Chapter Three: There Was Such a Thing as Trouble
# # # # # #
She sat alone. It was a routine. Shadows were laid on thick by the evening. A dull sort of somberness had permeated the air from moors. The wind was cool, a little cold. Autumn was upon her.
Getting up slowly, she snatched a quick breath, and a listless sigh began to rise from inside her, coming out as a small shallow breath that clouded her face. Beyond the window, beyond the trees, beyond the mist, there was nothing but darkness.
There was a dull reddish hue a few moments ago that lingered at the subtle-bend of the darkening horizon; it was gone now. She took two slow steps and slid shut the window. The smell of grass had snuck in. She remembered that she would have to work on another patch tomorrow.
The house was a little creaky and made strange sounds when storms, little and grown-up ones, hit this land in Autumn and Winter, fighting against the assaults of mild winds and gentle rains. It was as though it tried to make itself steel, bear the burden Nature wrought.
She slowly backed away and turned to face a pallid shaft of light pouring out of her room at the end of a quiet corridor. The house was steeped in dark, and it sobbed often in a melancholic voice—cold had frozen its veins. She could light the lanterns, but it did not matter tonight.
Her steady footfalls creaked on the floor and it protested in its old age. She remembered that this house was a gift from her father-in-law: one of the many things he had gifted her after her marriage many moons past. This house had become a lonely place now. Years had made it weary like a man—a woman; some of the beams were cracked and bent (old bones made fragile through the years).
But she was still young: a white camellia, growing from a cracked mound of dirt. How long did a flower last under the careless sky? She drew in a sharp sigh that moved her breast and walked into the room. A wave of warmth and light washed over her. The fire was still hot in the hearth and spilt a red glow over the paintings she had abandoned a few hours ago.
A lit yellow lantern sat next to a few brushes scattered on the white scroll. A flower lay tucked under one of the pages; fire had made it so dry, and its leaves shrivelled, looking as if it had lived through summer's great heat—a pinkish one, drained dry by the fire.
She dragged in a warm breath, smelling the burnt scent of the flower's petals in her breath. Looking around, she saw the room in shadows. It got that way when she did not light any more lanterns. She looked at the large shadow that lay like a sleeping figure on one side of the bed: it was Naruto's side.
He often slept on his left side, with his back to her. His snoring was an intermittent affair. He always let out whistling breaths when it got too cold; and then he would flop onto his belly, with a sudden convulsive movement, and emit gurgling sounds into the makura . . . till she was forced to get up, make haste to their small kitchen, prepare a warm herbal tea to ease his suffering.
Its smell always wafted to him faster than the workings of her unsure and creaky steps. When she would step into the room, sloshing tea on the floor in her hurried state, his warm grin always greeted her, along with the ponderous upward movement of the hand to scratch at the prickly blond hair. Then he wrinkled his nose, face coming alight with soft delight.
Those were the good ol' days—early months of her marriage. With time, shadows turned thicker. There was no form to them afterwards, and they lay there like large shapeless things across the futon. Sometimes, the white sheets bore red stains, but that did not happen often. Her body was cold; it did not enjoy ceding to the act that brought her misery . . . shame, too.
Blood roared in her breast, and she stopped her ears to listen. It was the sound of shame, her world crumbling about her and flying away in vapours. Her vision was invaded by something wet, white eyes brimming full with girlhood fears. She took one step, then two, and sat down onto a cushion by the hearth.
Its heat went through her skin, and the pores involved expelling out beads of sweat brought about by a different kind of longing. She put her chalk-white hands on her thighs and watched them tremble through a watery film. From somewhere, and she did not know where, wind had let itself in to touch the slow trails of her pride and honour. They were still busy tracing her changing contours.
Blush spread under the tingly skin in heat, and she did not know how to feel—what to feel. Her fearful eyes, which welcomed the invasion of a new feeling, fell upon the red coals burning in the hearth; so many of them had turned so black, soot-like around the edges. They were crumbling away. So was she. So was her honour. It had died brutally under the spears of her want. They glided through the flesh, embedding themselves callously into her spirit, and it was growing remorseless, rebellious. What would her mother think of her?
Outside, a storm raged on. Hours passed by and she sat blinking away the signs of her shame, not caring about gazing upon them quivering there like little pearls on her hands. The flame guttered in the lantern, and the coals turned cold. Her breaths came out white, but her eyes could not leave the red there. It was soothing, enchanting, bewitching . . .
# # # # # #
Quiet steps followed the long unrelenting form of a shadow that lay undisturbed on the floor. As he drew near the dark door, the wood gave out a subtle creak with every step. It was a ponderous place now that had stood the test of time through many generations. He stopped for a moment before the closed door to pull in a quick little breath; the exhalation came out louder than he had expected.
