A/N: Hey guys. I know. I am well aware I took too long for this to be updated but when inspiration doesn't hit I can't force it. I have to be in a certain state of mind to just relax and write my time away, especially with such a complex story as Sunrise. Please trust I never ever forget I have to finish this story, it's just been busy around here. Anyway, thank you to everyone who has reviewed and followed this story while I was away. I have read every single review, sometimes more than once in order to motivate myself. Truly, I pushed myself with this chapter because of you guys. I'll try to rush this plot along as much as I can without it feeling too rushed lmao.
It's almost this story's 4 year anniversary! Time really does fly. Please brush up on previous chapters as it has been such a long time since I last updated. There's references here from chapters past.
As a side note, someone in the reviews mentioned I should change the summary of the story, and so I did. I'm really bad with summaries (and story titles for that matter). I never know what to put honestly.
At last, and as always, enjoy!
Sakura wakes with the familiar sound of clothes ruffling, and opens her eyes to her husband in the far corner of the room. Standing in front of the mirrors by the door grants her a view of his battle-shaped body from several angles.
Sasuke's dressing is as haste and quick as usual, but always swiftly elegant in the way one would appear a gentle, kind lover with the bloody, guilty hands of a Great Ruler. In the midst of her musings, she drifts her admiring eyes from his backside to his own curious gaze; he knowingly gives her a look behind his shoulder as soon as he finishes putting on the jacket that compliments his kamishimo outfit for the day, keenly—so observant, even as he busies himself with getting dressed before the sun has a chance to show itself over the horizon—aware of her silent rise from slumber.
Sakura's shy, genuine smile beckons him forward, and he isn't able to stop the first few steps toward her tantalizing form: sitting on their large bed, nude, looking at him with a pair of shining, loving eyes. She clutches a handful of black bedsheets and slowly covers her torso with them the closer he gets, and Sasuke mourns the view internally, now stopping his trek only at the foot of the bed. She opens her mouth to finally ask him of his dark intentions, ones she can easily infer will happen as soon as he walks out of the room, but he cuts her short before she can begin.
"I have to go now," he says, then hesitates, and gestures to the room with his chin—lest she gets any adventurous ideas out from under his careful watch. "Wait here. I won't be long."
The words slowly die in her throat as he grabs his two swords and quietly exits the room, the dark, determined glint in his eyes before he finally exits telling her more than his words could ever express.
She feels a sense of foreboding sinking into the pit of her stomach, as she stares at the closed door of their bedroom, and dreads the pain he must inflict, hates the idea that he has to, and prays that the screams don't reach the comfort of her room. Sakura was once raised to fight, the memory of her father teaching her the way of the sword still vivid in her mind, but she has never put those skills to the test. She has never actively battled against anyone, much less killed another. So, understandably, the notion of torturing a defenseless man doesn't sit well with her.
Yet, as she recalls the pain she had felt with the news of his betrayal, of what he had tried to do to her—and succeeded in doing, for all she knows—she knows this road is necessary in order to move forward. Because in more ways than one, and if his plot against them really is true, he truly does deserve all the punishment coming his way. Regardless of all the harmless time spent with the man. Regardless of the years under his tutelage. Regardless of all the favors, all the inside jokes, all the admiration she used to have for him as a knowledgeable healer. None of that matters anymore.
She lost all respect for him the moment Sasuke sat down and told her the man had been purposely making her barren for months.
Now, alone in her room, with no one to watch or judge her, she lowers the bedsheets that had been hiding her body back down to the bed. She takes a deep breath, looks down at herself, and with one hesitant, trembling hand, she covers the lower half of her abdomen. The skin there is soft, cold, and flat. Lifeless.
She gets up and heads for their shared bath, the hand that had been on her skin now long gone from there. It will not do well to dwell on hopeless endeavors any longer.
.
.
.
Sasuke returns after lunch, which she had politely declined from attending down in the dining hall—her nerves on overdrive, her head spinning countless tales and innumerable scenarios—and he gives her an apologetic look as soon as he comes in the room for taking longer than expected.
She turns away from the window and immediately, instinctively tries to find signs of blood with her eyes, but there are no indices of a fight, of the exertion that torture can have on the executioner. He's seldom sweating. He has no visible blood splattered over his clothes. His hair is as tame as it was this morning. He sports no anger in his expression, nor silent rage. There is nothing that shows he has indeed gone to interrogate the healer appointed to the Uchiha.
He looks completely unscathed, glaringly taciturn.
However, she reasons, her husband is an extremely fit warrior who has led many a battle in the past and trains by himself for hours on end every single day, a person with the endurance of a hundred men, so her original suspicions may still be correct in their nature.
