Blue
Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.
Rating: Written for mature readers due to content that involves Violence, Sex, and Language.
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Amongst the ghosts, The Great Fourth War came to an end: a joyous affair, she heard them say. Men bowed to victors, joining hands in front, robust breasts bursting with love; then they clapped frantically, chanted, cried; sounds travelled upon wind, dancing. Their spring had come, at last!
In wars, men perished; shrivelling red dots on earth, they softened and diminished in rains—many left shivering ashes behind under the skies that were all but unchanging in their mechanisms: sun started, slept, returned, radiance splitting down the middle to form promising lights. It always did make bloom a sense of hope, of things to come.
A well-meant guidance should be borne in mind, her mother had said; and she was a resilient one. Things came to pass; yet, like unbending mountains, her spirits stood tall, endured storms' fall. Shinobi must be the same: a man who withstood time, halted the stalling of his spirit. It was too much . . .
A greater silence—her gaze crossed the immense stretch of the lake, which was blue by day, black by night, which was dotted over with fireflies bright and restless. She wore white tonight—like most nights. She liked the colour. She did not know why. The breeze caught the material and made it flap and billow like a great sail.
Stars lay down, eyes which closed one by one beyond season's drape. What was left here to see now but insects burning upon a fabric bleak in fury? She turned away and walked back into the forest that was less quiet behind War's celebrations: they were un-ending . . .
Quietly, she walked along a stone-path, broken up by Nature's invasions. The path entered a clearing where countless tents stood in groups, placed in the midst of the strongly sloping hillsides, upon which sat a mist so thick that flora could scarcely be seen.
In streets, they all stood closely packed together like toys, covered in vivid colours for celebrations. In lights, little was noticeable but forgettable outlines of faces, bodies, limbs, over which lanterns shed colours most sharp and ugly. She did not stop, eastbound to her new home.
Voices came at great speeds and slowed down and came . . . to a final halt by the sacred rocks that stood before shadows and ghosts released by night. This forest's quiet, disturbed by noise which lay latent in its limbs, was not calming. Here and there, one gaunt limb thrust forth from dark and went back whence it had come, a dusting of spring's dots adorning its bumps, to reach out into lanterns' shy reaches, its crookedness hidden by no foliage.
Few lights, of lanterns old, originated from closed doors. On their surface, neglect hung like ceremonial flowers, undisturbed like the dead which slept. Twisting and winding down, wind flowed soundlessly along these pathways, these veins, which threatened to fall away under her feet. She did not stop, sensing a spectre at her heels—she always did.
At night, houses turned quietest: they were no less quiet in the morning. Graves—yes, she likened them all to graves. Men prayed by their kin's graves, yet they harboured no intention to go into the dirt's deep and lay down beside them, perish with them, rise along them in another life, without living this one. She was not sure how he felt . . .
She did not stop to gaze upon them, to send a prayer to them. Their hearts and eyes, like doors and windows, lay closed off, eternally—signs in a village that stained no heart, but his. Night's ink had emptied out, but his came fresh and flowing, every night, every moment . . . he sung the unsung without singing.
The house that was unlit, blackest, beckoned; she stepped in and looked, not finding any light save one which came from the other room's extremities, in broken trails to teasing blacks which existed in abundance. She thought she could see stains, shadows burning like men alive along the floors that refused to eat them up to their fill, to let them find peace in life after. The house had set nothing free: it took new prisoners . . .
She opened the door, hesitant. What would he say that she had come home late, that this was not how a wife was to behave? The house betrayed her before she could speak; it was not a creaky old machinery of fears that could be adapted to new uses. Her foot trembled and she stopped, awaited a scolding; but it did not come. What was she to feel? Pleased? Relieved? Over-joyed?
In the light that cast a happy shadow on the wall, he sat by the low table, his back to her. She moved and sat opposite him, watching. He was writing—he wrote often—on a scroll whiter than camellia. He dipped a brush into a pot of black ink and to the hanging line added a curling loop of another letter. A missive? To whom? He had no one . . . no one left . . .
She wanted to speak, but she did not know if he would like her intruding upon his task; so she beheld him, his sharper than snow skin, his careless beauty, his un-leaving silence, which like a deathless utterance hung in-between their tongues, demanding a word to connect the chasm.
Quiet—he was dressed in traditional Uchiha clothing, and his rough hair tumbled loosely along his neck. Just behind his ears, sweat gathered visibly, each strand entwined with delicate droplets that sparkled silver. Strange, she thought. Had he re-turned after his triumphs to Leaf's playground of provocation from which he fled?
Yet upon his return, he chose exile from Leaf's joy. He wrote and re-wrote lines, making each as pretty and clear as he could. Whatever was in his mind, he wrestled it down into the words, re-collected his furious emotions onto the scroll, which took upon itself his sleeping wrath in lines less chaotic than he. Outside, wind pounded the windows with the heels of its hands numerous; but, inside, he remained singular in his task: she was mostly forgotten . . .
He rejected the women who sought him, turned away the one who wanted him the most. She did not think he hated the person of Sakura; he never adored her the way she wanted. Day after day—night after night—she to him came with pleas to free the woman he had taken in marriage; he was un-moving. She wept by his door: he would not let her in. His answer was the same, delivered in a tone not affected by emotion's trappings: a slow refusal . . . why me? she would ask herself, often, yet she knew he would not answer . . .
Often, he said to the weeping woman that she was no more to be trusted with love than a child with Kin-Jutsu, that she was naïve, that she was to move forward for he was to do the same. Lies, she knew, for he existed betwixt the past of ghosts and spectres of future, never moving; his body, a liminal space, crushed between worlds un-changing.
Memories could not keep up with her: bodies ran after lust, impulse, promise; reality alternated with reveries, yet she remained trapped in his world, felt the effects of his drowsy frenzy, which stayed in a state of uncertainty without certitude.
Uchiha Sasuke: He was young, strong, very beautiful, very brilliant—haunted, hope-less. He was most things Naruto, her beloved, was not. He did not fear enemies or fear collecting enemies. He stayed with himself, quiet whilst rain, like music, broke and mourned over the closing lines from storm's joy—daily, nightly.
On their wedding night, she did not expect him to disfigure her neck by bites; but she never thought he would not come near her, at all. He chose the empty room's company and spent the whole night alone, writing. She had wept, remembering Naruto's words by the lake, each one of which she felt as a dart in her flesh. He had moved past her, too, married the woman Sasuke did not embrace.
