Rated M for language and later content
GLORY
ante
Northern Uchiha Kingdom, Fire Country
May 1308
The world tilts on its axis. There's a rush; stark inhales, deep exhales, silence broken by the way the earth trembles and the sky shatters.
Red and white on navy blue—banners that ripple roughly in a wind that doesn't exist. Trumpets had hollered and the heralds long placed the Prince's decree but it echoes. Bad tidings premonitioning disaster.
They are unmoving in their inconel armor—a dark, rich steely grey made of nickel and chromium meant to ward off the Uchiha's greatest weapon: fire. Their pointed, hawk-like helmets hide their eyes but reveal their lower faces, lips pinched flat and slightly downturned.
They're cold statues, a mockery of the soldiers that are meant to protect.
And in the aftermath of their announcement, when the overarching pitch finally clicks back into place, the universe is in motion again but the song is distorted.
There's a wail somewhere to the left—a heavily pregnant woman in pure despair and her husband not far behind. Three children press themselves tightly together to protect an old, gifted tossing ball emblazoned with a white circlet, quivering lips and wet eyes glancing at one another in hopes of conveying solidarity. Siblings back into an empty home, terrified.
It's everywhere: sorrow, fear. Loss. It's everywhere like a fog, thick and oppressive, unknown and horrible. Where will their lives go without the person who ensures their safety and happiness?
One elderly woman steps up to a guard and he breathes shallowly, sweating. He's new, nothing like the hardened men at his sides, so when his eyes slide down to take in the small, trembling thing, his lips part to inhale. He forgets to be his armor.
"Please," she says softly. Her fragile hands, spotted with age, offer a pretty little bag with a pattern, small enough to fit in his palm. "Please give this to the Lady. It is her Highness' favorite."
She smiles kindly and curls the bag into his fingers, of which had been clenched tight until her touch unraveled it. Her head ducks in a slight bow, far enough to give respect but to also save her poor back the ache.
Then she turns away, retires to her house across the square with an air of defeated acceptance about her. She's old; she will not make it past two winters and he knows.
It's what makes his forearm shake again, more with the effort to keep it still.
He knows the Lady, remembers his very last day as a measly squire-in-training and his very first as a full-fledged steel cavalier. She was the one to swear his batch in, knighting them with a broadsword that he wouldn't have believed her capable of carrying had she not done so right in front of them with pure, unassuming ease.
His introductory assignment to the new lifestyle had been to appear as her guard that night.
There was no one else—just him and her. Not even the King Apparent had been there but he was wise enough to keep that from leaving his tongue. He stood just barely to the side while she had tea in the library. With hair the color of ballet slippers and eyes a shade of shamrock, she smiled warmly at him and offered a seat beside her.
So he understands all these people, that old woman more than anyone else in this castle, more than his own Lord. His palm sweats but it makes the weight all the more real, and the news that he'd announced with the other heralds all the more damning.
When the soldiers fold back and assimilate into the castle walls, he is the first to fling off his helmet and struggle with an inhale. He's sweating, clutching onto the little pouch for dear life because the way the town burdens the air with deep, deep sorrow pulls at his lungs.
And that little old woman who will not make it two winters—she sits heavily in his mind and it's hard to see straight.
"What the hell is this?"
Someone rips the pouch out of his hand and the breath leaves his body, wide-eyed and searching for the culprit with the raw need to take back what was stolen. His stare settles on the rounded, pudgy face of a squire that doesn't belong in the cavalier chambers.
The large young man peers at the package, sniffing and scrunching his nose when herbal smells meet him. "These drugs, ey?" his unpleasant voice gurgles. "Where the hell ya get this? From that old hag, ey?—she likes to give out some good shit if you bother her enough."
The old woman. The poor old woman. She won't see a second snowfall.
That doesn't belong to you, he wants to say. You're mishandling Her Majesty's belongings.
But he's new and the pudgy asshole is two years more experienced and wider than he is tall.
"Dokan! What are you doing?"