Maybe.
The questions still hang in the air, though, one after the other bombarding her head all at once: what has he discovered? And, is Kabuto still alive? Will he interrogate him again? What was the purpose of administering her the infused tea? Are the effects lasting, or does time away from the drug reverse its intended aim? What does he know?
Sakura approaches him and places her hands on his forearms, then his chest.
And when she looks up at him with so much concern and worry, he knows exactly what she's thinking he has done, and he shakes his head a few times in defeat.
"I had other errands around the castle," he explains, and the tension leaves her shoulders and expression all at once. "Changes in the infrastructure of the castle itself; nothing for you to worry about right now."
If she wants to protest at the murky waters he offers her, she doesn't show it. Instead, her entire demeanor screams relief. Relief, but for what? He can't imagine it's for the traitor's momentary wellbeing, more so her husband's own welfare. After what she's been put through, the only plausible deduction he can arrive at is that she's not yet ready for him to face her aggressor. Not yet, at least. The news must still be too fresh, too upsetting, too hurtful.
He does have plans for Kabuto; he can hardly wait to go down to the cells and face his treacherous, deceitful face. But he must secure the castle as best as he can before anything else—sadly, really, but with all these new developments in their lives, it's necessary and of utmost importance for him to make sure that the safety of his wife and his country are secured first and foremost. Then, and only then, will he take care of the matter of the traitor who waits under the castle.
For now, though, he needs to push forward with his other equally pressing matters, which begin with his wife's first training session for the mission she's bound to undertake in a few months' time.
.
.
.
There are a few gardens around the perimeter of the castle. Because of this, instead of being stuck reading a book at the library—which she still does, when the weather tends to turn sour—more often than not she will take the book outside and sit on one of the pretty benches to read under some shade instead.
All the gardens are different and unique in their elements, philosophy, and structure; there's one near the castle's entrance that's more traditional, made of sand and stones and not much else, then another that's decorated with a few still-blooming Sakura trees, which Sasuke installed only a few months ago—and where she has seen him meditate a few times already—and then another lining the border of the pond they're crossing. This one is more effectively hidden from the world as it utilizes trees and shrubs to create an isolated space around it (she used to plant her flowers here, at the start of her marriage to Sasuke, but she has left the practice and, as a result, all the flowers have been neglected enough to essentially disappear).
And then there's Sakura's preferred garden, which ironically, is not the garden that takes after her namesake, but rather the one with an extensive, perfectly-decorated field of lavender flowers: an expansive patch of land on the other side of the bridge, with large, oriental pine trees leaning forward and enclosing the space in an embrace. Sakura loves and frequently finds herself on this part of the castle grounds, specially in the Spring, when everything blooms so fully.
Her husband surrounds the blooming field and leads her to a blanket that has already been laid over the grass, with trays full of food already on top—which she assumes is the work of a castle worker, and not her rather urbane husband—and they sit in front of each other.
Sakura looks down at all the food that separates them, and she raises her gaze up to Sasuke's. Out of all things her husband has done with her, this one, by far, is the most peculiar, surprising event. The thought of them essentially having a picnic at lunchtime makes her want to flush a flaming pink. Such romantic notions have always failed to define her husband, but at its core, it is just that: a lunchtime picnic between the two of them under the shade of an old, pine tree, next to a beautiful field of flowers.
She almost wants to pinch herself to see if she's dreaming. What is the meaning behind this, and why is it happening now?
"Why are we here, Sasuke-kun?" She finally finds her voice and asks, her eyes shifting to look beyond her husband, taking in the beautiful landscape around them.
"We will have lunch here," he offers, one arm hanging off his bent knee in a relaxed position.
Sakura gives him a small smile at the vague answers he is so prone to give her without much more elaboration. Sometimes, she has to push to get any specifics out of him.
"And may I know why it is here?"
A small spark lines his eyes before he answers, the arm that hangs from his knee motioning to the landscape for a second.
"It's a beautiful day," he begins. "Is it so unprecedented for your husband to invite you to lunch outside the castle?"
She gives him a look, and it effectively makes him drop any mirth from his demeanor. She wants to say that it is highly unusual, yes, but that it's also not the actual the reason for this setting.
Sasuke looks away, then, eyes dropping to all the trays laid out in between them, carefully placed with an array of plates that have covers on top to preserve the heat.
When he had left their room this morning with the promise of being brief about his tasks around the castle, he had really, truthfully not expected to take so long. What could have been resolved within thirty minutes had taken over three hours, and he had felt immeasurably guilty for telling his wife to wait for him in the room for so long. So, really, this is a reflection of his guilt, and a silent plea for her forgiveness—though, this, he does not voice.