Often nights, he would keep to himself inside his room, which reflected moon's lights; and he stayed entombed in its tricks, unwilling to crawl beyond its artifices, a babe on all-fours bewitched by toys which shone. Naruto told her that he modelled himself after his older brother, but she did not know him to say anything for sure, though his impassioned nightmares of him frightened her. He was a killer of kin: why did he love him?
Then there were the nights he did lay on her, slip between her open thighs. He was robust, lasted long that he tired her out; she could not say she hated the act, the feel of his thickness inside her channel—no, this was the only thing she looked forward to on most nights, only thing she found joy in. If he did not come, she turned sad and went pillow-less to bed.
At first, it hurt: soon, his thrusts turned hypnotic for her flesh. She could tell he had not been with many women before—or any woman before. It was hard to tell with him. It was as though he kept a fast for days and broke it after a revelation came to him from beyond the veil that he was free to join together with her, enjoy her.
When dawn was deep, not blue, he would leave the house and go—somewhere. He never told her where: she never asked. Days went on . . .
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At night, his room's door lay wide open: fire was out that moon had to step in, fill in the blanks, illuminate dark spaces. Lights in threads fell upon her, one by one; and she tried, she truly did, to bring him deeper into the kiss. He was elusive whilst the old ritual played itself out—like routine. Pressing body upon body, it was all frantic movements from his end. Unable to help his baser nature, his hips pumped into her, tip tingling with the wet slides of his movements.
She did not dislike it; her lust, easier to sate than his. It flared up, a protruding rash at the sight of him; and, at times, she wished he was less distant from her. (She did not remain unaffected by his physiognomy.) He did not make things easy, for she felt like a wee lover, entranced by the newness of flesh's change, who stole into his room from the forest by putting up a ladder to his window. Is this not how all love stories are penned?
Her hands clutched at his body whilst her lips sought his again, unsuccessful at the task, tip of her nose in the pit between his throat and shoulder. His top garment was plastered to his sweat-riddled skin, heart setting his veins to trembling with savage beats. Out of curiosity, he had only opened the front of her Kimono; but he only freed the part of himself which he needed; he had not bothered removing his clothing: he never did. Once his loins stirred, it altered its shape in moments, growing thicker and longer, hurting till he had little choice but to seek her out.
And it went on and on and on—till she grew weary of the vibrations that he introduced into her system. His movement grew faster, deeper, and she knew he was close; she encouraged, locked her leg around him; his organ pulsed, expanded, expelled, his pelvis smacking against her engorged organ briskly in a rhythm that quickened by the second.
Weight that flooded into her lower half released, and her backside was up off the bed for a moment. It passed and sank; and she sank back down along with it, watched as his organ rubbed against her belly, still gushing fluids, stark white on tsubaki white.
Releasing a quick breath, he rolled off her onto the floor-bed, which was as wet as their bodies. The smell of him was in the air, tangy, a little bitter, but not unpleasant. He closed his eyes and opened them and looked up at the flickering silvers that went across the roof in broken and moving ellipses, a kind of revulsion coming into his countenance, like always. She did not say a thing, rolled onto her side, folded in on herself; in moments, sleep overcame her . . .
When she awoke, it was night; it was a strange sound from him that shook into her sleep and tore her from its extremities. What was it? A low whimper? A pained moan? A sharp gasp? She could not register it, for sleep danced naked in her mind; she was not yet free. She heard him stir, and, in a moment, he was on his feet, tramping forward across the room to go out into the garden, barefooted . . .
He had not laid new stones in the garden; they remained aged, eaten through by nature's troubles, monuments endowed with memories. She sat up, closed her kimono from neck to foot for the air was loaded with coarsened cold. With mighty strides, he passed back and forth across the space between two lanterns, almost agitated.
Under full-moon, he looked frantic as though his person was the target of an ailment she could not see. She rose up, walked to the open door, felt air slide upon her skin without tenderness. Looking up, she beheld the luminary that hid away and sought him out, in hindered and continual lights.
She stepped out, cold travelling into her bones from the underside of her feet. Outside, she could not make out many outlines behind tree-limbs' contortions, each house so tightly pressed to the next and to the next—a hazy row under a vast shadow. He stopped, looking down at the flower-invaded space by the lantern where bacteria, fungi, and moss were busy at decomposition.
Was this the grave into which his kin's bones were shovelled, without heart? She stopped by his side; he was quiet: she did not ask. Then his nose pushed upwards and downwards and he sniffed and his eyes squinted into torturous red voids, which glowed in his face. The red flickered and went out, and he ran his fingers across his head a few times as if wanting to put his messy hair in order.
His mouth opened into a crack, and fog-like thick frost-imbued mist escaped from his lips; and, now, he was looking up, lost, half-dreaming, Sharingan coming and going like a healing wound. Puzzled, she did not know what to do. Was he in pain? She reached out, hand hooking around his arm; he did not take it well. Almost immediately, he snatched his arm back and hissed, "leave me be!" by way of an answer.
He did not seem angry, only deeply troubled, visage turning toward the moon with a peculiar consciousness, as though she was not welcome into his waking dreams. Pulling away, she watched as his fists clenched by his sides, chin jutting out, shoulders loading down with the will to brace against whites that fell in sharp-edged waves upon him now.
She pulled away, went back to the door, turned around. He was still standing where she had left him; but, now, he was laughing a little whilst he bent down, picked up a pebble, and pitched it away in a high arc. It landed outside and created a sound that was sharp enough to change the dead silence.
Night grew colder, wind fiercer, and he whispered, standing like the thing real and unreal in scenes vignetted between his village's seam-lines. Wilding—undomesticated—she did not know how to reach out to him . . .
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She had to dismount from the idea of him, of which she had many in her mind, at every moment when she thought she could approach him openly. It was not easy: he seldom spoke; he never smiled; he kept to himself. If she were to say that they lived like strangers, it would not be less true. She wanted to know him, but he would not let her. He was a young man to whom human sentiments and speeches had been assigned, but he did not want to put them to use—not before her.
Mornings turned quieter than nights. That was how she felt, for in nights (some nights, not all nights), she could take in deeply of the musk-filled vapours that streamed from his pores, enjoy him and his breaths in her ears. It was his noise, from the deep of bone and flesh, that weighed down upon the spaces, all else forgotten in its company, which was oppressive.
Now, they sat in silence on either side of the low table. He had cast off his sweat-soaked night clothing for a fresh one. The high colour was pulled over his chin, as though to protect him against cold; but sun was radiant outside, for deep hues had morphed into lighter tones, characterised by sharp yellows that spread about the horizon, and become sharper still near the top of the dividing horizon's arc. It was a lovely morning!
