Chapter Thirty: Fool in a Trap
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Nose to the grindstone! he kept reminding himself of it. Hard work was not easy. Unraveling old mysterious, even harder. Trying to open the many tight knots that held the childhood's secrets was akin to fumbling one's hand in the clearest waters, to try and locate that one silver coin that got lost amidst many silver stones. It was a hopeless task; his chance, slim. He might as well give up; but he was not the type. He would see it through to the bitter end. He would vanquish foes and take his revenge; he would keep his allies close and play his game as long as it got him closer to the one secret, lost to his childhood . . . an older storm held his thought's plump hands whilst he sat crossed-legged on the matted floor—a low table was set before him. He moved his eyes to the closed window as it creaked a little to keep the wind out.
"Sasuke," Karin cooed into his ear, "come to bed with me, won't you?" She played with his hair and pressed her breasts against his back. He did not answer. His fingers trembled around the finely crafted brush, his body burdened by illness and fatigue. Two ink drops plopped on the scroll that lay open on the table, and he frowned. He bent over the table to look at the black stains spreading in a perfect circle. It could be overlooked by his hardheaded brother . . .
He moved the brush above the ink-bottle and shook it a little to rid it of extra ink. Presently, he was sitting in his personal-office in the manor and writing the final report of his last mission. Four grueling nights without sleep, five tormenting days without rest had drained him dry. The lantern on the table splashed a weak light on the scroll and threw a misshapen shadow of a burnt moth across its top half. He stretched his free hand and tapped the lantern with his fingertips a few times. The scorched moth stuck to the inside fell down. He could see a lot better now. (The lantern needed cleaning . . . )
Bringing his eyes back down, he saw that the wet letters were already drying out: the ink had soaked through the fine pores. Sasuke pressed the brush against the surface and created another fine letter.
"Your chakra smells funny," Karin whispered and kissed his nape and wrapped her arms about his waist. "Should I taste you?" She did not wait for an answer, and, pushing his collar aside, she bit down playfully into his shoulder.
An expression of discomfort went across his face, but he continued the task. Then she licked at the blood and sweat droplets sitting on the tiny pores in his skin. Looking at the ceiling, she passed her tongue over her lips. Her face had a dreamy expression now. "Poison?" she said, rather thoughtfully. "Not a potent one. A weak—very weak one to build immunity, I think."
Inhaling deeply till he could take no more air into his lungs, he pushed the brush into the ink-bottle again. Then, ritualistically, he shook it above the bottle after pulling it out, exhaled, and resumed the task. He was so angry with his brother, and silence was the best medicine—for now. Karin emitted a short girl-ish laughter into his ear. "Your brother's probably slipping it into your morning tea. He's lovely," she said in a musical voice and rested her chin on his shoulder.
No reply came from him as he continued to write. Dry sounds of smooth brush strokes magnified in silence after the persistent calls from thunder. An angry expression was upon his face. He clenched his jaws and moved the brush faster as he wrote with trembling hands; the letters looked a little untidy, a little shaky on the scroll.
Karin slipped her hand under his Kimono's collar and moved her fingers playfully about his breast. "Don't be angry with me. I promised you that my brothers will find the hideout. Don't you trust me?" she asked, her voice needy, and nuzzled his neck. "Don't you—" she stopped and flicked her head up, afraid.
Not a moment passed and Itachi slid open the door. A sudden rush of air came in that disturbed the flame in the lantern. His eyes, coloured by harsh red, fell upon her and she squirmed. "Leave," Itachi spoke calmly, "now."
Karin scrambled to her feet and flew from the room, her long ponytail whipping behind her. She disappeared into the guest-room down the corridor. Itachi gave the door a slight push to the right and it slid closed. He brought his eyes to his brother and red softened. He kept looking at him for a few moments, but Sasuke gave no indication that he had heard his brother come into the office.