"Today, you will begin your training," she looks at him, and leans forward to prompt him to explain further. "And you need sustenance if you don't wish to tire easily."
After a few seconds, she leans away again and starts uncovering the plates of food one by one, so Sasuke knows it's safe to assume this answer has been deemed satisfactory for her, at least for now.
If she should feel trepidation for this new side of her life, or feel scared for fear of the unknown, she does not.
Sakura's excited, if anything. She feels the fine hairs on her arms stand, and feels the first signs of adrenaline running through her veins at the prospect of meeting her first teacher; her first mentor for the mission she so wishes to fulfill soon enough. A million thoughts cross her mind then, a million different possibilites coursing through her brain like an unfinished story. Her training, her preparation, her actual mission, meeting the Council, doing right by her country and her husband.
It's five minutes later that she hears her name being called.
"Sakura?" Her husband inquires, concern laced with the tenor of his voice as she keeps staring at her half-eaten rice. In turn, he has already eaten everything on his side of the blanket. "Is the food not to your liking?"
Her eyes snap up to meet his, and she gives him a small, apologetic smile. "Sorry, Sasuke-kun. The food is as exquisite as always."
"Good," he says, a new, determined look in his eyes. "I let go four of my cooks, so I am glad the lack of personnel does not show on the quality of the cuisine."
At this, Sakura raises a delicate brow, surprised at this turn of events.
"Why do such a thing?"
Sasuke looks away and clicks his tongue, then proceeds to continue eating his portion of food, but he otherwise does not show any signs of answering her soon.
The Akimichi clan runs the kitchen—and has been running his family's kitchens since the beginning of the Uchiha Shogunate, as far as she knows—and they are exceptional at what they do. They export and import food, and manage a smaller group of cooks and gatherers outside the family who help in the preparation of every meal at the castle. They feed not only her husband and herself, but also every worker who has to live in the premises.
Sakura assumes he has let go of the four outside cooks who listened to orders from the Akimichi. Now it's only Chōji and his father.
But with what cause? Why would he let go of four of the best cooks in the land of Fire? Why would he understaff their kitchen, and overwork the cooks who now have the entire castle to feed by themselves?
Sakura questions him with her eyes, but when he finally turns his head to regard her with his own, he completely drops the topic.
"Let me know when you are finished. We need to get going."
"But, why-"
"Eat, Sakura," he states, then looks away again.
She drops her gaze to the multiple plates she has around her. She has not finished a single one, but with the heavy atmosphere that is suddenly hanging around them, now she wants to eat less than before.
She feels bad, if only slightly, about leaving this food to waste. Especially now that she knows the situation with the cooks of the castle, so she makes the effort and overlooks this abrupt dark mood in her husband, finishing two small plates and her cup of water in its entirety. It might not be much, but it's better than nothing.
"Ready," she says, her hands on her thighs, her legs folded beneath her.
He has been staring at some far point in the woods all this time, but he immediately turns to her and nods. Then, he turns his head toward the castle and gives the guard standing by the walls a nod too.
They get up and dust off their clothes, then leave just as the guard approaches to pick everything up from the ground and put it away.
Despite Sasuke's cold, odd behaviour after their conversation, she doesn't miss the way he touches the small of her back to guide her along the path that leads to the exit of this particular garden. She doesn't miss this detail from him either—whether he knows of her preference in gardens, she knows not. But this only makes her aware that his cloudy temperament originates from something other than anything she could have done; he's upset, but it's not at her.
They walk outside this garden and into another one—the simplest one, with a small clearing of sand, some rocks and trees lining the edges, and a narrow bridge resting over a small pond at the very end.
And standing on the wooden bridge is a grey-haired man giving them his back, looking down at what she can presumably assume are the Koi fish swimming below the water's surface.
Sasuke doesn't have to announce his presence, for this man senses it before they fully come to a stop at the center of the clearing.
When he turns to look at them, Sakura can't help but notice the peculiarity of his appearance. He looks much older than Sasuke—maybe in his fifties—and wears a black mask that covers the lower half of his face. A black headband draped over his forehead covers his left eye, making his right eye and its surrounding area the only patches of skin visible on his face. It's not particularly uncomfortable to look at, but it is definitely uncommon.
At least, she thinks, his attire is more familiar. He wears a pair of grey, loose trousers, hinged at the ankles much like the ones her husband's prone to wear to his training sessions sometimes, instead of his hakama. A black, loose shirt that's being partly closed by a haori completes the stranger's look, the silk a clear sign that he is of importance in the country.
