Murasaki
Summary: Presented with an opportunity to strike back at Leaf, Sasuke becomes restless; and a war begins against his sibling, Itachi, with severe consequences.
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 violent and sexual situations; morbid humour and strong language.
Genres (Main and Sub): Suspense and Mystery; Drama and Angst; Moral Relativism and Tragedy; Horror and Grotesque; Morbid humour and Erotica.
Prominent Characters (in order of importance): Uchiha Sasuke (Central Character), Uchiha Itachi (Second most Prominent Character), Hyūga Hinata, Haruno Sakura, and Uzumaki Naruto (Prominent Catalyst Characters).
Other prominent characters: Team Taka (Hōzuki Suigetsu, Uzumaki Karin, and Jūgo), Tsunade, and Hyūga Neji and others.
Yaoi/Incest Enthusiasts: Don't expect any Yaoi/Incest concepts in my fictions. Look elsewhere if they give you elusive moments of gratification.
AN: This is an 'Epic Length' fiction and it'll be long; thus, it'll have a slow start, and characters' motives (and why they behave in a certain way) won't be revealed immediately—it'll be a gradual process. The story starts at a certain 'point in time' and things proceed on from there. Everything is built upon the first dozen (or so) chapters—consider them the first 'build-up arc' of the entire story. (The build-up arc also liberally utilises clichés and tropes, which are quite popular amongst the fandom, in a manner that's meant to create a different form of deconstruction.)
This story is semi-AU: I've written it in a manner that it's the same universe, but it's also a very different universe at the same time. This might seem paradoxical, but that's the best way I can put this; hence, the canon-lore is moulded (and elaborated in many cases) to fit the constraints of this universe. Murasaki isn't about power-tiers (or insufferable self-projections labeled as power-trips) but power-dynamics in relation to various units in socio-cultural and political set-ups; which means that the story explores various roles and relationships in regard to an individual's social and political status inside and outside the clan. That'll also include family, clan, sexual-dynamics, and what it means to be a part of powerful clans' distinct political set-ups.
Murasaki's also quite erotic, lurid, even obscene at times as many aspects of sexual dynamics are explored in intimate details; and, whilst the story at no point breaches the domain of incest (which I religiously abhor), not even in passing, it doesn't shy away from the exploration of the individual characters' psycho-sexual impulses that weave through the elements of the work; so if you're uncomfortable with the aforementioned content that makes up a significant part of the narrative, this story isn't for you.
I've picked up many little (sometimes big) aspects from some prominent Japanese periods (Heian and Edo etc.); but as Naruto isn't set in any known Japanese era, there will be a mish-mash of many cultural and religious ethos, along with references to architecture, folklore, and cultural practices. The folktales narrated in the story may carry aspects from Nihon-shoki and Kojiki texts (and other folktales), but they'll mostly be made-up. So keep these things in mind. Last but not least, put your expectations aside and read this with a clean slate and don't walk into the story expecting Romance—you'll experience grave disappointment.
(I started writing this story sometime around 2008, so its early arcs are fairly old.)
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Chapter One: Scarlet Harlots
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Sticks and leaves burst over the spillway, carried by the force of the water behind. Sun was strong today: it was probably the last of the snow melting on the cold mountains up north. Once the wind turned cold, there was no going back to the hot summer. Summer would come again next year—an eternal cycle.
Judging by the wind's bitterness, autumn had come early and winter would be harsh this time. Konoha higher ups would have their work cut out for them. Crops died, some wilted, and upland rice produced no grain. The fields they made to sustain themselves if the burden of war and famine was upon them—that was a dead-end.
They would just have to beg before the Daimyō to give them funds for more supplies. Tsunade's reign was going smoothly, but it was not as though she could control weather.
He found it hard to stand still against the wind, his feet firm on the ground. The wind turned so cold at night and gained speed and muscle. Leaves blew and shushed and swayed; it created a loud dissonance of sounds about him.
Dark clouds divided; wind lost its strength suddenly; a glare of the half-moon bathed the lake. Choppy combers on its surface rolled in and made a dull sound that came throbbing through the trees. He could barely hear it. Standing before the meadow, he gazed, mesmerised, at the delicate stems that burrowed out from the ground. The petals opened. There were so many. He took out his Sharingan, but it was impossible to count them all:
Lilies—Purple Lilies! Beautiful. Wild. Immortal. There was nothing like them in this entire world! Tempting, food, lure for the Devil Moths—silent, sweet, sublime—deadly, so deadly . . .
They shone like chariots, trying in desperation to catch the slivers of white light. Above them fluttered the Autumn Moths: they were purple, too, with circular black lines painted by nature to create an odd eye-shape upon their wings. When the eyes glowed, they turned into rosy devils—Devil Moths.
He moved his head back and caught sight of one fluttering just overhead. He moved swiftly; it tried to flutter away on a current in haste, but he was too fast. With a single leap, he grabbed it out of the air. It struggled with near futile attempts to get out from between his fingers. He stared down at it with a curious disposition as though it aroused something in him, something long forgotten and old.
"Still chasing moths, huh?" Naruto asked as he appeared from the shadows of the trees on the right. "They're waiting ahead for the mission."