Itachi took in a deep breath and spoke, "the Mizukage is persistent with her requests. She wants you and no other to oversee the final Chūnin trials. I have sent in many recommendations, but her answers remain the same. Now, I am starting to wonder why." He looked around the office. It was neat like his, with touches of unruliness, of passions that set Sasuke apart from himself. A thick shadow stood behind Sasuke as though waiting to attack and injure him, an ominous foe, and the thought made Itachi uneasy.
Sasuke did not reply. Rather angrily, he pushed the brush into the ink bottle again and started writing the final lines on the scroll. Itachi waited for him to speak. At last, he sighed a deep sigh. "Why is she asking for you? She seems to want no other," he spoke, his voice gentle still. His eyes narrowed on the shadow that flickered in unison with the flame upon the wick, alive behind his brother's back—he was seeing things.
His words were only met with more silence. "Sasuke, I am speaking to you," he spoke in a firm and commanding voice this time, his brow frowning. "Are you so angry with me that you have decided to cast aside all etiquettes?"
The sharpness to his tone compelled Sasuke to raise his head and look back at him. Itachi's eyes softened their intensity for a moment at the sight of his gaunt face: he looked so white, ill, weak. He had not seen him for many days. Looking at him now . . . it was making his heart trip with guilt unwanted. Perhaps he had been too harsh on him.
"I don't know. Maybe you should ask her," Sasuke replied harshly, with a lopsided smile on his face.
Itachi brushed aside the impolite tone and spoke by injecting softness into his voice: "were you intimate with her?" His eyes roamed on his face that displayed the formation of resentfulness.
"I was." He threw the brush aside on the table and stood up and bored his angry eyes deep into Itachi's. "Why—are you going to punish me again?" Taking two steps, he stood close to him. He moved his head up with the red of challenge in his eyes
"Sasuke," he breathed out, meeting his hateful expression with a changing countenance, "what is the matter with you? Why do you not listen to me? Why did you—for Sage's sake—" he stopped, his face hidden behind his hand. A wall of shadow stood before him now like an eerie partition.
He pulled his hand away to look at Sasuke whose anger had yet to melt. "You disobedient child," he began in a firmer voice, "what should I do to make you listen—to make you understand? Tell me, for I do not know how to handle your growing stubbornness, your inability to heed my words, and your complete lack of judgment. Tell me, what should I do with you? I will try and do things your way this time." His mouth smiled, and it was a very cold smile—one which the younger one loathed.
"Let me go," Sasuke retorted heavily, his face shaking with the intensity of emotion, "I want to leave—get away from here." He panted, shivering in pain.
For a moment, disbelief replaced irritation on Itachi's face; but his face was quick to return to the same state it knew and loved. "Stop," he spoke and looked at his brother with a tasty glint of anger in his eyes, "never speak of this again. Do you hear me? I never want to hear these words from your lips again. You have no idea of the mess you have made for me . . . and for yourself. Root is sniffing about, and you want to make matters worse by speaking of becoming a Rouge-Nin on a whim?" He stepped a little closer to Sasuke, staring down at him with hard eyes.
In defiance, Sasuke stared back at him, and reds in his eyes resonated with his brother's with musical precision. Sasuke may have fought against it at times, denied it even, yet they were still brothers—bound by the unshakable cords of flesh, blood, and spirit that had forged and melded together their destinies since birth. Try as they might, they would never be able to break free—forever bound, forever trapped in the lovely, unjust bond of blood and burdens.
"Stay quiet, you hateful child," Itachi scolded him, his face showing visible marks of anger, something Sasuke had not witnessed in a long time; and as if Itachi's eyes hurt him, he lowered his own, standing defeated before his older brother's heavier gaze. His battered body longed for nothing but peace, rest. He had no desire to argue with him any longer. He was the younger one, trapped beneath the older one's taller shadow.
After moments of silence, he felt Itachi's hand brush the side of his cheek. Sasuke's skin felt damp and hot beneath his fingers. Itachi leant his head down slightly and planted a kiss on his brow. "Go to your room. I will speak with you tomorrow," he spoke, his voice softer now.
Sasuke did not raise his eyes to look back at him. He opened the door and left the office in silence. When he reached his room, his futon looked quite inviting. He flung himself down upon it and extended his arm to grab the sleeping draught from the table. He emptied it at a draught and drifted off to a deep sleep in seconds . . .
