She stands, still and dim at the centre of a circle bathed in blood and moonlight- she's all about the ANBU mask on her face and that twenty inch katana thats screaming retribution. It's screaming retribution, and what now, what the hell had she just done? The metal's singing and wavering, a testament to the stab she made just moments ago, that sent two men crumpling to the ground and her conscience reeling.
It shouldn't be this easy.
It should be harder, she should feel something; but even in her hypersensitive state, even as with overspun nerves she feels the weight of her enemies blood on her face, she is numb.
And its times like these he finds herself thinking of him. She finds it somehow shameful but there is no excuse- she calms herself with memories. He does this- this murder- with ease. She should too. Morals be damned, it's her job, right? Right?
She can almost smell the blood on the breath of the corpses around her- can almost feel the body heat leaving them; before thought is shaken from her at the beckon of the earth, palpitating, a blood-swollen heart beneath her. Footsteps.Bite the thumb, draw the blood across the parchment- its a routine, its a mechanism now. A lifetime later, her second wave of attackers ring the bodies at her feet and with twisted faces, smile under a veiled moon to their defeat.She's severing bonds-cutting marriages short- making orphans- it's a job.
The night is wide open --(like her bloodied lips, panting, like the unblocked kunai to her abdomen-- like a book, she's reading it and everything it holds- the birds in the trees who've forgotten they're there, and the shuffle of feet ten yards to her left as a survivor gets up with the intention to flee;
The mission scroll in her back pocket reminds her that there can be no mercy and there's a whip of iron flying and he's got one between the eyes. Not a survivor anymore, thinks a part of herself she's scared of.
'We're done' – his voice pulls the tears from her eyes, twisted shut in confusion and an emotional overload. They'd said the first mission wouldn't be easy –
But how many have we just killed?
He approaches and sees her thin fingers shaking uncontrollably, and he's thankful for his long sleeves that hide his own trembling hands. There's never any blood for him – stopping hearts is easy, it's quick and never time for him to see their fear; for her its every slash and the spray – he didn't think she'd handle this much.
For the first time after watching her kill, he can not find himself excuses- she fucks with his head, her efficiency. Respect for her skill was a different animal when talent and aim didn't buy her a bloodbath past teartracks. He tries to ignore the little sob that breaks the thin silence of the night- focuses instead on his grip on her hand. It doesn't work; she pulls away like she's been burned- But at least she's stopped herself crying. He doesn't like the sound.
He looks around. How many did she kill?She doesn't think twice about climbing into the piggyback he offers, resting her cheek on his shoulder and giving herself a bit of a mental shake. Her hand's clenched shakily around the loose fabric of the side of his ANBU outfit -- still pristine – hers is all about the blood and burnmarks and little cuts and dirt and sweat.
The wound in her belly stings horribly when he bandages it three hours later-- stitching a cross past her belly button, talked into her living room because the hospital is full. He's gentle, always gentle; Gentle enough to coax a bit of herself back, to chase away a bit of the confusion that comes with creating a graveyard of half a village.
When he gets up she pulls him back down to the carpeted floor fiercely, threatening, 'Don't leave me now or else.'
So he doesn't. She straddles him hard and presses her forehead hard against his chest- He places his arms in a ghosting touch around her shoulders, his chin resting on her head.
'It shouldn't be so easy', she says. He answers by moving so that his back is against the couch, and grabs a blanket that's strewn on top of it to drape it over them.
'As kids, we thought this would be fun. Remember?'
There's really no answer to that. He remembers. He wanted to be stronger – maybe set the Main House right – maybe keep being called the prodigy. Back then anything worth having didn't require murder. She shivers and he clutches her a bit tighter, finding it doesn't matter if they're just friends or he really wants to call her his. Either way, her moments of weakness are his too.