She asked him of what he would do today: he prevaricated, told her nothing of the day ahead. He held no animus towards her; she was certain; yet his distance was starting to bother her. Without speaking another word, he stood up and went to the door, which he always kept open, as though he expected someone lost to walk through it to find and meet him . . .
She followed, stopped at the door, watching him leave through the gate, making no movement to stop him; and, in a moment, into the glaring sunshine, which re-drew concrete's gloom, he vanished. She kept standing like this, eyes upon the empty space where he had gone, undistracted by yellow blooms that grew from foliage by the pathway. They danced in joy: she despaired, joy-less . . .
Day passed; red arrived; night descended—she lay alone in his bed. Hours had come and gone, but he did not return to his house—this house. The door was still open: he did not like closing it; so, in his absence, she stayed true to the promise she had made to him. Moon was tucked away behind nature's finery; tonight, it would rain. She did not know if it would come from storm's heart, amidst its noises and its furies; she was not good at these things.
Slipping along the furniture's edges, shadows dripped like his ink, dark and dreary. Time trickled away; and, as night went deeper into its journey, she could not see a thing without her clan's vision. She made peace with the notion that she could not understand everything about him—for now. At this thought, which granted her a peace of mind, she looked away from the slanting greys by the door and fell asleep . . .
A sound crashed through her bones and woke her up. Startled, she sat up, trembling, her body protesting at the sudden assault on her senses that had been at peace for hours. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle fell the rain outside; its droplets made bright as pearls by intermittent lights. Light flashed—thunder followed—and she bent forward and curled up to brace the wet sound that went scattering, shattering, splattering across the room, like colour tones at the cusp of day and night. Shadows split open momentarily and joined together again faster than light, with sturdy black threads at their seams.
When the ringing and buzzing and cracking sound faded down and then out between the pittering and pattering, she sat up, cold-touched breeze flowing against her face. The moon was out, smiling through the glimmering and shimmering crystal streamlets that fell down from roof's shingles. The clink-clink-clink of rain dripping off the stones outside the window did not stop. Rain was coming: storm was going.
The place where the door lay wide open was engulfed in white from moon and yellow from the chink in the door, partitioned from the angered shadows. Had he come back whilst she was sleeping? Why did he not wake her up? She wanted to smile, but too curious was she to look into his life that he did not want to share with her that she forgot.
Pushing back the kakebuton, she rose up, not minding the sweat that covered her body in visible layers. Wind came at her and forms of her breasts and hips got moulded in the material of her night-kimono, which was made from light silk. Stopping at the door, she held the handle and peered in; inside, lantern's light crossed the transparent bottles, with brushes and black ink in them, and his white face, a scar running along the eyes and down across his nose.
He was sitting down by an open trunk made of wood, rooting through clothes. She did not understand, but she looked on, mesmerised by the way his mouth and eyes glowed under light's flowing nature, almost spilling over with rosy hue, like rouge.
Lost in his own little world, he did not notice her and pulled out a high-collared black shirt, which was not unlike his own, and looked at it long and hard. As though possessed, his visage, upon which an emotion soft settled, turned to one of puzzlement, amazement, something else that she could not fathom.
His Sharingan descended, stark and vivid in his face, planes of which were brushed by black hair. Then he held his nose up to the air into which the cloth released its long-held, latent scents, his eyes closing, face changing, red going from his countenance. He pressed the shirt into his face, held it there; and his shoulders drooped and trembled, and he sat hunched in the light; and unwilling to go to him now, she looked on, almost swaying about her heels, whilst he wept in ghostly gasps into the piece of clothing that was old . . .
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Upon morning's coming, sky was splitting open and spilling its innards over the arc. He was quiet; she did not bring up that she had seen him vulnerable the night before. He was up before she—as always. Whilst this morning untangled reds and yellows, he toiled away in the garden, freeing up the stone-work between two lanterns, of which one was half-broken from rains, neglect, ill-use.
She sat up, sun in her eyes, and watched him lean against the shovel, balancing his body on it. Then he hunched over the broken stones, strewn about dense green, and looked at the hole he had created. Strange, she thought. He was obsessed with that spot, and she did not know why.
Casting off sleep, she rose to her feet, eyes on the yellows sluicing across the sky, like a burst gooey sunny-side-up egg. Wind whispered, whistling through the forest that was more drowsy than she. Hesitant, she made her way to him, feet cold from the dews that slid down towards the grassroots, sparkling little stars upon earth.
She watched him sit down by the spot, put something there that was held in his fist, and move the earth about till his secret was buried, like seeds. Breathing in deeply the wind of morning that was fragrant, he relaxed, closed his eyes, titled his head back as though he liked the air that drip-dripped with nature.
He was silent: she was silent. At last, as though he became aware of her presence by his side, he looked at her pinking foot and then at the face it was attached to, sunlight moving along his cheeks like slippery faeries. He did not concede as much as a facial movement, and, immediately, untangled his legs, stood up, and brushed himself down.
She wanted to ask him of the hole, but she knew that it would displease him: the little while she had known him, he did not enjoy anyone prying into his affairs. He told as much to Naruto of Sakura that his wife was quick with motion and emotion, that he enjoyed her trips to his doorstep no longer, that Naruto was to control her before his anger got the best of him.
Humiliated, Naruto had walked away hunched down from this house; she had not seen him since. He walked away from her, too, and went down the path he took every morning, without saying farewell. Yet, like a wife obedient, she waited in the house and cooked food and sat down by the low-table.
He returned when sky's vastness turned rich and blood-red sun drowned below the juncture of the night-inviting sky that began to convey its overbearing singularity at darkness. He ate in silence, and, when night appeared in percolating ink-droplets across the sky, she went to bed with him, lust singing in her body.
Arms still around her waist, he slid his hands down to her hips and pulled her in, fitting her tightly against him. She felt the pressure of the rising organ through his trousers; and, as always, he moved her undergarment aside, parted her mucus-coated thighs, slipped into her. Enamoured by the sight and feeling of him, her body was always quick to respond, releasing slime that slickened her channel to take him in.
It had been a few nights since they had done this nightly. She did not complain for this was the only time he allowed her to kiss him on his throat—his lips, to her dismay, were his domain. He kept on till she was fatigued beyond measure, her frame trembling from spilling her burdens many times over. Frantic, he released his fluids into her; and like many times before, he pulled away from her, his face relinquishing pleasure as quickly as it had come.