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It was a morning marred by sombre colours, stretched loosely across the sky. A cold breeze was blowing in from the north. Soon, autumn would have it all in its grasp: the killing season had begun. A gentle reaper, it murdered all flowers and leaves, yet left few behind. They bloomed under the false sun in many colours. Only Purple Lilies would survive its reaping, staying young through the harsh winter . . .
It was a strange and rare flower that only opened its mouth wide to the gentle moon. It shied away from the harsh sun. "Petal shedder" is what people called it. It shed its pretty limbs and drooped in summer and spring and burrowed under the ground the way animals did; then it poked out as fresh buds once autumn came to reap again. It saw the ritual of death and survived to tell the tale—always.
His eyes wandered around the office he thought to be too untidy for the ruler of the village, but it was not his concern. A bottle of sake stood next to a half-full cup. Tsunade moved her hand absentmindedly to grab hold of it, her eyes upon the scroll on the table. She made quite the show of draining it in one gulp and pouring out another one. He never quite understood her eccentricities.
She coughed and grabbed the cup again and lifted her eyes to meet his. "Is there any reason why you to take another one of your brother's missions, Itachi?" she asked and took a short and quick sip from the cup, her cheeks ruddy with mild intoxication.
Itachi steered his gaze to the window. "He is ill," he spoke coolly.
She placed the cup down on the table with a loud clink and knotted her fingers together on the table. "He was very enthusiastic to get back on duty," she said, her mouth smiling. "I agree with you that he looks weak, but you cannot have his mission."
Itachi returned his gaze to her, his eyes narrowed almost dangerously. "Why?" he asked in a voice that sounded firm and direct.
"I want you here. Emissaries from Cloud will come the day after tomorrow, and I have to send out Sakura to treat one of their men. He was poisoned by someone on his way here. It is lethal—he could die by morning. I want you to make sure that she reaches there in one piece.
"You were going to take her on a training mission. It is a small matter of team re-formation—not an impossible task," she explained and started rolling up the scroll on the table.
A ghostly, bewitching smile pulled at the corner of his lips, cracking his displeased expression quite slightly. "An Anbu Commander reduced to a guard-duty for a mere Chūnin? Your student is . . . truly precious," he spoke, with eyes that glowed with the Sharingan's fierceness.
She flashed her brown eyes on him, her gaze level with his, though they hid a certain fear beyond the fragile veil of authority that mechanically hovered in and out of her eyes. It was not enough to fool him—she was not clever enough to fool him.
"I'm not belittling you—nor am I giving special treatment to Sakura, but this is important. I can trust no one these days. You know how things are with Root and Danzō. The old man would never want a good alliance with Cloud. If this emissary is healed, you can imagine how it'll work for us," she said, a look of calm on her face.
He smiled, finding irony in her words, but he chose not to spill that secret now. "Why not send in extra men? I can appoint a few. They can assist your student. I do not see why a Captain should indulge a struggling Chūnin any longer. This would grant her more ego when she already believes you to be under her thumb," he spoke, eyes still radiant under the black hair.
"I understand that she shouldn't have gone to you for the Jōnin Trials. That was unbecoming of her. Your displeasure isn't misplaced," Tsunade sighed and leant back into the comfy chair and eyed him with a peculiar expression. "But is there any reason why you're so adamant to busy your brother with another mission? You can just send him home to rest," she said, holding her gaze.
He remained silent for a moment. "It is a personal matter. It does not concern the military," he answered, his tone flat and uncompromising.
"It isn't personal when you're refusing me your cooperation," she said quickly and curled her fingers around the sake cup—half her mind was bent on that sake.
"Then I would like to take Sasuke along. I do not wish to leave him alone in the village for now," he spoke, with a strong undercurrent of finality.