Both young men flinch and the surrounding few soldiers attempt to avert their eyes, afraid of being seen as involved. Dokan regains the balls to scowl almost righteously, blabbering about how this little twit's sneaking in drugs.
The duo, two men with low rankings but seniority over the fledglings, purse their lips and gaze at the offending pouch. "It's from Grandmother Ikanago," one says softly, recognizing the little patterns on the bag's lip. He averts his eyes to his companion. "Komugi, it's for the Lady."
Dokan looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole after hearing those words, face twisting into the ugly mug of a dog smelling something rank. He looks close to wanting to throw it but risks further tainting a gift for the Lady of the Kingdom.
Luckily, the young cavalier snatches it back into his sweaty grip, holding onto it like a lifeline. The one named Komugi looks at him, surprised.
"Soldier," the man calls to attention, but it lacks the steeliness of a true command. "State your name and why you have this."
"Doshu," he whispers. "Doshu Goetsu." He inhales softly, missing the two men exchanging a gentled look. "Grandmother Ikanago asked me to deliver this to Her Highness." And he will do it because she won't live long enough to see to it herself and Her Majesty won't be around long enough to take it.
"Sugarbush blueberry, a desert favorite."
A new voice, cotton wrapped around polished steel, drawls. It's enough to have the blood drain from Dokan's face and for the remaining soldiers to duck their heads in pure, cold dread. Doshu does the same, tucking his chin to his chest and breathing shallowly.
"Lady Sakura has been waiting dearly for a batch." There's a fond note there, double edged. Unfortunately for Dokan, this person loves his ruler.
"Commander," the first man murmurs, awe in his tone. "What are you doing here?"
"Hm. Got lost, I suppose."
Fingers fall onto the tea-bearing knight's head, big and warm and almost paternal. It moves, ruffling his hair. The poor, barely-out-of-a-boy chances a look up and swallows thickly in a combination of incredulity and fear.
Commander White Fang stands before him, covered in exquisite leather, lavish silks, and the silver emblems of the noble class. The hand on his head has killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people, introduced full armies to their graves and taken out quarters of opposing forces—such a thought has Doshu's knees quivering. Whether it's out of excitement or terror is a toss-up.
"That's for the Lady, isn't it?" he asks kindly, eyes crinkling. Doshu is enamored by the scar that lines one of them, amazed that such a rugged feature on his face and the mask hiding his lips do nothing to hinder the gentleness that he can convey. "I'm grabbing a few men for the evening guard. Come with me; you'll have the chance to give that to her."
His heart swoops in his throat. Lady Uchiha is an enigma that he's only seen from afar and interacted with once in his life. She's an impossibility at the same time that she's an inspiration and his mouth parts, choking on what he hopes is a respectful declination because please, god no, he can barely keep himself together, but Kakashi turns around cheerily.
"Dokan, was it?"
Doshu had almost forgotten the pudgy boy that's been inching away.
"What is a squire doing in the cavalier chambers?"
The air is frosty and Kakashi's smile remains much the same. Terrified, Doshu breaks into a visible sweat, searching desperately for an answer for the man that is only a mere level beneath the throne in status. He babbles; Kakashi doesn't really care.
"That wasn't an invitation for you to start making excuses," he says, deceptively bright. Dokan's mouth snaps shut, jaw audibly clacking. "For entering a place outside of your clearance, for tampering with Her Majesty's belongings, and for antagonizing your fellow guardsmen, you will be on stable duty for six months."
"But—"
Doshu, in the haze of pure astonishment at the entire situation, has enough mind to cringe sharply at the idiot's declaration. Kakashi looks downright menacing with such a blank, hidden grin.
"And you are not permitted to attempt entering knighthood for a year." He claps his hands together. "Clear?" There is no room for argument; daring to try for one can result in many things, including a head on a pyre.
"C-Crystal."
"Good." His eyes open, unwind, and Doshu watches in awe at how the sleek Commander unfurls like a panther with a single stare. He's lethal, his mind screams. Dangerously lethal. "Get out of my sight, squire."
Dokan bolts as quickly as his thick legs can carry him, but before Doshu is able to inhale, onyx eyes glance his way and he nearly chokes in surprise.