In turn, Sakura wears a black, simple kimono, custom-cut mid-thigh on each side to allow her legs more movement, with short, tight pants under the material to hide any skin down to her mid-thigh. The wide cloth that hugs her waist is red, the same color of the ribbon that holds the bun on her head in place.
Sasuke, next to her, patiently waits for the man to come meet them in the middle.
Predictably, he starts walking toward them with his hands in the pockets of his loose trousers and the most bored, passive look she has ever seen on anyone. Sakura wonders what he could possibly teach her.
Sasuke nods at him. "Kakashi, good to see some time away has fixed your knack for being late."
Kakashi smiles under his mask, then.
"Don't get used to it, I actually got lost on the path of life, but it led me here for some reason..." He ponders, hand scratching the back of his head before he laughs at himself and stalks closer to them. The action reminds her of a certain blond man for a moment. "Sasuke, good to see you're making the right decisions for once. I was starting to think you were never to introduce me to your lovely wife."
At this, the older man shifts his crinkling eyes to hers, and she offers him a small smile of her own.
Sasuke sighs and gestures to Kakashi with his head.
"Sakura, this is Hatake Kakashi. He used to be my mentor when young, as well as Naruto's. I trust he will teach you proper sword etiquette."
"A pleasure to meet you, lady Uchiha," Kakashi offers, bowing slightly in reverence.
Sakura smiles more genuinely toward him, then, surprised and equally delighted that the legendary man who taught her husband and the Emperor all they know about swordsmanship is the same man who will be teaching her.
Just by being Sasuke's old mentor makes her like him already, and being Naruto's is an added bonus. Sasuke is the strongest person she knows, and he has never lost a battle. If this is not a testament to Kakashi's skills as a mentor, then she has not the idea what could be.
"The pleasure is certainly mine, Kakashi-sensei," she responds, glancing over at Sasuke by her side for a flickering moment. He looks back at her to grant her a reassuring nod, then back at Kakashi.
The man sighs dramatically and places a hand over his chest, looking at Sakura with feigned sadness.
"Oh, my heart. I remember when these little brats would call me that," he says, and Sasuke makes a noise at that. "Those were the times."
"Kakashi, stop fooling around, and begin."
"Fine, fine," he relinquishes, and picks up two wooden swords from the ground, both light and long but thankfully not sharp enough to injure in any way. Kakashi unceremoniously hands her one of them, and she somehow manages to grab it with no problem.
"First, you must learn proper posture to hold a sword. The swords you will be holding will be much heavier than this, and you need make sure that they will not bring you down. You must learn how to move properly, how to take them out of their sheath, how to move your feet with those of your enemies, and how to strike swiftly before you can even think of sparring against anyone for the first time," he explains, and she understands the logic of it all. This is all new to her, however, so some of the requirements do get lost in translation. "When you finally beat me, my work here will be done."
Sasuke stands on the sidelines watching, knowing that, deep in his heart, there is no one else who could teach her the art of the sword better than his own childhood master.
.
.
.
Sakura has never felt so spent before. Never in her life has she sweated so much, the droplets of perspiration running down the sides of her face, the cotton of her kimono sticking to her chest, stomach, and back. Her legs are very strong and holding up pretty well, but her arms are unmistakably shaking by the end of the training session.
The sun is already dipping over the horizon when she's instructed to repeat the same kata sequence she has done ninety-seven times.
She has trained in kata before; she knows the movements, knows the discipline. But doing them with a sword, added to the number of repetitions and the complexity of each and every position only makes it absurd, and unnecessary. However much she wants to complain throughout the ridiculous exercise, and even though she has only known the man for a few hours, she trusts his judgement—and, as wife of the Shogun, she can't be seen as weak in anyone's eyes.
Her husband left after round ten, probably off to tend to important business matters, knowing this would probably take all day.
As it has.
"Once more, lady Uchiha," Kakashi instructs from somewhere behind her. With the way he has been training her, she feels she has known him for years, and already gone through heaven and hell with him. He reserves the privilege, by now, to refer to her more informally.
Sakura pants and, standing straight once more, she points the sword to her right and gets into the first position, her wrist protesting by now.
"You may call me by name, Kakashi-sensei. After all of this, I think we're past that stage."
Her arm shakes when she drops the sword and lifts it again in preparation for the second position. It's almost laughable, really, how she's so incredibly tired from lifting a wooden sword—pitiful, also. She's glad her husband is not present—she's specially glad that he was present only during the first ten rounds, back when she was feeling her most confident and had the most strength—and instead a stranger is watching her make a completely sweaty, stinky fool of herself.