After the act, it never took long for him to fall fast asleep, though she was still in a state of waking, aching between her legs. His face was dropped to the other side, and she kept looking to the moon moving like loose cream down his nape, listening to the rain that came down hard as his passions. His beauty was stirring—the woman in her noticed . . . daily, nightly. Why did he not make good use of it? He was strange. Not able to resist him, she moved closer, thrust her face to his throat, rosied by the kisses she had rubbed into his skin, swept her nostrils across his sweat-starred pores: he smelt lovely, like the cloth whose threads had caught up rain, musk, gentler sun.
So engrossed in his sleep, he did not hear her, feel her, push her away. She laid her arm over the one he had draped carelessly over his waist, rested her head at his breast, her heart uttering the loudest chants in her frame, fighting against the noises that came at her from the outside world which was shimmering bright in rains. He would not like her being pressed close to him, needing, wanting, lusting. She did not care: how long did he plan on keeping up his cold demeanour?
His breaths, long and steady, came; his beats, slow and deep, rose; she listened. There was a quiet storm in him, a scent of rain and lightning entrapped by his frame, that slept fast. Many moments later, she looked up and it seemed to her that she had come to a mysterious red light: he was looking down at her, Sharingan alive and squirming in his eyes, his face going tense.
She asked him as to what was the matter; his mouth moved, formulated some strained words by way of an answer, which she could not hear above the storm. An emotion began to wreak havoc upon his body, setting his breast into motion under the shirt. Brimful with him a moment ago, she felt his scent leave her nostrils—bit by bit.
His limbs gave a jerk, and she fell back, startled. Now, his body was struck with nervous twitching, and he breathed so heavily that his breast was pumping up and down under his shirt, which was soaked through with visible sweat, which shivered down his skin in light-kissed droplets.
Moving away from her, he rested his back against the wall, shivering allover. His mouth made a movement as if he was about to speak out loud, yet he only managed to whisper, "Nii-San, don't!" each time he endeavoured to enunciate the words that came from the deep of his throat. She started towards him; but this time, his Sharingan spoke in his place, gave her a violent burst of its full beam that stopped her dead in her movements.
"Get away—don't come near me!" he growled, face hanging down to the high-collar of his sweat-soaked shirt, trembling.
Puzzled, she sat back down, watching his scenery-chewing body gripped by intermittent convulsions . . .
Another morning ascended: another night descended—a clash of hues. He was calm, forgetful of the distress he had experienced. She did not think he had a lucid mind last night. She wanted to ask him of his past, but what would she say to him? She knew nothing of him . . .
He ate in silence, did not look at her, left the house; but she chose to follow him this time. Her Byakugan was useful: it would see him without giving away her intent. He kept walking, going through Leaf's forest, northbound; and she kept following, going down the narrow streets, upon which morning danced. There was a shrine up there; old and dilapidated, it lay forgotten in ruins. (No one had come here in years . . . )
She stopped in her steps, looking far ahead of herself in that direction, eyes upon his chakra that spoke of the power in him. By her side, a peddler sold wares that dangled at his waist; she ignored him, moved through the press of people that had come out in droves today.
World grew in twisted set of lines before her, soaked in black and white, like his missives. By his feet, a stream went singing down the stone-stairs, slickened with algae. He stopped at a shadow that was thicker than the Buddha's statue and spoke of something she could not understand. Then he tore open a rift in the fabric, and before she could blink, he was gone . . .
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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 . . .
# # # # # #
There was wind today—a breeze she would say—that operated upon the village that lay entombed in shadow, save him. Outside Leaf it stood, without an anchor, flanked by old trees that had seen more than every eye, that had seen blood, heard every cry. Behind his head, light broke up, like a rope snapped up into two long stumps, sun radiant. He stood in the garden; and her Naruto, by his side, a smile brighter than sun upon his lips.
"You shouldn't go off on your own like that," he said. "What would they say?"
Sasuke plucked a flower from the grassy ground, a purple one, lifted it almost even with his head, and smelt the perfume it gave off that was a little sweet, a little syrupy. That was how it smelt when she had smelt it—at least. Perhaps things smelt different to him, looked different, felt different. They were different, she thought.
"What would they say?" he asked, his visage accumulating little emotion to alter the state of his countenance, which remained placid, un-affected, like the beauty Kami had gifted him.
"You know what I mean," Naruto said, almost sounding insistent.
"What do you mean?" he asked, and she felt that his voice had not changed in the slightest, empty, smooth, cool.
"Sasuke—" Naruto stopped, said no more, though he wanted to. Through his house's revealing crevices, she could almost see words dangling like boyhood smiles from his lips; but, like smiles, they slipped away all the same.
She did not understand. He left to—where? It was strange: he was strange. When would she understand his heart? Whose company he sought in another place, hidden from every eye? Another woman's? She nearly let slip a laugh—no, he was not like that. How silly!
By his table she sat, looking to him, feeling the wind, watching his face. Enduring his distant nature was not easy, for in her flesh, within, she craved his company. The pleasures he offered, she adored it. The thrums that came rippling from betwixt her dimply thighs, she cherished it. The ache that evolved in his absence, she relished it. By night, she was flesh, only flesh, all flesh—not eyes, nor heart, never spirit.
She did not love him, no—she wanted his flesh. It was strange, yet only natural, for that was all he had to give; and she took from him what she could—only fair. In moments during which lust ruled all aspects, within and without, she liked being free, free as dust that hung crystal-like in his house's lights.
"Why haven't you talked to the councilmen?" he asked; hidden between his words, a colder trace. "I didn't stay here for no reason, did I?"
"I promised you! Why don't you trust me?" Naruto said, with a voice that was less jovial than his usual one.
"I don't trust myself. How can I trust you?" he said, and his words sounded truer than Naruto's.
Naruto, simultaneously shocked and amused, laughed; and his eyes, under sun's tender care, were blue—bluest blue—eyes that were all love; and in their love, their blues, hers was lost in hues; she found it impossible to keep looking, so she looked away, hearing Naruto's laughter ringing in the air like bell-charms, soft and continual.
Moments escaped alongside shadows on walls, and he came inside, with Naruto in his wake—all smiles. Out of habit, he took his place by the table, positioning himself exactly as before. Naruto sat opposite him, his blue losing its sparkle against his house's sombre hue.
Tea released steam into the air that was calmer inside in strings. He did not look at her, busying himself with his tea, un-smiling. Naruto asked her of her days, and she told him that she was fine—living. At this, he laughed till the vowels went rolling across the walls. Unsure, she only smiled . . .