"This is Doshu," Komugi inputs helpfully to his superior. "Doshu, this is Commander and Royal Advisor Kakashi Hatake."
The young man is uncertain about what to do following the introduction; does he shake his hand? Stutter? Grovel? Touching such a living legend feels almost scandalous so he settles for a waist-deep bow, scrambling to fold, ears reddening when he hears Kakashi's amused chuckle.
"No need for that, Knight."
He pats his head again; Doshu stands, embarrassed, holding the pouch like an anchor. He's been new for only two weeks and already his life is spinning.
"You, Komugi, Gennai, come with me."
He bids the other knights sharing these dorms with a wave and heads out, just slightly slouched but somehow still imposing all the same. Doshu thinks of a wolf in sheep's clothing, deceptive and forever ready.
They twine around the chambers, Kakashi making small talk with the two awed soldiers flanking him. The little, newly-minted cavalier stumbles closely behind, dizzy with the changes, dizzy with the route of his life.
Closer to the dining hall, Kakashi is intercepted by a tall, lithe man wearing jet black leathers and cobalt-colored sashes. Silver decorates his ensemble and Doshu swallows; coming so close to so many of the upper class is making him anxious.
The newcomer is built like a falcon, lean but not too broad with hands that are so steady, they must be skilled to be that confident. His features are sharp yet soft, masculine with a touch of grace, and Doshu realizes that this pale man resembles his Lord greatly.
Komugi and Gennai fall back, almost tucking their chins and holding their breaths when the pale man—"Sai," Kakashi addresses him—captures the Commander's attention. They talk briefly, faces unmoving, before Sai relinquishes a little package wrapped in red satin.
"Come along," the White Fang says when the pale man all but disappears in the space of four blinks.
They follow and appear where the Lord and Lady are having supper. Beyond the threshold, Kakashi signals for the trio to fan out, stationed along the round room while he ducks down to speak to the prince.
Doshu takes in the two opposing forces at the dining table. At one end sits mighty Lord Uchiha, a tall, terrifying thing. He's like the swords crafted by blacksmiths—finely built with deadly grace. Devastatingly handsome and coldly brutal, the prince quarters his steak with precision borne from handling all manners of sharp objects. His eyes, darker and harder than obsidian, gaze on with a sort of frustrated indifference that only those with power could wield.
Conversely, Lady Uchiha is a stunning, deceptive thing. On the opposite end, she's the only real spot of color in this palace dotted with white, black, red, navy. Like springtime in a bottle, she eats her food gracefully, carefully, but there's something new there that Doshu's not familiar with, something calculating and equally scary. She matches her husband, ice for ice, and cuts the meat on her plate with similar skill.
Lord Uchiha nods to something Kakashi says and it must tell greatly about their closeness when the Commander pats Sasuke's shoulder with equal geniality and gets away with it. Doshu thinks just touching the man might cause his core temperature to drastically drop.
Then Kakashi turns on his heel, shares a warm smile with the Queen Apparent, and makes to exit.
At the entryway is where he pauses so briefly, most people might've missed it. It's because the Lord has gone to pick up his wine, absently taking a sip and saying, "You have seven days to prepare."
Doshu goes cold. He forgot; these two are divorcing.
Lady Uchiha doesn't miss a single step though, doesn't falter or change. She picks up her glass filled with a drink colored like blood and presents it in mock toast. "I can do it in two."
Komugi and Gennai fork off with Lord Uchiha, following him to wherever he goes but Doshu's route is different. He's assigned to the Lady and when he stands nervously by the hall windows waiting for her, she greets him with a smile that makes him feel like a flower facing the sun.
Melting underneath her gentleness, he follows when she tilts her head in invitation and recognizes their path: the library. Between the great pages of history does she settle against her favorite chair, at a table that has an open spot for him. He gasps and refuses out of instinct but she insists so he sits gingerly in the extra seat and stiffly looks ahead.
While nervously running his hands down his thighs, he remembers the gift in his possession.