Kakashi never really answers her, just keeps his face stuffed in this small orange book he had taken out after round three, sitting under the shade of an old pine tree. He has been resting there since he'd taught her the kata positions the very first time. She's lucky she has a good memory.
It's round one-hundred.
She's almost done.
He closes the book as soon as she completes her last position and unceremoniously drops to the sand below her, not caring for lady-like manners or formalities. And definitely not caring about the sand sticking to the sweat of her clothes and skin.
She feels completely, utterly drained. She doesn't think she can move a single muscle more than she already has, at least for today.
She stares at the dark blue sky, trying to catch her breath, until a masked face blocks her field of vision.
Kakashi sits on his hunches next to her and looks at her red, exhausted face with a smile that forms wrinkles at the side of his one visible eye.
"This is necessary training for strength, as well as endurance. I am aware someone else is in charge of the endurance part, but it is that vital to battle properly. I am also aware you have never had proper strength training, and so it will take a few weeks to build any muscle at all."
If he's explaining his reasons for the hell he has put her through because he fears she would ask, then he's absolutely right. The rationalized explanation calms her down enough, but she doesn't think she could talk at the moment anyway.
A chill runs down her spine when she registers his last few words.
A few weeks.
"Before you can fight, you must learn how to hold a sword. And if you tire from a wooden sword, you will do no good with a real one," he says, rising again and looking to a spot ahead of him. She's too tired to even turn her head. She could die right here right now and she would be none the wiser.
"I guess someone's here to pick you up already," she hears, her eyes closed as she tries to regulate her frantic heartbeat, her breath still erratic.
She thinks she hears another voice, then Kakashi answering back, but the sound of her heart is too loud in her ears to discern reality from fiction.
She almost doesn't feel the strong arms of someone quite literally picking her up from the ground, only noticing when she decides to open her eyes and sees a pale, familiar neck in her direct line of sight.
Her hands are wrapped around her midsection, and her head is resting on his shoulder.
Sasuke's carrying her back to the castle.
His steps are sure and his strides are long, and Sakura has the strange, fleeting, passing thought that she's in love with him in that exact moment. How comical it is that she finds out for herself at such an inconsequential, unmemorable time.
The forest is dark, Sakura doesn't remember saying goodbye to Kakashi at all, but now the forest is dark, and cold, and she has calmed down enough to feel the breeze blowing through her dress. Her husband is always breathing a limitless fire, always a source of infinite warmth, like a never-ending bonfire, like a battle-born, tormented dragon.
She instinctively snuggles into him, closer to his body, her nose now touching the soft skin of his neck. It flexes when he swallows and looks down at her for a second, and she has the strange urge to cry when his hands tighten around her and bring her closer, almost protectively. He probably doesn't even realise the reflex.
He steps into the castle and they move past the maids and the guards, all of them looking discreetly but not saying a word. Sakura steals a glance over Sasuke's shoulder as he ascends the stairs, and catches two maids smiling at each other and cooing in whispers over the tenderness of it all.
He somehow opens their door with no trouble, and she has enough of a conscience to stop him from laying her down on their bed; as good as the thought sounds in her head right now, she's so dirty it would be a crime to sit upon those sheets before she takes a proper bath.
"No, wait-" she breathes, tugging on the collar of his shirt for him to stop. He effectively halts a few steps before reaching the bed. "You may let me down now."
Sasuke slowly eases her on her wobbling feet, steading her with his hands on her waist when she falters slightly.
She chuckles to herself, holding on to him in equal earnest.
"Sorry, I probably look unrecognizable right now, I am not feeling like myself. Allow me to call for a bath."
She lets go of him, but he doesn't.
"You have done enough, let me," he says, then doesn't wait for her reply and walks briskly out of their room.
Sakura's left in the middle of the room staring at the empty space where he used to be.
With a sigh, she accepts his help and drags her tired feet toward the bathroom, deciding she can light up the candles on the walls, at least. With her slow pace, she lights up the last candle in the circular room in just enough time to watch as five maids enter the bathroom with double the buckets full of warm water. One after the other, they let all the water fall down into the large wooden barrel in the middle of the bathroom. They leave immediately after, and Sakura watches Sasuke's silhouette from his place by the door of their bedroom, patiently waiting for the same maids to come back with the second round of warm water.
The maids come and go again, and now that they have filled the bath a little over halfway, she knows they won't be back and that the bath is ready for her, yet she continues to watch the shadow of her tall, impending husband. Even tired out of her mind, body, and soul, arms shaking and legs wasted, she still finds him as delectable and mesmerizing as always. Such a handsome, ridiculously attractive man. It really is not her fault; surely, any woman in her right mind would appreciate such a sight as well.
