Milk and Red
Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.
Warning: Violence, Sex, and Language. Reader Discretion is advised.
AN: Written in the vein of works like Carmilla and Blue, the story offers me a chance to shake off my abnormal habit to stop writing for months on end.
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AN: The story is going through a quick editing process; hence, I'm re-posting the chapters one by one. It helps me keep track of them as, due to the story's peculiar length and my busy days, it's difficult to ascertain as to which chapter I edited last.
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Roots ran deep, caused the forest to stand tall, breast storm. Man fell. Trees stood. Holy as Time: roots made the difference, made men.
The sword stuck between the jaws, teeth locating grip, chinked like old keys in the pocket . . . a mouth the fat priest could not close. When the good end stuck out the back, it was red everywhere, a hue he was as familiar as a babe was with milk; but he had not tasted milk in years . . .
His garments, bedecked with shiny religious accoutrements, could not conceal the belly's distension; and in agony, on the knees without a prayer in mouth, he thrust it forward, still trying his hardest to make the teeth meet, eyes rotating about extremities, limbs tightening in convulsions; and he perished, mouth wide as hooked fish's . . . even after he had pulled the sword out.
This was it. This was done. A blot on the picture ended what was real . . . to the holy man. Yet the tongue tingled, a mark he wished he could chop off, cast from himself—forget. Up above, a blackness had come; and bedevilled by a willful night, stilly as morning beasts whilst shades drew on, he dreamt . . . little—too little. There was milk and there was red . . . one long drop, shiny about the brother's mouth, that went drip drip drip, pink after a lost red.
Hallowed eyes, haunted vision—dressed with consummate grace, his night had fallen to a disquieting despair, into leaves by the forest's feet, mellow fruits on boughs bountiful that trembled against summer's beat. Leaf . . .
Yet he saw . . . a nacreous visage against a morn's fervour.
I miss . . . thee, darling brother . . .
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