"Y-Your Highness," he calls softly, averting eyes when the pretty woman in emerald looks to him. Hands clutch tightly to the pouch before presenting it. "I um, I was told to give this to you. From Grandmother Ikanago."
Her gaze is like a torchlight, fond and precious while taking the proffered package. She touches the patterns on its lip, caresses the charm on its rope. "Grandmother Ikanago, hm?"
"Yes," he says almost breathlessly, the situation somehow delicate. He doesn't know how to place the somewhat sullen look on her face. "She asked me to deliver earlier."
"Thank you." Undoing the drawstring, she inhales the herbs softly and smiles, almost sad. "Do you know what this is?"
"Sugarbush blueberry," he recites immediately, then blushes when she laughs in delighted surprise. "C-Commander Hatake mentioned the name. He said it's your favorite."
"That old man." Her tone is long-suffering but with no bite. They must also be close. "He's right. The desert soil is dry, alkaline, and blueberries prefer acidic environments." She pats the pouch fondly. "This is specially grown. It's a brew made only in Suna. Grandmother Ikanago is a friend of my mother's, and they too have a friend out in the deserts: the great herbalist, Countess Chiyo." Setting the pouch to the side, she asks him, "Would you like to try a cup tomorrow?"
He refrains from telling her that she's packing tomorrow, that she made a daring promise to be gone within forty-eight hours. Instead, he indulges the both of them and nods gratefully.
"Wonderful. And actually, if you would be so kind." Thunder green eyes smile at him in secret. "I have gifts for Grandmother Ikanago. I'll ask Kakashi to bring you with him the next time he's in town. Would you deliver them to her?"
He thinks of the sorrowed expression on the woman's face, the age spots on her hands. She will not make it two winters but this is good. Then he thinks of the light that might change her sad expression if he appears on her wooden doorstep with gifts. At least she will have two winters' worth of the Lady's warmth.
"Yes," he says.
Outside of the Northern Uchiha Castle, Fire Country
May 1308
It's the fickle but pure-hearted who hang onto the words of fairytales and fiction. Hope breeds a culture for the people—it's almost what makes up the Will of Fire that this country and its villages and crowns are known for: passion.
This is why the crowns are so intense and aggressive, why the people are so devoted and vivacious, and why divorce is socially frowned upon. Passion equates the summation of both vicious hate and fierce love. The former creates Fire Country's powerful military might. The latter is why marriage is considered sacred.
But in many, many cases, love is not enough to keep two people together. Love can be the foundation and the basis, but if it's not the fuel, then it's firewood: it burns hot but fast and leaves ash in its wake.
Love, like hate, must be a constant—an ever present factor in the equation of passion. In many cases, it does not come first and foremost in a relationship, but second. Sometimes third, fourth, tenth, fiftieth. Sometimes last.
Sometimes never.
For the Royal Court, the faces of this country, love is a negligible outlier. How funny that the people may think they are followers to a crown, but noblemen are nothing more than cattle following the herd? They thrive on fleeting, matchstick passion rather than the long, slow burn of a forest fire—which would you choose? Hot and quick? Or warm and everlasting?
Noblemen were the most fickle, for they liked to tangle the two and pick the first, thinking they're choosing the second.
This is something that Lady Uchiha—no, Lady Haruno—ponders on two days following that particular dinner, beside a line of carriages that stand parallel to the road leading away from the Uchiha castle. This thought festers in the back of her head as she peers through the lace fringe of her periwinkle Victorian hat, critically appraising the servants moving her belongings around.
As a matter of fact, she thinks, love might've never made an appearance at all.
Tucking away a stray lock of hair, she has enough presence of mind to realize it's a sad thought. What a way to devolve—for a woman so light and optimistic, the glass has never looked more half empty.
She glances to the right.
Then focuses forward again, avoiding how her rebellious and hurt mind claws out of the little box she's stuffed it into. It's an ugly thing to look at, even uglier when she recognizes the face it bears. Hers.
"You're a busy man," she says, ignoring how he barely regards her. "There's no point in being here when you have important matters."
