Disclaimer: Naruto is copyrighted to Kishimoto Masashi. I only own this fanfic.
A/N: Double meanings, contradictions and vagueness littered throughout this piece, which is an experiment of insight into the complex workings of Uchiha Itachi's mind. How nothing can mean something. Defeat can be synonymous with victory. I'm no expert on sharks, but I'm quite sure they are not playful…
Anything in Italics means primary, conclusive thoughts.
Koto: Japanese zither
0o-Thanks, Suke-san, for the concrit and a fruitful discussion, resulting in this improved version.:D -o0
Random Muses
Sentimentality is a thing he would never have surmised of his partner.
One of the Seven Legendary Swordsmen would only take off arms and legs of a last relative, instead of swatting the female out of existence. Bored after watching Samehada mow off the second limb of a twitching thing, restless spirit induces him to go for a little stroll. Kisame will catch up later when he is done.
Concentrated damp winds around dingy buildings and attempts to contaminate his clothing, save for its useful thickness that kept out the chill. Peopled places are more tolerable at times like this.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
Like the gray tendrils that meander into his privacy, so does the miserable mewl of… a squalling cat?
Another night that bleeds into the folds of many only brings on another one of several colorless moods. Hence he follows the trail marked out by alert ears, lightly trodden zori easily mistaken for sleepless wind if there were any passers-by. Breathing in leftover pollution of human life speeds up the walk. At this rate, he'll be leaving the village faster than anticipated.
Sharks like toying too much with food.
Nearing the location of this disturbance, moving feet stop. A hill squats like a rounded stump. There is a hazy being at the top, too short and wide along with another structure that points up towards cloudy shadows.
Caution girds his approach. Ascending gently sloping firmness to reach the top, he finds the animal.
An old woman in a nondescript kimono resembling reddish clay and is belted with a neutral-shaded obi sits cross-legged, on short grass cropped close to the scalp of earth. Braced before her knees is an instrument that never fails to remind him of a dual-handed woodcutters' saw. Rectangular, elongated... the well-shaped plank of wood is gated with thin strings, but is not as fine as snowy hairs coating the skull of a shriveled bag of bones.
Listening to the caterwauling wail of a worn koto, irritation is lessened by the sight of the object they face.
Sleek lines determine planed fluidity of this miniature version of a crystalline menhir. Inner walls seem to ripple due to constant ebb and flow of black kanji against an outer covering of flawless translucency. A similar tetrahedral obelisk tops this shimmering, fascinating man-sized object seated in an octagonal pool of shallow water.
"Young man, don't stand anywhere behind my shoulder when I play. It's uncomfortable."
Considering that he is maintaining at least one body-length diagonally away from the old hag, she is absurd. The tune has changed, along with the sentiment.
Having no experience or interest in music, nevertheless he can gauge some facts the way he dissects opponents. Any possible high-pitched youth in that voice is gone; only training and experience maintaining smooth words flowing in song that is not old nor young, male nor female. Her singing is not outstanding, more like one of many faces you see in an everyday crowd melting into a blurry mess. Perhaps it is this… ability to blend in that makes it all stand out in some indefinable way.
Understated melancholia sails through languid air, buoying him along as dark pupils gaze blankly at infinite names carved perpetually into motion.
No threat.
Advancing by three even paces, nearer the marvel but further from the other human, he relaxes in unspoken coolness. It's mutual. No questions asked. No answers volunteered. To enjoy the mood and moment of this respite, very few will understand.
It's a safe bet that Sasuke won't.
Thin lips slacken. He's seen so much; accomplished so many things. The one thing that sparks any life into that weary soul is the anticipated excitement, the challenge of facing a reflection of his infamous potential. The piercing thought makes steely insides quiver with icy glee.
Ah, quivering like wizened old fingers plucking with well-practiced ease at powdery lines.
That weakling has run off to Orochimaru, the sannin whom he knows fears him. Their warm-up duel in Akatsuki established this irrevocable truth. Much good may it do that one, he will need all the help he can get.
But if that one possesses his adolescent body before the younger Uchiha reaches the crucial level, Sasuke can forget about the Mangekyou Sharingan.
The avenger will be as good as dead.
For that student of the third Hokage is a loner as well.
Best friends have no place in the quest for the ultimate echelon of Perfection.
Hm.
Immaculate hands resting on the front of barely creased pants under inky cloth, an impassive face turns towards the elderly woman with cloudy pupils. Blind. That doesn't hinder her control of rhythm and melody, conveying the appropriate amount of emotion along with sufficient masking. Fathomless depth is concealed beneath. Such individuals are to be appreciated.