Sasuke let the moth go, his face cold as wind. He did not say anything and started walking ahead.
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Incense and mist-laden air . . . that was all he could see and smell. Without his Clan's gift, it was a vulgar suasion to entice the flesh. He did not enjoy coming here, not unless it became a necessity for his flesh: it was a slave to few things; he never denied that. He fed it when it starved and bore the bouts of a delightful sensation, an itch, as he trained it daily to wait for the melody to rise from within to a crescendo. Then the release was . . . almost sweet.
He felt pride in the fact that he had conquered his flesh, his worst enemy, tamed it on his own terms; and the man struck the gong, a wordless song blasting in their direction. Harlots swathed in red decadence glided over to the centre, their hair inky in the white light spilling from overhead.
The drum pounded. Louder. Louder. Then the sound vanished, absorbed by the walls that drank it with greed: they just could not wear the blush of a drunkard upon their facades. They stood silent, watching, listening, sleeping.
The harlots leant over, and their pliant backs formed an arch like a taut bow. Runnels of sweat ran between their breasts, squeezed together, spilling over from between the collars of their kimonos. They folded into a sudden dance: hips swaying, hair whipping, patient feet kicking up the small amount of earth there; and then they stamped it down and sank to their ankles in the soft ground. It was a cheap trick of the Doton users in the near vicinity. A Genin could produce the same results, but this was not about the child soldiers: it was about moulding the flesh into the demanding form of desire.
Men sat idle on the mats all around, eyes watching the rippling young flesh, mouth slavering at the corners. Their wait was a test of patience, their pockets full of coins—buyers and chattel. As long as there was a buyer, every willing body was bought. It just had to yield to their demands, cringe with servility.
A soft sigh passed his lips, and the mist parted in the exhalation. Next to him, his shy subordinate was sitting with his head bowed. He did not want to lay his eyes upon the enticing temptation. He was married with a child, and his vows mattered to him, though the moans coming unabated from plump lips were testing his resolve and loins.
The women turned on their heels fluidly, and their shadows ran about the room. Bits of earth floated up and went away. Water rose up in its place and soaked through the silk garments; their sartorial brilliance was rendered almost obscene. Cheap. You would not need a Sharingan to see their inviting miens, the sweet sheen of their skin, and the flare of their thighs and tight buttocks. That drew such excited groans from a few men: they had already decided to spill between their thighs tonight.
With arms held loose along their sides, they let the Kimonos fall down to their waists, revealing pretty, corpulent breasts and flushed skins—tight crests beaded with pearly drops of sweat and water. It was such a show for wanting eyes and heated groins that throbbed with anticipation. Then they jerked their heads back, and the hair flew behind them, lashing their spines like whips and propelling the water from their red prints—red against white. And now his Sharingan flickered to life and counted the drops in the distant lull only his eyes could grant him.
They floated there about the blushing skin, going slowly . . . slowly down through the mist, making little holes in the faint light from the lantern that had suddenly turned purple and then red round the edges. Mist fluttered there like Autumn Moth's wings. Stone-cold chill went through his skin and rippled there the way the air was disturbed by their chaotic dance; it overpowered the red, cooled it down, and it went to sleep again, enjoying its slumber.
Drums beat louder and louder and louder, reaching a frenzied crescendo of music. Distorted voices from men sounded as though they were chanting in a choir. His head was pounding, and he rose the cup to the lips and took a little sip to cool his temple. He sighed and the drumming sound rose in answer; and the dancers' song reached a high wail and then sank back to a low moan. The music ebbed away into a kind of comforting silence he welcomed.
The girls-in-red scampered away laughing into the shadows behind the partition screens, and light overhead turned white again. A drunkard tried to grab one girl's leg but missed and fell face-first to the wooden floor. The floor stopped moving, and music rose with an exquisite and resonant chord again.
He took another sip—this spectacle was over. Mist cleared the area, and good aristocrats showed approval in a politely efficient manner, with faint gestures of their soft hands and well-mannered smiles. Clever raconteurs.
A woman clad in a dazzling kimono emerged from behind the richly painted partition-screen: it had a scene of battle upon one corner and a wild storm upon the other. He thought it looked so odd for such a place. It was probably a gift from a wealthy customer. Shadows of girls and men slithered cross its rippling surface.
The woman daintily crossed the room, a fan held tightly in her right hand. Bowing lowly, she settled herself down before him and pulled out a scroll from her sleeve. A smile forced itself onto her red-painted lips; they were like a stain of blood on her powdered face.
"Uchiha-Sama," she spoke in a lilting voice, "they used the caves."
She held out the scroll and he took it from her hand. This would do. He rose to his feet, and his subordinate scrambled to stand up as though he had been knocked over by a heavy blow.
She bowed again and placed her forehead and hands on the floor. "You aren't staying, Uchiha-Sama?" she asked, but when no reply came from him, she spoke again, more sweetly this time, "I shall give the money to Hanakoto-San. Have a safe journey."
She wore his shadow for few moments whilst it got dragged off her body. Finally, it disappeared from upon her, and she raised her head and shoulders, breathing in such a loud sigh as if an impossible burden had been lifted from her body . . .
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