Sakura looks away and turns when Sasuke closes their bedroom door and enters the bathroom, sparing her a brief glance and moving toward the bath to check on the state of the water—there is steam floating up from the water as clear as day, but he still takes the time to make sure.
The idea of a hot bath sounds too appealing to Sakura for her to just stand idly aside. As quickly as she can, she undoes the thick belt around her waist and slides her kimono off, then reaches above her head and takes off the multiple pins that hold her (now messy, out of place) bun atop her head, as well as the red ribbon. Her straight, pastel hair falls past her shoulders in soft waves and touches her waist in a caress, and she sighs in relief at the release of pressure from atop her head.
When he finally deems the bath acceptable and turns to fetch her, he hesitates in his step when he sees that she's already by the door, completely nude, looking at him with a tired, but always enchanting—always radiant—smile on her lips. She's still sweaty, her face is still an exhausted red, she has sand and dirt sticking to her body and face in different places, and her legs are shaking from exertion when she moves, but she still looks so fucking beautiful. He would most certainly never tire from the tempting sight of her.
She walks toward him and he holds her hand as she gets inside the barrel. She almost moans when she sinks into the warm, therapeutic waters, her muscles instantly relaxing at the needed feeling.
She smiles and sinks all the way down, coming back up a second later, her hands pushing her wet hair away from her face and the water away from her eyes.
When she looks to her right, Sasuke's still there, looking down at her with something that could be mistaken for adoration; so tender, so pure, that maybe it is just that. She doesn't know for sure, and she doesn't want to push it with any of her idealistic notions, but it looks so real that she fears blinking could wish it away.
She takes this moment to express her gratitude at him for carrying her here, for taking care of her even as she probably looks her worse.
"Thank you, Sasuke-kun," she whispers, looking up at him in the dimness of the room. "You didn't have to carry me all the way here or draw a bath for me, so, um... thank you, truly."
Sasuke stares at her for the better part of ten seconds with no indication of any acknowledgement. After what seems like a lifetime, he bends down enough to plant a simple, lingering kiss on her forehead, a hand on the back of her head.
"I will be outside," he says.
"And then, shall we eat dinner?" Sakura chirps, feeling a burst of hunger after such arduous training.
"Anything."
Anything you want.
She smiles even after he's gone. Despite the positive developments in their relationship, this will be one of the very few times they eat dinner together.
.
.
.
After a pleasant dinner and after they have long retired to their room for the night, long after she has fallen asleep next to her husband, hand hanging loosely around her waist, the nightmares begin.
It starts with a gasp, then soft whimpers, but what finally wakes her up with a start are the screams.
She remembers the first year being married to Sasuke; how the nights were filled with the same horrors for the first few months following his older brother's death, and their bed was empty most often than not, for he always decided to clear his head after a particularly rough dream with unrelenting, intense training in the forest. Sometimes, she recalls with clarity, she would not see him at night for days.
The memories only brought her sadness then, and they do the same now. The image of her beloved thrashing, sweating, and screaming his agony into the pillows had not felt as personal to her at the beginning of their marriage as it does right now, four years in, though. Back then, only months into their marriage, she hadn't known him at all, and while the occurrences had sparked a gentle, understanding kind of empathy for this man she had barely just met and, at the same time, been eternally tied to, they had not hit as close to the heart as it does now.
Sakura turns on the bed and faces his restless form, not seeing anything other than the shadow of her husband hunched over himself on his side of the mattress. The image of his shaking form makes her chest constrict in pain, the breath hitch in her throat. An unmeasurable sense of dread and urgency fill her in that moment, and she moves closer to him without thinking it twice over in her head.
The second half of the first year had been plagued with unspeakably horrible dreams, and while the second and third years had not lacked the same night terrors, they had been more few and far in between. This year, she has not once been woken by the same screams, the same trembling, the same fright. Not until this moment, that is.
Sakura carefully holds him, brings his head close to her chest, and moves her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. The first time she had ever done this same thing, he had pushed her away. Now, though, he leans closer into her embrace, and when he wakes up from his dark dream, he drapes his arms around her body tightly, face buried between her breasts, the white silk of her nightgown a comfort against his tear-stricken face.
If she ever wants to ask about his dreams, she never actually does, and he's thankful for it. Especially this time around.
Where his dreams are usually plagued with images of that night, of his family's demise, and of his brother's death—disappearance, he wants to tell himself, but he knows it's not true—this is the first time his horrors have manifested themselves in the form of his precious, beautiful, innocent wife.