Tsunade let out a soft laugh and eyed him from behind the cup, raised high to her painted lips that curved in a deep smile. "Love is a silly thing. Wild, isn't he? Even you can't seem to control him," she remarked and took a long, thoughtful whiff of the strong sake. Itachi remained silent; his face gave no indication of emotion, though his eyes made it seem as if he was irked by her thoughtless remark.
"You can't take him with you. He's ill—he'd prove to be a hindrance," she stopped to pour out another cup, "your attention will be divided and I don't want that. We both know you'd worry more about Sasuke than the mission."
"Even in his present state, Sasuke is impossibly more capable than your student. He will do well," he assured her, his voice laced with the faintest firmness of his arrogance.
Rough boughs scraped across the window-pane on the outside with eerie sounds, but both of them did not turn their eyes to look at them. "I know. I'm not worried about the boy—I'm worried about you. It's your full attention I want. With Sasuke around," she paused to turn the cup in her delicate hand as if it demanded her full attention again, "your worry will get the best of you. If danger presented itself, you'll protect Sasuke first, and I don't want that. And it's only natural. He's your brother. He's very dear to you. Why wouldn't he be? I would've done the same for Nawaki if he were alive . . . " Grief came to her face suddenly, but she looked away to preserve her pride.
Itachi emitted a deep breath. "What would you have me do?" he asked and got to his feet. It was no use arguing with her anymore. He would have to send Sasuke to Mei. There was no other way . . .
The branches outside smacked themselves repeatedly against the window-pane. She saw rain running down the clean window-glass, whitened by the evening mist. They cut their own path with determination. Letting the thoughts guide her mind for a moment longer, she cut them short and brought her attention back to the young Anbu Captain.
"I'm giving you the permission to make his team for him as you see fit. You can make the guidelines for his three-day stay there. Make them as strict as possible. I won't stop you. If you finish the mission early, you can even go and join him. That is as much leeway I can give you, but," she broke off and raised a firm finger in the air, "I want your undivided attention on this. Don't disappoint me."
Itachi looked at her for a second or two, and then he left the office in silence. He looked displeased, irritated even. The red had not left the white's companionship in his eyes. Tsunade poured out the last few drops of sake and raised the cup to look at the yellow liquid. She put the cup down and felt pain in her heart. "Love is a silly thing . . . " she whispered and felt tears upon her cheeks.
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By the time Itachi reached the little Rice Village—located on the outskirts of Rain's flimsy border—with his squad, it was already evening. The lightest drizzle was falling down. Endless dots covered the dried-up rice paddy. A vast ground at the edge of the village had been raked, and furrows were made to plant seeds for the next season. He saw many crows cawing on the bare branches just outside the room: they were picking at the insects burrowing beneath the ground, softened by rain.
An old man's low moans filled the space. He turned his gaze to look at the man's face, contorted with excruciating pain. A mop of blond hair of one of the Jōnin guards shone under the light from the dirtiest lantern he had ever laid his eyes on. When he moved his gaze to investigate the rest of the room, he wished he had not: the sides of the door had fungus growing unhindered from its cracks; a thick layer of grime, dust, and Sage knew what else caked the floor; and the curtains were so old, so dirty that they barely moved despite the strength of the breeze. Disgust's trace came into his eyes—he would never have set foot in here had it not been for the delicate situation.
Sakura was bent over the man whilst she drew the poison from his heart, with a flowing layer of chakra focused around her right hand. She deposited the dirty-looking liquid into a tray that was set on a lopsided table. She pressed her hand over the many great folds in his wrinkled skin and pulled out thick tendrils of poison from his body. He would scream over and over again whenever the poison was forcefully dragged from his system. Another guard, with messy grey hair, held his thrashing body down.
The young man with dirty-yellow hair made his way to him; he stopped by the door and spoke, a nervous look on his face: "It's an honour to meet you, Itachi-Sama. I'm Shī. I came with—"
"I know who you are," Itachi cut him off coldly. "Who poisoned him?"
Shī blinked once and stood straight. He appeared to be a man of meagre emotions. "We don't know," he said, and the nervousness on his face melted into another mild expression. "They didn't have any headbands on them. They were probably hired by someone."