Overly tanned and wrinkled visage evinces no interest or attempts at getting to know or understand the black-clad stranger, except in maintaining her cocoon of stability and distant self-contentment.
Something akin to pleasure bleaches a combat-hardened spine, inspiring whimsy that is contradictory to a solitary nature. His character detests being pestered, but now he wants to affect this one.
Untouched. Not like the puppet of a little brother.
Bother leaves me displeased. Indifference renders me annoyed. A person who inspires paradoxes, interesting…
Thus he stings.
"Why do this?"
Two fingers pluck strongly around the middle string but leave it untouched. Ceasing to sing but ensuring the lilting atmosphere lingers on, she speaks simply.
"This cenotaph remembers my friends. So I pay tribute to the uselessness of memories. Mercy only degrades one to the pits of withering and dying away into a worthless husk."
She has hit the nail on the head, bringing out a hidden recess of truth.
With hardly anything that is worthy of his focus, having scaled the peaks of utmost talent, it all leaves one wanting. And that causes mindlessly raw, consuming restlessness to coil inwardly around himself, thus creating a vortex that sucks everything in until eventually, there is nothing left. Eventually, it will collapse upon itself and inspire bottomless despair. There will be no nourishment.
Nothing will defeat him.
Eternal hunger for perfection destroys all that it touches.
He was born with it. The second son wasn't. And he despises the weaker one for his diluted ambition.
But that's not the only reason for wiping out family restrictions.
"To die of old age in bed, there is no glory. Or pride. Not when we are only recognized and remembered by humans. Other forms of life don't care."
Straightforward phrases stoke his hidden fear.
Of dying disgracefully.
Forgotten.
Helpless.
Weak.
Alone, on another indistinguishable pallet like countless others. Such is dual-edged irony of the vortex; it empowers yet emasculates Purpose at the same time. Reveling in long-buried emotion makes bittersweet enjoyment even more of an oxymoron.
That is why Sasuke has to slay him.
That is why he warps the heart and mind of one he has shown mercy to.
That is why when they finally clash, the outcome will fill then drain him.
Age-old chaos of emptiness will be averted.
And the stronger warrior would have won and confirmed his control over a brother's soul as absolute.
You consciously follow the path I dictate, and you shall do my subconscious bidding even until the end.
Finally, the last remaining Uchiha will perish in self-prolonged tortuous shame and agony of understanding, which his aniki has chosen to engrave in him. And if his strengthened little brother somehow accomplishes it without possessing the ultimate curse of their bloodline, then he will unwittingly receive that gift through irrefutable brotherly love.
Itachi's victory will be complete.
Sasuke will ensure the glorious legacy of one at the pinnacle of power, who destroyed an outstanding bloodline and shattered countless boundaries. Of the S-class nin who ventures where precious few dare to go.
He is woken out of restful musing by the ending of such a masterful and penetrative piece.
The middle string has snapped.
Tempered feelings, suppressed emotions, compressed desires… bundled into one resounding note. This greatly matured lady is as still as he is. By not seeking to understand, somehow that allows them to comprehend the infallible mystery they are to each other.
Respect links the old woman and young man for a moment.
Time to go.
Whirling around soundlessly, he faces a taller person trudging up the grassy slope at this unearthly hour.
Sharp white teeth flash as Hoshigaki Kisame opens his mouth to speak. He is quieted by his more menacing counterpart raising a finger to pale lips, lone digit hovering like a teasing seal on the sensually secretive curve.
Fair of face and dark of eye, a countenance made older by world-weary lines confounds the puzzled missing-nin of the Hidden Village of the Mist. Grudgingly complying with his younger partner, fog-laden air is not breached by their exit until soupy shadows merge with the duo's presence.
"What were you doing, desperate for company?"
Having traveled alongside this infuriatingly reserved fellow criminal for quite a while, the man with serrated cheeks is somewhat flustered at the queer mood his companion is in. It's obvious, for he rarely smiles. Uneasiness is covered up by inquisitive sarcasm.
"Thanking her."
This is definitely unusual and unnerving. Kisame has no idea of what is transpiring within that imperceptible mind. It's all too confusing, and he doesn't dare to ask anyway.
Slicing side by side through darkened woods like fleeting phantasms, Itachi's features are fixed once more in deliberation, devoid of expression.
In the abyss that constitutes his soul, the smile stays.