When sky was intoxicated by dusk's tricks, Naruto went away; and she was left to look upon him, silence existing as easily as dreams between them. Hours went by, and he sat quietly, back pressed to the wall. She told him that she wanted to go to the shop she loved, buy a gift for her sister; he did not stop her, told her that she was free to do as she pleased.
Not delighted by his careless demeanour, she left his house, his village, his silence. Outside, sounds of merrymaking bore down upon air, loading it with voices. She bought a little ornamental pin for Hanabi, one of gold. People stood pressed about her, but she kept her eyes on the pin and light that shone in circular shapes on its design.
The prospect of returning home made her gloomy, yet the thought that he may grant her pleasure made her joyous: he gave her silence by day, rapturous fun by night. Yes, she would take from him what she could; so, upon returning to the house, after leaving behind the joys and colours Leaf offered on streets, she noticed that he was still sitting where she had left him.
She asked of him if he was hungry: he told her that he was not. She had eaten ramen, a spicy one, at the ramen shop; in her mouth, its taste still lingered, sweet and tangy upon her tongue. She felt guilty for not having bought one for him, too, though his quietness was enough to tell her that he might not have accepted her gift.
Hesitant, she went to the onsen, washed herself clean; hesitant, she asked of him to come to bed with her. At this, he raised his eyes, and she saw a gleam go across his blacks in quickness. He did not agree with her: he did not reject her. After a moment's silence, he rose and took her to bed. For months after the Great War, he had been locked up in here, forced to bear his burden—and her. She could tell that he was . . . bored.
It was the same, but, after a night's separation from his flesh, she felt him more intensely inside. His strokes were not gentle, but harsh; but her groove was so used to the shape of his organ that it accepted him readily. When it ended, it ended beautifully for her; she could not say how he felt after their union . . .
She slept, and just like that, she awoke. Sitting up, she closed up her kimono, smoothed it out, watched whilst he sat in the doorframe, with that billowing grey round him. A storm was brewing about in the sky, and in quick hushes the winds descended.
She went to him, bolder than before, and asked of him as to what was on his mind? He craned his neck round, looked up, blacks deeper than before. She could tell that he did not like her question. Timidly, she apologised; and he looked away into the near distance, the night.
Slowly, she sank down, but he stood up and went to his room to write letters again . . .
# # # # # #
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 . . .
# # # # # #
From a full-summer's bosom came air that was warm, yet benign. Earth broke into blooms, of colours bright: each a spectacle by day, by night. Leaf had come alive in this season. Was it her beloved's charm, his spirit that was calm? His blue, indeed, was a colour of lovers true. Lost she felt in his eyes, her love never waning, only wanting.
If boy of day was her spirit's heart, he was of night, her flesh's part. Sun sat in her darling's hair, overflowing against his swarthy cheeks. Still clumsy as boys, he stood hunched, right hand tucked into his belt. His brother's words stung him, and he did not know what to do with his other restless hand, which he swung back and forth across his body.
Angered—his Sharingan shone in the face that was cast in Nature's fine, beautiful mould that had no equal. Faint—spring's kisses existed on his cheeks, eyes blaring louder than words. He was furious. Naruto's head was bent, and sweat, in clusters, gathered on his chin.
She stood in the house's shade, wary of the young man left behind to live by his sibling's monstrous hands. He accused, taunted, blamed the man she loved. He said that Naruto betrayed him, and by his eyes, he haunted her soul. By looking upon his mien, she could tell that his words rang true, that his manner was true.
The boy from sun did not speak, eyes upon his brother now, his blue of the sweetest hue she had ever witnessed his eyes' frame. Upon his lips was silence's hold. His brother was bolder in dusk, red his armour, dark his strength. He could not understand why had Naruto not brought the Council to justice? Naruto had extended their service's duration in the Council for it was every Shinobi's wish, and he did things for the good of all. She did not understand him, too . . .
Naruto's yellowed cheeks, upon which smooth whiskers rested, compressed themselves into long threatening wrinkles. His blues shrunk down to tiny ink plops in the face, which appeared like a pink-daubed scroll. The man she was wedded to grabbed him by the collar, but her darling had no words, no smiles, no blues to appease his spirit.
"My hands are tied," he whispered. "Sasuke—I'm—I'm sorry . . . "
Letting go of Naruto, he stepped back, sun limning his body in clear lines. In his eyes, anger rested; upon his face, fury tested his resolve; and, this time, it seemed as though it was beaten. His flames did not simmer down, though he chose not to stand by his side and made to walk; but Naruto grabbed his hand, pleading.
He did not listen, jerked his hand free from Naruto's grasp, walked away. His village's shades fled to him, enveloped him, draped him; and in a moment, he was gone from her sight. She chose not to look upon him through her other vision, eyes upon Naruto's countenance.
Weary, he contorted his body into the shadow that was underneath the leaning tree. She went to him, hesitant, but still so in love. Her shadow, kindly, did not intensify dusk's shade upon him. At this, he looked up, and his blue brightened her soul.
"He'll be fine," he said, and his nose snorted the garden air back out. "He gets like this. Don't worry."
Smiling, she sat by his side, crossed her arms beneath her bosom, felt light and shadow play across her visage like shy children. He was quiet, looked at every part of the house which he could see, red spreading across his crinkling nose; and they sat like this till dusk was memory—night, melody . . .
At night, she sat at the house's threshold, a line between his world and her beloved's; yet he had not come. She did not think that he would with her share the glad tidings, love, lovely things; no, he allowed her to experience the beauty of his flesh—no more, no less.
Inside his garden, trees tossed and glistened as fish in nets; lights passed across their slickened limbs, stalks, as silver flowing. Wind came at her, hard and fast, hit against her eyes with a force she did not fathom. Summer's storms were not violent, not in her memories.
She fled from the threshold and went deeper into the room and watched water sluice across the floor like combers rolling in and crashing over a pebbled shore. The wood was soaked through, water kissing her feet, shimmering inside bubbles as lightning cracked overhead. Ah, this storm was mighty; and it would not let her sleep.
Stubborn—she went to bed and closed her eyes and rode out the storm that lashed this land's contours with a heart heartless. Till morning, it kept on, unrelenting. She did not know when she fell asleep, waking to greys and rains that still fell from the storm's underbelly, purples, blues, whites skittering, flittering, glittering inside its veins. It would not stop—where had he run off to?