Bunching his fingers into a soft fist, he raised his hand to knock on the door. A voice came from the room before his fist could make contact with the wood. "Come in, Sasuke," it spoke in a manner he always found a bit worrying.
Rather resolutely, Sasuke breathed in and out once and slid open the door. A subtle smell of incense crawled up his nostrils, and they flared in response. The room was fortified by vicious bright lights from many lanterns: they waged a war against the encroaching steps of shadows, which emerged like daemons from behind his brother's back.
Gold lanterns sat on the desks and in the alcoves. A few scroll paintings still wore broken shadows of the thick beam overhead, but the light was bright enough to highlight their beautiful patterns: Kirin danced in the many colours of autumn, and a few crows sat cawing in a tree drained by winter. He never understood why his brother was so fascinated by such displays of melancholy. It was just one of those things . . .
His thoughts were cut short by the jagged blade of silence. This room was so quiet. One would imagine that the flames would make a noise on the wicks, but it was not so. The brush was loud; it had conquered the struggle and was mighty in his brother's long fingers. A dry sound of its movement rose into the air, and he was almost forced to shut the door behind himself to break the excited vibrations it produced in the air. Everything was so eerie about his older sibling . . .
He had raised his shadow-eyes briefly to look upon Sasuke's curious countenance, only to go back to the mundane task of writing—whatever leisurely task he was preoccupied with before. Sometimes, Sasuke just wished his brother would turn on his Sharingan and make his eyes seem apparent to his, but he was the secretive type.
He approached him, a little cautiously, shoving his sweaty, unwilling hand into his pocket to pull out the official report on the messy Rock Spies' affair. Then his feet stopped of their own volition, his eyes looking to his brother's hazy face: he could not see it clearly. He was sitting crossed legged behind the low table. His spine was straight as steel; his eyes were only subtly downcast to look at his fingers as they drew words on the scroll.
Tonight, his brother wore traditional clothes: a black haori was thrown over his shoulders with such delicate, meticulous care that he could have sworn there was no difference between the lengths of the sleeves' tips dangling above his knees. Everything was arranged neatly on his desk. There was not a scroll, not a shadow out of place . . . and it made him feel a little unnerved, suddenly sapped of courage.
A loud pop from the fireplace distracted Sasuke for a second, but his brother's voice drew his eyes back to his face again. "Sit down," he spoke and Sasuke obeyed.
The scroll was clutched tight in his hand like a weapon. Itachi was still writing, eyes moving with the smooth and slow movement of his fingers. The dry sounds were louder up close. It was as though something small was being dragged across the rough surface, but the sounds were muffled through the winds.
"You should know how to manage your team," Itachi spoke almost suddenly, and Sasuke dropped his eyes in an apologetic manner to look at a dry brush that lay abandoned next to a scroll: an inky shadow was clinging to its smooth wooden form. His eyes seemed to like the momentary distraction.
"An inquiry is a terrible affair," Itachi paused and so did his hand in its smoothing movement. "If your team had died, it would have been dreadful for you, Sasuke."
"I'm—" Sasuke barely choked out, eyes eluding him, "—forgive me, Nii-Sama. I was—"
"Why do you want to take on this Hyūga matter?" Itachi asked and the dry invasive sounds stopped. "It is not wise. Is it because of Neji?" There was a trace of curiosity in his brother's voice, and that compelled Sasuke to steal a quick glance at his face that was still cast in shadows invading his mien, as if he enjoyed their company. Then Sasuke lowered his head and nodded.
"How fortunate for Neji that you want the best for him, even though it is not your place to meddle in his affairs," Itachi spoke, a little coldly, and something inside Sasuke rose in ferocity to defend himself.
"He's a good man," Sasuke said, raising his eyes to look to where his brother's should have been. "As a Captain, I—"
"It is not wise," Itachi cut across him, his voice heavy, commanding.
Sasuke could not see his face still, and it was quite bothersome. He lowered his eyes immediately, and his face fell into a look of child-like worry and irritation.
Sasuke heard him breathe out a heavy breath, but he did not have the courage—nor the audacity—to look him in the eye. "But knowing how you cause trouble when you cannot have your way, I am allowing you to see the evidence—nothing more." The soft sound of Itachi's clothes invaded the space as he placed the scroll on the table.
He did not say anything more, and Sasuke saw this as a sign of approval. Sasuke put the scroll he had in his grasp on the table and grabbed the other one with a rather quick movement of his hand.
His brother was still silent. Thinking that this was enough, he rose to his feet, gave a little customary bow, and turned around before his brother's words stopped him. "I want no trouble from this, Sasuke," he spoke, and the same dry sounds began anew.
Sasuke did not turn around to look at him and left the room with sure, quiet steps . . .
# # # # # #