall and greys behind it.
She came in for she did not have the will to turn her away. Sitting down, she asked her of him, and she told her that she did not know where he had gone. Then she wept, told her of the love she nurtured for him still, begged of her to let him go—let him go! She did not know what to say; she listened; the woman whimpered, speaking of loving him evermore, speaking of desire for him that embossed her soul.
She told her that he was hers; and she, his. She did not understand her, though she kept the thought to herself. To her surprise, he came through the door, a little weary. His eyes fell upon the woman and issued forth a prominent red that exhibited his discontent without speech. She rose, her spring hair untangling in the breeze, smiling. He did not smile; and when she whispered his name, he told her to leave here and never return, for he did not love her, never loved her.
This struck the woman harder than a physical blow; and she wept louder, beseeching him to be kind to her. His words did not change, though he fashioned them to be harsh, final, blunt. He told her that his heart would not change, that she was a fool, that she did not move his spirit.
At this, she fled from him, running down the pathway till she could see her no more, a fading pink in lights suffocating and slithering and shimmering. He did not say a word to her and sat down by the table and ate. He looked hungry. She did not ask where he had been, though she wanted to . . .
Night smeared the sky in black, but he did not come to bed, join his flesh to her flesh. This trip had made him distant, and he chose to write more words onto the scroll than feed his lust. Bold by night, she went to the door and asked of him to come to bed and sleep; he told her to leave him be. She did not press him . . .
Sky was slathered with creamy lines when Naruto came to his house. He was upset, in a naïve and boy-like and benign way, that Sasuke had not treated his wife well; Sasuke told him that he had forgotten his promises to bring the ugly men to justice, that he did not enjoy his forgetfulness, that he remembered his blood in every piece of this place.
Though troubled by the man Naruto loved with all his heart, he assured him that he would not go back on his word. Sasuke smiled, a bitter smile, and warned him of his nature that was less kind to his faults. Naruto was quiet—she, frightened . . .
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