Sun dipped, lost, and black broke out, free, beyond the storm, which was as alive as the night before. Her whole day was spent in waiting. The tea, which was still set on the low-table with rice-balls and cooked fish, had gone cold as the air outside. Like threads woven by this place's ghosts, its steam was gone.
Into night's depth, storm's wrath was reignited, and akin to flames forged in fury, lightning burnt the sky down in fracturing lights. Rain fell sideways in sheets, beating against the house, splattering on stones, splashing into the stream that overflowed its banks. Where was he . . . ?
His room in which he wrote his missives was darker without light's compassion; so she went to his table, lantern in hand that tossed out a blurry light. It brightened the aged female Kimono, upon which cranes darted, draped over a Kimono-stand in the corner. It was dusted . . . clean . . . ? Had he cleaned it . . . himself?
The mirror on the little low table by its side was broken, shards lay strewn about on the surface polished with care; they glittered, scattered snow-crystals by the holly pin and bamboo brush—she could see long light-warmed hair strands twisted round the teeth—his mother must have used; a child's toys, little stone soldiers and pinwheels and kendama, lay by the cushion; one of the wooden toys was broken as though the child had stepped on it in a hurry.
She sat down where he always sat and placed the lantern on the low-table and looked: everything was still, quiet, unmoving; winter, keen and cold, had visited upon this place on that night; and it never left. Looking down, she opened the drawer and saw many scrolls, missives he had written—to someone.
Then, too curious to stop now, she opened them one by one, her heart sinking at the sight of words that filled the scrolls with a deeply black ink:
Nii-San,
I was asked to marry a girl from the Hyūga clan that I don't know. They want to trap me in here. I can't say no. I have faith in Naruto that he'll come through for me—for us. Did I do the right thing in forgiving Leaf—forgiving them all?
I miss you . . .
The next . . .
Nii-San,
Naruto's distant. He evades my questions. The Council that decided our fate still lives. It hasn't faced the justice it deserves. You wanted me to change, and I did. I've tried, but it isn't easy. I can feel them all whispering behind my back about you, and I can't bear it.
Winter feels harsher without you . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Spring approaches, but storms come harder. The house is too silent by day and too loud by night. Perhaps her presence will make it less quiet . . . I haven't gone back to your room. I wanted to, but I didn't.
What do they hope to gain from me? Am I to forget that they took you from me? My heart isn't that big . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
The tree in the garden has bloomed. Red camellia. Is it spring already? Time flies. It's been three years since you left me, yet it still feels like yesterday. The spot where we sat between the lanterns and talked has been over-taken by flora. I'd plant something there for you. Maybe you'd like it, look upon me, remember me from beyond the shore.
This season brings me no joy . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Spring ends, and I see flowers drying up in summer's sun. It's warmer than I remember. The koi you and I fed in the stream flee to colder waters. They've learnt to abandon this place, too. The house fills with ghosts at night. Sometimes, I can hear you talking in your room. I go to your door, yet I turn back. What would I find in your room? What do I hope to find?
I don't know . . . perhaps I'd never know . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Summer has come, and it burns me. Nii-San, what do you sound like? Your voice fades in my mind. I can see you, yet I can't hear you. My eyes can re-make you in my dreams without an end, but you're without a voice in my eyes. You speak to me, yet I hear nothing. You whisper through walls, but what do you say?
Are you hurting? I forgive you . . . Nii-San, I forgive you . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
Summer is hard. This house hurts me. It's loud. It doesn't allow you to speak to me. You still talk in your room. Why don't you come to me? Your voice is broken, or have my ears lost the capacity to hear you?
Is this what parting is like? I can't bear it . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
I went to your room. It was like the way you had left it. Light lay on your instruments, clothes, scrolls. The gift I had given you was gone. Did you take it when you left here?
I couldn't hear you. Do you only talk by night? I'll keep my ears keen for your voice . . .
. . . and the next . . .
Nii-San,
The men that ruined you—ruined us—enjoy the great seats. I feel mocked. There's nothing left for me to do here. Naruto lied to me. I won't forgive them. I can't forgive them. Even you don't speak to me anymore. Say that you'd hate me—that you'd forgive me—that you'd love me—even if I burn summer's leaves down. Say something! You're silent! Say something! Where have you hidden away from me? Where do you wait for me?
Your words grow fainter, and I'm frightened that I'll forget your voice completely. Nii-San, where should we meet? Should I bring you back to me from the power in me? Would you hate me? I don't fear your hate. I fear when you leave. I will find you. If not here, then another place.
The seed I planted doesn't grow. This place is cursed, and without you, it curses me more. I can't hear you anymore. I can't . . . Nii-San, I forgive you . . . I love you . . . always . . .
. . . and other missives that lay incomplete, tucked in-between these. Her lips trembled, and a sheen materialised across her eyes: he had not mentioned her name—not once. The house rang beneath her, and she felt him standing by the table, his shadow deeper than the ones that stood in the room. Afraid and startled and shocked that he had returned at a time like this, she sprang to her feet. His eyes, redder and deeper and darker than her blood, burnt in his face; and not in mimic anger, but true fury, his Sharingan located its mark.
She tossed out words of apology, but his hand rose. Trembling, she fell back, looking upon his hand that was still raised in the air. He told her to leave here and never return. The greatest movement of his voice was on the word near the end of his statement. He was lost—he searched—and she had no place in his heart . . .
Storm still attacked his village with violence, but she ran full tilt through the slanting rain, her bearing without a destination . . .
# # # # # #
False Freedom, love in will's dye
How it could glad thine eye?
Through the whole night, storm raged on, undeterred, unfettered, undisturbed. Sasuke had let her go, but she chose not to return to her father's domain. Into the forest, she ran, running, running, running; rain kept coming, coming, coming. Light, white and bright, fell and splattered silver onto the waters that existed on the soil whose thirst was not yet quenched.
Sasuke's village, indistinct dots without a soul in the distance, was left behind in her haste. She did not look back, for she knew he would not give chase to her: his heart for her was as empty as his house. A place of noise, Leaf's forest called out to the storm to show it mercy, but its heart was made; trees prostrated and swayed as impassioned dervishes, their limbs weary from violent contortions; and out came lightning that whipped it raw: its punishment had only begun!
She ran, but she grew tired of running. Her legs sank up to her calves, mud squelching out from between her toes; soil was softer here. At the base of an old tree was a natural cave, so she went to it and compressed her body into a tighter ball, eyes on the storm that sat upon the firmament, its throne: blue was far; black, King. Wrapping her arms round her body, she rested her brow on her knees, shivering. Water had soaked through to her skin, and cold struck her bones; summer's rains were never cold, but her nails had turned blue like Fall's blooms.