"You are an important matter," he replies, and she hates the way his pretty words make her insides writhe. "Divorcing changes things."
She resists the urge to sigh. Ah, ever-professional.
"I've already spoken to our—your—lawmen and the pastors and the Council." Her focus flickers at a boy struggling with a heavier set of luggage, valiantly rescued by another servant. Together they balance the big box and load it onto the vehicle. "Our marriage is annulled and all that is yours is yours except what you have given me."
She's spent a long night struggling with the sensation of giving up and giving in. The defeat—though not necessarily defeat, tastes chalky and dry on her tongue.
I must be a masochist, she wonders, loving a man more gone than present.
Long ago, she married a stranger that slowly became a person she could care for, maybe even love. Long ago, she thinks she might have seen it in his eyes too—the way they consummated their young marriage, the way he'd gazed at her in awe, the way he kissed her swollen lips, the way he ran his fingers through her hair at the end of their tender nights.
But one day, it changed. The Council and their selfish ways, selfish words. Her remembering what she's there for, what she stands for.
Their families, Uchiha and Senju, were the ones to fight in the Warring Era, the ones who founded Konoha and created this land but in the beginning, they had been enemies. The Council reminds her of this often.
"Despite you being wedded to our prince," one of them would say, "you are still Senju blood. The cosmos write us enemies. You are still not ours."
So she steeled her heart and reminded herself that she's here for the people, not the marriage. She would do what she set out to do: aid the helpless, mend the broken, save their souls.
Sakura and Sasuke's mornings were different thereafter. She changed, and he picked up the hint. She was distant, so he matched the miles. They would end as they began: as strangers.
"Good."
Pursing her lips in a manner she was sure he can't see, she folds her hands together at her lower abdomen, thoughtful.
Worry swims in the pit of her gut at the many things she'll be leaving behind. Before she departs, she needs to know that Sasuke will be okay, that this village will be safe.
"Sasuke."
He freezes instantaneously, for she never calls him by his first name unless they're in their chambers together, alone with only candlelight and the stars as company. If she notices his stillness, she doesn't comment.
He inhales softly, reminded of who he is speaking to—of the history they share.
The day he'd gained her hand, under the scrutinizing stare of the Uchiha Council, did two sixteen-year-old strangers exchange meaningless, binding vows. This would tie her kingdom to his, and though at twenty-five, they're supposed to achieve royal ascension, true King and Queen titles at the hands of their combined Council in a show of power, their marriage is ending two years short.
It's funny—long ago, there'd been hopes of Something More. As a woman of the court, she'd likely been bred to be the bearer of children and wife to a man, and yet she was nothing less than the most aggravating, irritating, fascinating girl he'd ever met. She'd come to him, three days after arriving to his castle and two before their wedding, brilliant eyes narrowed and speckled gold in the lowlight.
"You may not love me," she'd said on a breath, "and I may not love you. But what comes of this marriage is beyond us. For them, we will endure."
It hadn't been remotely insulting to be thought of as a business transaction, but he supposed that really was what this marriage was meant to be. They would evenly divide their responsibilities—he as protection, she as cultivation. Him on the horizon, her at the homefront. And they would grow old, grey, and she would continue pushing and prodding him and he would secretly be fond of her company, and their crowns would pass down their lineage.
Because yes, gazing at her, sixteen years young on the night they consummated their marriage and every following, similar encounter, he'd been enraptured by the way her hard, green eyes would soften and darken and widen for him.
Perhaps they'd started as strangers, yet she clearly held a flame deep in her, and he'd wanted to stoke it.
But then one day, it changed. She stopped speaking out, stopped demanding, stopped burning. No more back talks, no snide comments or witty comebacks. Some days she couldn't even be in the same room as him. Some days she couldn't look him in the eye.
There were nights where she let him touch her, where she sometimes showed his favorite parts of her personality but they started growing sparse until they stopped altogether.
Somewhere, the person he could have loved disappeared.