"You killed all of them?" Itachi asked, quite mildly surprised. "It never occurred to you to keep one alive for interrogation?"
Embarrassment brightened the younger man's cheeks. He scratched his head and looked up at Itachi again. "We wanted to, but Kuma-Sama wanted them all dead. We had to obey his orders," he mumbled, as if displeased by his superior's foolishness.
"A lesson learnt," he spoke, contempt concealed in his smooth voice, as he moved his eyes to the man still wriggling under Darui's robust arms, which glistened with effort. "How much of the task is left?" he asked, gazing at Sakura's back.
She looked over her shoulder, her face sweaty from work. "I'm done, Itachi-Sama," she replied and wiped her forehead on her arm. "The poison's out and I've administered the antidote." She stood up from her perch and removed the gloves from her hands.
Turning around, she stood still to look back at him, with an expression as if she was seeing him fully for the first time. Her eyes surveyed his white face. He had a youthful appearance for someone just a year shy of thirty. He did not look much older than Sasuke: a man eight years his junior; and like an accidental miracle, he even shared the fine contours of Sasuke's face. The little mistakes Nature had created were enough to tell them apart.
Her gaze moved down his eyes, and down and down it went, taking in the smooth curve of his throat and lips, reddened by the heat from the flames, which crackled by his feet in a portable hearth. The flames continued to wither away whilst the wind touched their uneven tips. Her gaze lingered on the lithe body that did not look as though it had ever experienced a shinobi's hard life. He was taller than Sasuke, too! He's still growing, she thought, unintentionally defending the younger one who had gained half-an-inch in height last year—he might catch up!
She stole a glance at his narrow waist and young loins and her face burnt. It was so girl-ish the way she was behaving. She was better than that; but her heart danced with excitement. Life's short! she scolded herself. He would prove to be a fine replacement for Sasuke; he would make her forget Sasuke's sharp tongue—but how to make him hers? Sakura's questioning eyes looked upon him from behind the pink hair. They provided that apt hiding spot for her prying eyes.
He was speaking to Shī, and she obediently stood next to the whimpering emissary, waiting for his next order. That exquisite, slow-burning feel of his chakra that day . . . she wanted him to melt into her, burn her skin with its heat. It was as delicious as the feathery touch of Sasuke's lips against the shell of her ear—lips that evoked the wishes' mechanism in her body. The fever—it had risen with violent urgency that she wanted to mollify it, expunge it from her body; but Naruto was not around to satisfy her tonight.
Heaving a sigh, she looked back at his intense eyes that made her shiver—there was something strange about him. She was falling too soon on him—too soon; but the desire Sasuke had unwittingly roused in her could only be soothed by this medicine. It was foolish—she knew—but her flesh, animated by thrill, was not in a mood to heed her reasons. She wished that she could tear the need from it, throw it away, never look back. How hard it was to fight against this daemon; only Sasuke had made her realise that.
Clenching her teeth together, she breathed in deeply. She would make him to pay. He would hurt her no more; yet a part of her still fought a terrible battle against this new resolve. She felt it grow weaker against the enmity she had nurtured through many springs since the discovery of girlhood. He did not love her: he did not love her at all. The words echoed from the mind's deeps, rose and fell in rhythm with the dance of flames that brutalised her body and gave it more pain, more lust. She gulped down the sounds in her throat that tried to form another kind of reason: Itachi is . . . a man. He must have needs? He must! All men do. They can't stay away from women for long, can they? The Medic in her could think of no other answer . . . it was not as though she had ever understood men, not beyond the sickly medicine and rotting cadavers.
The question bothered her. There were rumours that he satisfied himself with the finest harlots, but they were only rumours. No one really knew him to say for sure. What was his seduction like? Sakura tilted her head to the left and looked at his face intently. Was it all passion and fire like Sasuke exuded? Was it quiet and secretive, unlike Sasuke? She did not know, but a part of her agreed with her heart that she wanted to see it for herself. How exciting! She was like a little girl all over again!
"Go and rest," his voice ended her thoughts. "We will leave first thing in the morning." She stared at him absentmindedly, gave a slow nod, and left . . .