Storm went on for hours, never stopping, never resting, never ceasing. Wind, singing in violent melodies, crashed into Leaf, and it cried out in anguish. What was this storm that knew not an end to its wrath? She feared for herself, for her beloved, for their blue.
She fell asleep in that position, and her eyes opened to the shriek that set the earth beneath her to trembling. Thundering, Hinata's heart shook her from slumber, and she looked at the sky through rain that still fell in waves unending. Alas, hours had trickled away, but the sky still remained dark; black diluted to grey by sun that had risen less mighty and more timid behind storm's curtains.
Untangling herself from the cave, she rose up, breasting rain that beat into her bosom's flesh like pebbles, pinking it. Silver and white droplets fell, little light-coated pearls that brought punishment in their benign structures. An aura stirred in the air, and, at storm's far end, clouds went into a crevice that tore open in the sky, releasing a light that was not natural.
She turned to her vision, yet the very air rang out—piece by piece—about her, vibrated in agony, enraptured by divinity. Black and white sluiced down upon her world and hues hid away, and, like words that stained his scrolls, landscape rose before her in shivering hues. She could see her beloved—only in glimpses for storm could allow her to see no more. He was hurting!
And before she could decipher fear's ache that went like kunai into her breast, she was running from the forest's heart into the storm's eye that was blinking above her—a God's eye, lightning its lashes, greys its curve, red its bloods that had but drained into its iris in fury. Black and white tightened into droplets and fell away faster than wind, and hues came back, filtered by rain.
Roaring, wind blew mighty from the Valley of the End. River came crashing down from between tall statues that stood, not speaking; they broke away from the whiplash they could no longer endure. A fracture as deep as men were tall appeared in the Senju's countenance and half his face fell away and revealed more stone that possessed no features. Dust to dust—ashes to ashes—stone to stone.
Yellows escaped in long strands, twisting round greys, whence the river began; she felt her beloved's spirit in them. She had to reach him: she had to save him! With this resolve, she balanced the soles of her feet, battered and mud-coated, over the edge and ran down across the sharp-ended rocks that injured her flesh. Wind rushed at her from behind, but she kept her chakra steady and firm.
At last, her feet met the rain-lashed rocky shore, but she did not stop her run. River crashed against the shaking pebbles and flew up in tall foamy waves. Rain came at her in solid veils that fell upon each other one after the other, a flurry of ink-carrying scrolls. There was no end to this madness, this noise!
The Senju's statue had crumbled away—only its feet remained. She went ahead and ran into the cliff's shadow and then up the cliff and hit the yellow that penetrated her heart deeply. Upon reaching the top, her heart sank and she cried out the man's name whom she had loved since her girlhood days: Sasuke's hand was attached to her beloved's breast, and Purple of Kings had blossomed in his left eye; yellow bubbles clustered about his arm that fed upon Naruto's life-force, bled him dry; Naruto's magnificent cloak, tipped by far-reaching golds that formed an arch overhead, burnt away in ashes; the more he drew, the more her darling lost.
Rooted in place like an old tree, she watched: angry—storm blacker than his house's shadow towered over Sasuke's head like God's limb with a mountain-hard fist that was clenched tight to fall upon Leaf and level it into the ground, turn it into a grave, burn it down to ash.
Hinata could bear it no longer; she made to run, yet so hurried that she stumbled over her own legs and fell face-first to the hard ground. Upon impact, her teeth occluded and a flesh in the cheek ripped away and blood filled her mouth. Craning her head, bleeding from rouged lips, she watched her love's sun vanish in wisps.
Sasuke stepped back, and Naruto sank down on his knees, put his face right up close to the earth that had accepted his love, yet returned him little. Finding her lost vigour, she scrambled to her feet again, rushing to Naruto's side, greys parting at his silhouette. Then she sank down by his side and helped him sit up; upon looking through her better vision, she noticed that his companion was gone. She whimpered—he was dying . . .
Naruto wrinkled his nose the way men of old age did, the wrinkle travelling across his entire upper body like a deep tremble. An apology was on her darling's lips; and tears, in his eyes, though she could not see them, hidden as they were in droplets, without her vision which she had sent away in distress.
Now, she looked ahead, mesmerised by the Uchiha, the last of them, all of him: Man, created once from clod, had become new; light most pure illumed his soul, and wherever purple at his command fell, it vitrified soil; earth burnt, reflected light, bloomed where his feet touched the soil; it kissed his feet, joyous!
She gazed back at Naruto, looking at every protuberance, purple and blue and pink, on his face that was still there; and, without his companion's aid, it would take weeks for him to heal. Sasuke had beaten him senseless, yet it not did not seem as though he was angry with Sasuke, for love was entombed in his beaten blue. Purple had over-taken the oceans in Naruto's eyes, from which he could not flee. Genjutsu!
Unsure of what to do, she clasped Naruto to her breast, but he was still looking to the young Uchiha he loved—had loved through eons, without end—the man who sought God that was to be sought in the highest regions; or had he become one, pumped full of his brother's will, himself?
A Godly hue from him came and slid up over her eyes till all she could see was him—only him. He smiled—a smile that made his blood-thrilling beauty out-blossom—in triumph that set him quivering. From him, a force unseen issued forth and shook the sky, from which broke free purples that bedecked his body in a dragon's frame. His garment, heavenly!
She looked down and noticed that the young Uchiha was barefooted; a pink bruise glared against his skin: his sandal had galled the topside of his white feet during the days he toiled away in other realms; but it vanished after a blink, healed before she could think. What had he become? Naruto wheezed, shoulders bent, countenance burdened by agony.
She hated Sasuke—hated him more and more, and, in that hate, she heaved herself up into a squatting position, filled her muscles up with chakra, rushed to him, a Will of Wars in her heart. By now, the Uchiha was wrapped up in purple pristine—Godly! She screamed, yet he turned from her, uncaring the way he was in his house.
When she drew near, hands clenched and over-coated in lions' heads, he gave out a blast of his power: black rods came flying past her; one missed, but another pierced the belly and ran her through; she crashed deep into the rocks, hair whipping, black rod sticking out from her belly, gushing blood from the mouth in breaking streamlets.
Everything blurred, but his hue. Blue was gone; earth, sky, heaven sang his song. Forest that trembled to the wind shivered in love, his purple falling from intertwisted trees; and he flew up towards the sky without wings, and she stared, overwhelmed, at his metamorphosis, wet black hair hitting her cheeks.