The stench of death had permeated his senses all throughout, and for what had seemed like hours, he had watched her burn. Burn to a crisp, over and over, at the hands of all the faceless men who have been conspiring against his ruling; who want to see his family's name disappear from all existence.
Still shaken from the images of her burning body and the ear-piercing sounds of her screams, he holds her closer and visibly shakes. It had all felt so painstakingly real, and he had been bound, held back, and unable to stop them from lighting her body on fire. She had been so close to him, just a few steps away, just enough for him to notice every single detail, but enough for him to be unable to reach her.
Fire is how the rest of his clan disappeared—with the exception of Itachi—and it is not the way she will leave him. He silently bows to the night to never allow any harm to befall her. He prays to the moon, and eventually succumbs to a dreamless sleep minutes later, the gentle caress over his hair as effective as his mother's old lullabies.
.
.
.
"Deidara," he motions forward, the smoke in the room coming from heavy incense burning making it almost impossible to make out anything. But his eyes are observant, keen, and he finds him sitting on a large, carefully-crafted chair at the far end of the luxurious room.
He bows down on one knee, head low, and the man speaks again.
"What could not possibly wait?"
Deidara wisely chooses to keep his head low, but he does notice several armed, masked men standing at the sidelines, protectively surrounding their boss.
"My lord, I bring urgent news from castle Uchiha. Yakushi Kabuto has been apprehended and is being held captive in the dungeons of the castle. His entire plan has been revealed to the Shogun."
A dry chuckle escapes the man in front of him.
"Seems like Orochimaru's pet was useless after all..." His hand leaves the armrest, then he lets it suspend in the air. Deidara briefly glances at this, and watches as a petite woman practically sprints to him and deposits a glass filled with wine in his awaiting hand. "But that snake never wants to listen to my wise word."
He takes a sip.
"And what, pray tell, has young Sasuke done to the fool of Kabuto?"
"Nothing yet, my lord. He awaits punishment," Deidara answers.
"Very unlike him to ignore his most impulsive desires."
He lifts the glass, and the small woman rushes toward him again and promptly takes it away.
"Get up."
Deidara does as told, and lifts his gaze up to look at him.
Normally, he's not one to follow leaders and adhere to the rules, but this cause is far too great for him to give in to his rather childish, explosive nature.
He watches as he adjusts himself on his regal chair and, with a chill running down his spine, detects a vicious, sinister smile creep up over his lips. His eyes shine danger.
"Prepare my carriage, Deidara. It's about time I pay a visit to that cunning serpent."
As Deidara bows and starts to walk away, he feels a rush of adrenaline course through his body. A similar smile mimics that of his leader's, as dark and as excited for what is to come.
The end is near, yes. He can feel it.
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.
.
There is a quiet kind of admiration in the moment she opens her eyes on her side of the bed and gazes directly at the only window in the room, tall enough to let her glimpse at the tell-tale signs of a sunny, but windy day—if only by feeling entranced by the soft but persistent dance of the several Beech trees that line most of the castle's forest, or the passing of the clouds on the still-twilight sky.
The gentle breeze gives way to gardens that are crafted beyond perfection, the white, paper curtains moving in small ripples before her eyes; and in this, Sakura finds solace.
In contrast with the previous thunderous night, she doesn't hear a single bird chirping this morning, or any sounds from the castle's workers starting their day on the floor below. Although the sun has not risen yet, she knows everyone awakens before a single ray of sun has a chance to peak over the horizon.
Sakura hears absolutely no bustling or commotion from below, however. It is her body under the warm covers, her breath coming out in slow puffs of air, and the serenity of a beginning caressing her softly.
And Sasuke.
Thankfully, the arm which decides to envelop her from behind does not snap her from the bewitched state she's in; if anything, it compels her further into this rare hole of self-fulfillment. And when a large, calloused hand begins to follow the clothed curve of her hip, then ghosts over her waist, and finally rests upon her breast, she doesn't turn, or protest, or comment on the action.
She only sighs in anticipation, feeling as the same hand is now moving downward again, on a different path than before; gracing over her ribcage, the tautness of her stomach, the familiar lines over the thin material of her gown that lead to the space between her legs.
Sakura's eyes close as she feels the same hand opening her with expert ease, ripping her apart, making her see flashes of vivid colour under closed eyelids. Just by moving one finger along her sensitive skin, this man is able to bring her the most pleasure she has ever felt in her short existence—needless to say, the sensations are only intensified the more he touches with his hands, his mouth, with those scorching hot, piercing eyes of his.