Some crows still cawed, as though singing of omens, outside her window at this time of the hour. The room they had given her was tidier than the hall. The ceiling was cracked, and water dripped from one of the pipes in the corner. It had made quite the puddle there. She had not bothered to mop it up. It was not her duty.
Sakura sat on the creaky bed in knee-length kimono robes. Her nipples were tight from the cold in the room. She moved her hand thoughtlessly on the old sheets spread underneath her . . . so . . . tomorrow? the words made her frown. Just one night and they would part? Her thoughts had spun something much more. How cruel!
Someone knocked, and she hastily made her way to the door. When she opened it, she quickly hugged herself to hide the visible roundness of her breasts. Itachi did not lower his gaze, nor did he seem stirred by her. "Change of plans. We will leave before dawn. Write your report on this scroll and hand it to me before we leave," he spoke firmly and held out the scroll.
There it was again—the brush of his finger and the madness from the rush of strong chakra. Her loins grew tight and wet. Moments stretched painfully long for her, bearing down her young heart and younger mind. She did not know what she was doing as her shaking hands dropped the scroll, shot forward to grasp at his right arm, and pulled him inside.
When she looked up to find the familiar desire upon his face, it disappointed her. His face . . . it suggested nothing, and then floods of shame crashed down upon her whole body. "I'm sorry, Itachi-Sama. P-Please, forgive me," she whimpered, letting go of his arm, her hands convulsing. What was she doing? What was she thinking? She admonished herself and cursed her own desperation to claim him for he was the next best thing. The shame was too much to bear. Shame—shame—shame! she heard the voices of playground girls bullying her in spring.
The tears were warm on her cheeks. He did not move for a fleeting moment; then he pushed the door back with his sandal, and it closed with a click. Sakura looked up, surprised. His eyes were red, magnificent as he walked forward with slow steps. Consumed by a mixture of familiar fear and unfamiliar passion, her shaky, uncertain feet propelled her back. Moving his hand forward, he pushed her back roughly with the tip of his right hand's fingers. The old bed gave a swoop and a loud creak when she fell down upon it; she looked somewhere between lustful and fearful.
Itachi knelt between her parted legs, his face enveloped by indifference. Her arms flew forward to grasp his hands, but he grabbed both of them in his and smacked them down on the bed as though she was being rude. A moist flood graced her folds, and he entered her without warning, without care. She winched, his pace slow, deliberate, exquisitely torturous. It made her grunt with uneasiness.
Lust opened into waves of joyous pleasures whilst he kept it up in the same methodic manner. Her hands contorted and wriggled in his grasp, but he did not let go. Her sweaty legs shook and dangled from the bed's edge. She had no fight in her to pull them up and wrap them about his narrow waist. Her damp inner thighs spasmed madly, violently, deliciously. Ah, mad lust that ached in her veins as she strained her misty eyes to look upon that haunting, beautiful visage of mimicry that mocked her still; and she half-whispered and half-hissed the name she so desperately wanted to say: "S-Sasuke . . . " It was like folktales—just like folktales . . .
He looked so like him: the next best thing! She kept reasoning with herself. It was foolish, but it did not matter. It was never going to matter, for this was what cooled that beautiful fever hurting in her limbs, gnawing its way out of her skin. Yes, only this would satisfy her.
She did not know if he heard it. Her half-lidded, desire-beaten eyes, tainted by want, looked at him from behind the partial curtains of pink hair; and still his face suggested little. Red and unsympathetic, his eyes surveyed her shrewdly as if weighing her worth. He looked at her with mild interest and a slight tilt of his head as her robes came loose and the child-like breasts bounced out. The pink nipples peaked under his gaze.
She did not know how long he went on. Her insides burnt, pleasures gathering in waves deep inside; and her body suddenly erupted in a single crushing wave that battered her and extinguished that fever with such finesse that she finally felt . . . satisfied. Her breaths came out quick, and when the haze cleared from her eyes, she found herself to be alone. He had already left . . . strange . . .
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