She looked down at the astonished press of men. They would all die and bring grief to Naruto. Her family would die, too. Sasuke returned, yet Leaf had angered him; and, now, it was his turn to release his anger over her beloved's demesne. Blood pinked her teeth and dribbled in long strings from her chin; Naruto clamped his jaws around more words of love, apology, promise . . . to the brother; but Sasuke was not moved—no, he was flying!
Blasphemy—he was blasphemy from Nature's hands. No, he was God now, and she was most frightened by his wrath. Purple crooked, like a necklace, draped round his long throat and bestrode the town in stone-slicing vertical lashes. Then he raised his arms, and then he let them fall; and the whole mountain trembled. Leaf caved into itself: rocks shattered; dirt scattered; not a stain remained behind to speak of Men who lived in its bosom (Leaf's earth had eaten them). Rod of punishment they all bore without a whimper—vanished. In a moment so small that could scarcely be felt by men, they had all . . . vanished.
Sasuke, enveloped by light, floated down and looked upon Naruto who wept for him. He turned around and tore open the fabric; and at this, Naruto wailed, called out to him, but Sasuke did not stop. He went through it, his colour vanishing from her sight; and a glimpse of King's Purple was the last she saw of him from the tear that was closing up, his back turned to Naruto—and, perhaps, her; and blue came upon the sky, his storm vanishing . . .
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Epilogue
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A will that savoured of an unpleasant red, of treachery—he left it behind, turned it into a lidless grave that was cradled deeply by the valley, forests, rivers. Whispers, only whispers, floated about where Leaf once stood. Now, only stone and dirt remained, a sepulture of memories. Everyone was gone—everyone . . .
Sasuke . . . he had no heart for his heart was taken, no soul for it existed forsaken. Itachi was a thief and he had stolen his little heart; and though he lived his life, he could never reclaim that part, which sang songs to his sibling's joy. Had he set out to find his heart amidst realms unknown? How far had he gone—out of sight and out of mind? She had no power to follow him, she never did. The one she loved, Sasuke left him, too; and Naruto had wept all day and all night, his blue a burden: he could not bear the separation between them that would be end-less—Leaf was forgotten against the thread Sasuke had broken . . .
He had taken from Naruto his companion that in his childhood was more curse and less blessing—every last drop. Nothing of the daemon remained in Naruto's belly, not an echo, nor a voice. The chamber, he had left it empty. Naruto should have met his end; yet, in thoughtless love or thoughtful vengeance, he upon Naruto bestowed a little seed of his power, enough to spare his life. Naruto's power was gone: he was more a man, less a Shinobi that could mix with men as he pleased. Had that not always been your wish? she thought.
It was this little seedling that allowed Naruto to draw the disintegrating rod from her belly, heal her; he had healed a bit of himself, too. A burden, heavier than the mountain upon which he stood, bore down upon his heart, his spirit shaken. What was left for Naruto to do but weep for him now?
When Naruto had exhausted himself from whimpering for him and sky lost its blue and morn and turned deep and forlorn, he in silence went to his brother's house; she followed in his wake. After he had cast off Leaf's signs from himself, he entered Sasuke's house; but his heart sank for the house was emptier than before: the signs he left in his wake each morning carried a sense of permanence.
No longer he sat by the table at night's coming like an old exhausted monk who would unbend himself after the task of writing, forehead pressed to his fist in deep contemplation. From his brush had come important missives, but, now, it remained neglected in a half-full inkpot. He had burnt his missives—every last one. Only thick ash remained in the brazier, some floated in the air inside sunlight, too.
The rooms entrapped echoes of his kin's memories. The broken toy by the table upon which a bamboo brush was left behind—he had taken it. Was it Itachi's? She could not say. A black cat with yellow eyes gleaming sat squeezed into the far corner, behind a shadow; it padded off after mewing. He was not here to feed it. She heard purring noises coming from behind his mother's kimono-stand: had it birthed her children in his house's refuge? Come next season, the house would lose what little bits of him remained. Thieves would rob the gold that decorated the swords, steal expensive clothes from trucks, break things they would not need; Nature would rob the rest; without men, houses fell to ruin . . .
The pathway stones that led out of the house were as broken as before, overtaken by bits of grass that grew unchecked towards the forest that called upon earth's children. He had never bothered to fix them. Shadow as deep as nightly reveries played about the space where he had sat with his darling brother in his childhood; and his passion and rain's mercy had allowed a flower to grow from its seed: Higanbana . . .
Trapped by love, Naruto knelt by the soil whence red bloomed, lowered his nose to the petals. Did it speak to him more than she could? She was envious of Sasuke's signs that relayed his words to Naruto, without a sound. At last, he stood up, tracing the kunai Sasuke had left on his low table with his thumb, his mind lost: Naruto had taken it for himself, to remember his brother.
Naruto stood like this for what felt like hours, his cheeks glowing ruddy in dusk. Like caramelised sugar, red of a going sun enveloped all his face, lodged deeply into the dimples of his cheeks for he was smiling now; and out of a long standing habit, he scratched his head where his sunning hairs made cowlicks and tucked Sasuke's kunai into his pocket.
He mopped grief's touches from his eyes and face, his blues sparkling clear, and looked to her and said: "let's go, Hinata."
Then Naruto stretched his hand to her, and she took it, looking upon his blue that held a little space beside Sasuke for her, too. They walked away from his house, yet Naruto turned back to look upon the flower one last time, a farewell in his blue; it was the seed Sasuke had planted for his brother that was lost. Had he buried it to call upon him from the deep, draw him unto himself from death's keep?
Perhaps he had found him in another realm, after all . . .
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EN: Purple is the colour of Kings, Kami, and Royalty in Japanese mythos.
Higanbana (Red Spider Lily), a flower that literally means "flower of higan (the other shore of Sanzu River, or a Buddhist holiday around the autumnal equinox)".
With this, Blue comes to an end. I hope you all enjoyed it. It was a fairly interesting story to write. I usually don't pen stories that are very simplistic by nature, but they can prove to be a good change of pace from time to time.
The ending of the story was given away not only in the summary but also in several lines that spoke of clashing motifs and personalities. When Hinata talked of freeing Sasuke, its ending tone was set in stone. I tend to reveal endings in this manner quite often. In fact, I don't ever remember not slipping endings in-between lines. It's a habit of mine—a writing quirk if you will; so the keener you are in reading between the lines, the quicker you'd figure out my stories.
That's it from my end. Until next time.
Regards.
The End