This is not what she had felt during their first few times, and it is also not what she had read in the books leading up to her ceremonial wedding night, as those were more formal and impersonal than anything else, but she's infinitely glad this is what she feels now—what he makes her feel now.
She opens her legs further while still being sideways and adjusts her position, her back now flat against her husband's lean chest and one leg hooked on her arm, for the man she loves—the man she's bound to love forever.
The silence of the morning and its simplicity stretches to this equally quiet moment; an instance so intimate and raw, and something that definitely doesn't usually fit into Sasuke's hectic schedule as Shogun. Their lovemaking has always been sporadic and few in between—the times they have truly taken their time to explore, to please generously and with patience—and they have always preferred the fast, quick pleasures in between his meetings and missions.
This, though, this is better than any detached, fast-paced, rough encounter, and she dares not question the workings of the universe.
She treasures this man and his kindness as he takes advantage of their position and dips one finger inside of her, filling her just enough to feel a sense of bliss unlike any other, but not enough. Not nearly as enough as when he's inside her, driving into her with raw, slow, blinding abandon.
Sakura doesn't voice this, and she does not speak in fear of breaking the quiet that has been present for far too long now. But she does reach behind her with one hand, and she does grab him without a single word; Sasuke hisses behind her ear, already almost painfully hard, planting a kiss on the side of her neck while she coats him with her obvious desire.
The moment she finally lets him sink into her, she closes her eyes at the absolute rapture washing over her entire body, like a jolt of electricity running down her every pore as he bites into her shoulder—softly, but with enough force to leave a temporary mark. His left hand clenches over her left hip as it leans into the mattress, and his right arm ghosts over the faint dip of her waist.
He moves out of her slowly, only to drive into her with just as much restraint all the way. The fashion in which her warmth encases him makes him hesitate for a second before he's moving his fingers between her legs again, this time much faster.
And yet he continues to fuck her slowly, so slowly he thinks it more of a torture than anything else—but what a sweet, heavenly torture it is. He loves driving in her hard and making her peak even harder, but he's, without a doubt, nearly on the verge of insanity each and every time he makes love to her.
Soon enough, she cries out and whimpers against him, her legs shaking as she climbs toward her limit and he touches her right there.
She hates herself a little for breaking the so-revered silence, but as he moves his fingers quickly and his hips slowly, she doesn't find it in herself to care or feel the need to mourn such a loss of a perfectly good moment. She decides to, instead, lose herself in the movements of his body, thanking every entity in the sky for gifting her husband the title of God himself.
She's so close she has turned into a weak heap of please, please, I'm so close, and trembling limbs as she tries to hold on to anything. Anything ends up being her husband's hair with one hand over her head and the bedsheets next to her with the other.
But then he stops, and she whines at the sudden emptiness she feels without him. She's about to question him when he whispers that he's close, too close, and therefore must finish outside of her.
But she won't have it, because in this moment, in this position, on this bed, with this precious-like serenity stretching on for an indefinite amount of time, she knows it will not make a difference if he spills his seed inside her or not; she can't know for sure if it truly matters or not, but she doesn't bother with the morality of it all right now. As far as she's concerned, she has lost all hope about that aspect of their marriage anyway.
So she slides her hips down and sighs at the friction and, when he finally gives in and starts moving inside her once more (this time faster, rougher), she moans at him to come inside her, that she wants to feel him inside, all of him.
Her undoing is sweet and it comes crashing down on her in big waves, making her arch her back against him, a pleasured cry escaping her lips at the peak of their act. It's only accentuated by the sounds behind her, the animalistic thrusts from her husband before he stills, a pained groan leaving his lips as he spills himself inside her walls in a series of hot bursts.
Their breaths are laboured for a few more seconds where they rest in the aftermath, and then Sakura turns her body around, her small breasts pushing against his chest and one hand moving over his unruly locks of hair.
She looks into his dark eyes and offers him a small smile, happy, content, as she bends down and kisses him on the lips. An almost innocent touch in comparison to what they had just done, but so much more vulnerable. So much more valuable to her.
Sasuke returns the kiss for a few seconds, then flips her on her back, towering over her lithe, spent form, revering in the thin sheet of sweat covering her beautiful body. She makes a snide remark on his insatiable appetite, and he feels the unfamiliarity of a fond smile molding the corners of his lips when she laughs against their kiss. Such a carefree, feminine sound, and one he's not prone to get out of her often.
The horrid dream he'd had the night before is completely pushed to the back of his mind as he looks down at her and, in that moment, he wishes he could fill her with the same kind of happiness for the remainder of his days.