The Uchiha, cursed with love as deep as hatred, couldn't fathom a precarious position in between both. It became clear that Sakura had only ever seen him as a partner in this business and some days he wondered if the fiery eyes she turned on him at night were a farce. In the daytime they were cool, cold, almost reminding him that she wouldn't love him the way his blood demanded.
So he sought out the company of someone who could burn as bright as him. Eleven women he allowed in a separate chamber, all of whom he touched once or twice.
But the twelfth was a woman who scorched him from the inside, out.
All the promises of building a life and family and leading their people into a well of fortune and happiness, and it's gone. Because Sakura was strictly professional and Sasuke sought heat elsewhere.
Now they'd achieve the titles separately. Her, with her kingdom. Him, here, with Karin beside him. Perhaps this was for the best—she could let go of him the way she's clearly wanted to, and he could have someone to fan his flames.
Here, in the now, having her speak his given name makes his blood run icy. It brings memories of their first few years together, where the masquerade they'd put on and the direction of their relationship led him to believe in their fireplace.
She speaks again.
"Promise me that you will take care of yourself, of this village," she says with no room for argument. "Promise me that I'm leaving you and this place in good hands."
Her words make his stomach do funny things. He frowns slightly, tells himself not to read into it. She's a very caring person, soft-hearted and empathetic.
And the village will be okay, of course. He isn't an idiot; the prince knows how much Sakura had done for the town when he's away. He understands this. Karin would have no problem taking over.
"The village will be fine," he says, hoping he sounds reassuring. Their private matters might be in shambles, but the kingdom shouldn't have to deal with the brunt of their problems. "Karin is capable."
She stiffens just the slightest bit, so subtle that he doesn't notice. Then she nods.
"I see."
Four of the five carriages begin moving, the wheels creaking due to great usage. Hooves clatter and the crack of a whip thunders through the air, forcing eight total horses on their way down the long road away from the town. When the final approaching carriage halts before her and the coach scrambles to get down, Lord Uchiha stops him with a gesture of his hand. Rather, he pulls open the carriage door himself, an action that he figures would be the last of its kind—it will complete this chapter in both their lives.
Glancing diagonally down his side, he is unsurprised to see she denies him any glimpse of her face. The lip of her great feathered hat casts shade, only the two pretty pink petals of her mouth detectable in the mid-noon sun.
Should they ever meet again after this, it'd be as diplomats. Synonymous with 'strangers.'
Perhaps in due time, he could potentially reach out to Senju castle again, prod around to see if he can find permanent allyship (like with Namikaze Castle) in the reclusive final kingdom of Fire Country. It would be beneficial.
"Your Highness," she bids, and he notes the distant tone her voice carries, paired with the lack of his given name. Their final chapter draws rapidly to a close.
Offering one hand—of which she takes not unkindly but not familiarly—he helps her up the high step of the carriage until she is seated. Before releasing, he goes with the instinct in his gut and settles a final, cold kiss upon the gentle grooves of her knuckles. The touch is brief and not unlike greetings in a formal setting.
"Safe travels," he mutters, regarding her in a different light—now that she isn't his wife. "We will keep in touch, Lady Haruno."
Silently and for some time, she will deny how painful the surname change is for the oncoming days, especially at the way he'd thrown it directly in her face. But she'd grow thankful for it after a few months.
And in about a year, she'd forget the tumultuous state her heart had been in, with the help of whiskey and a lover.
"Of course, Lord Uchiha."
As of ehhh- maybe 06/27/20- this chapter has been revised and edited.
Thought it was overdue for an improvement. Not super different from before but I did add scenes on Sasuke's side to build his backstory early and make it more seamless in the long haul. Previous Sasuke was much easier to antagonize; fingers crossed that this has helped humanize/normalize him.
It's kinda obvious that if someone weren't loving you the way you wanted, you would leave. Or- seeing as they're yk, royalty- seek it elsewhere. And since they're Sasuke and Sakura, let's spice up the angst with misunderstandings galore. God I love these two.
Added in that beginning scene because I hated the weird, calculated way I was narrating the story before. I'm hoping I managed to warm it up a little and make it less passive.
I love you guys, stay safe. Thank you (:
- burrblefish
