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After the Great War, when all rejoiced, his victory was pyrrhic for he had not gained a thing from triumph—still alone, he fled to places no one could see, not even she. Light straddled the horizon, day in and day out, yet his morn bore stillness, locked away in a land that held a promise.

This morn was a little different, a litter stranger, a little sweeter—a little bitter: her beloved, his blue alighting upon her for a moment transitory, was shy about the cheeks, all pink. Today was the day he took the Great Seat: he was the Hokage now; she, a shadow to him to the end. In fire's lights where he stood tall and dignified, his father's haori lifted up into the wind, its fires like wings. Was he proud? She did not know . . .

There was a deficiency of colour in his blue today, for sky's vestment was lovelier; she could tell. He did not come, her beloved's darling brother from a time bygone. Sasuke and he—they were fated to be together for all times, unending; he, with hair of glittering gold, had told her smiling, eyes shining, spirit sparkling. What did she mean to Naruto, she that was to be his beloved? She did not understand . . .

Chants rose into Leaf's warmest air, and she turned away. Noises followed from the crush of people at the ceremony, but she did not stop to lend them her ears. It was time to return to the less familiar domain of a village forgotten, path sodden with puddles large, a young man begotten by a dead King.

Here, sounds, forgetful of their duties, fled from her senses—each an anomaly, each an enigma; it was an eerie place, rotten to the core with the dead that stalked its halls. Colours drained away from the walls that bore cracks innumerable upon them. Why did he not leave his domain? Strange—he was always strange.

When she turned round the sacred stone, she found herself eye to eye with the man who was her husband. He was not waiting for her . . . no; he had come here to offer his prayers. Like always, he adored his silence; and in his countenance existed little nights, restricted brutally in the eyes, black koi in clear waters which fought red which lay beneath their fleshes: 'twas not their time to bleed out in passion's mercy, nor its wake.

Beautiful . . . so beautiful . . . like a wary and forgotten moon in Fall's storm his visage; he looked back at the stone again, palms pressed together in prayers silent. What did he say to them? She did not hear. Stone's shadow lay over his body, a dim garment, but he did not move. A little cat walked to and fro between his legs; and to her surprise, he had not shooed it away.

She turned from him, afraid to wake him from his state: he liked to be left alone to do the things he wanted to do. She was understanding—she assumed. The stone's shadow lengthened behind her feet, little by little, though it settled itself more solidly upon him. He was not bothered.

Air moved through the village behind her back, a fragrance blossoming in this north wind's bosom. From the sky's dusk pits, called night: yellows darkened, and she harkened, to the sublime call of a night bird that trilled in joy, in ascent; a denizen of his village, it sang songs for his ears—only; to it, she was a stranger to his place.

When her flesh awoke, night awoke fully; and into its depths, she lay pressed beneath the sweeter heaviness of his body. She moved with his strokes, delighted that he had come to her in this night, too. Hands on either side of her face, head hanging, he moved into her, her flesh rippling against his taut white.

One, two, three—his last surges came harder, each deeper, fiercer, quicker than the last; his release, hot and viscous in her broken orifice's depths; and when he drew his organ from within her and left open the channel he had occupied, she felt it flow from her in bubbling strings, thick along her thighs.

Then he pulled away and lay on his back, panting, skin shivering and slick. She watched, her flesh twanging, wanting of what was yet to be sated. She saw surprise break the calm visage when she sighed deeply before bestriding him, lantern's light breaking apart, bifurcating at her body's silhouette.

The part where she was split open touched and his organ responded, eager to stand and expand. Slipping him back into herself, she arched and stroked—a strange perversion for her nature—and her garment fell away in heavy layers down to her fleshy waist. Yellow straddled his neck, bled into blacks, like tulle; and sweat, in droplets twinkling, slid into his body's hollows. Her flesh was weary: her greed, unwearied of the dance. His flesh a fane, and unto him, she had come to prostrate at the stairs.

Did it matter that he only let her dance with him? No, it did not. His letters, secretive and numerous, lay tucked away in his trunk, and he cared for them more than he cared for her being. His ink, more precious than her spirit, wetted the scrolls; and she could imagine how enraptured he felt at the sensation, the call of dead. His strangeness was beauty, too . . . like he . . .

War ended in whispers for her, not joys. She was never good enough—not for father, nor for sister. He gave her to this man who talked less than moons in winter's fogs; it was better this way. Who would have taken her? Not her beloved, for his blue was best with spring. That was what he told her by the lake whilst its waters went laughing into streams, laughing upon stones, laughing along forests of yore.

She was his gate, and someday, he would want to be let out; and when that day would come, she would gladly set him free . . .

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