Chapter Fifty-One: Of Brothers and Letters

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Walls draped in decadence, noises in the gloam, sky alight in the final lights from the day's sun—red, sweet . . . gloomy. He turned his weary eyes and looked upon the sky as pallid light came in through the window, barred with wooden slats, nailed up tightly in a clumsy manner—the only window in the large room. It was like the one in an old jail cell, visited frequently by a haggard prisoner, a promise of hope and freedom which still lived in him. He did not like it at all.

Far from home, his heart and mind were elsewhere. They wandered—one despondent and the other wondering, forever wondering. Unwillingly, he embraced the possibility that this would not end soon. A half-irritated, half-contemptuous expression appeared upon his visage, and the obedient eyes mirrored it perfectly, tainting themselves in an easy passion that was a habit to him now.

They tore open the rifts in the old walls beneath his feet, saw through the barriers, and the whole building filled with gloomy and bright colours—a warm canvas painted by his eyes. It was not the same. It truly was not the same. A deep sigh moved his breast, and forceful memories and uncontrollable surges came to his mind like a determined seductress with a phial of poison in her hand. He could not escape the visions that beckoned, sleeping and stirring in his Sharingan.

There, in the darkness, in the cast of moving shadows and piece of enduring lights, sat his father by a single lantern. It was old—the same one he had always used. He never understood why. It once had a bright red colour, but, now, the paper was worn out and old. The light that struggled to make it through was weak, dismal.

His father's back was to the door, and he did not see him standing close to the set of drawers by the paper-screen. It was rude to not make his presence known, but he was curious, fascinated by his father: he was poisoning himself with a senbon again. He did not understand. He was a small child who had seen, with eyes pure and young, the troubling changes of but five seasons. It was autumn now and moths were abundant.

He put his uneasy fingers on the door and his father heard him stir. He looked over his shoulder, eyes fires upon his face, eerie, but he did not look angry. There was this softer light, hovering brighter over his eyes as his small body filled his vision, and a smile crept over his lips like a sweet tremble.

It was as though . . . his sober eyes were beckoning him. There was beautiful light in them, and it was a disarming kind of light that touched his small heart and it reacted in him. His feet moved tentatively upon the tatami mat, his curious eyes locked to his and his mouth curled in anticipation. He sat down beside Fugaku and he placed a hand on his head and stroked his hair.

His father told him then that this was the poison from the glands, located in the abdomen of the Autumn Moth: it was similar to the Dufour's gland, only without the sting apparatus. It was like a little magic trick, and it only released toxins through fine hairs when it mated. His father did not say it exactly like that. He had spoken, "playing with pink moths around the Purple Lilies in the height of Autumn."

He said that the poison went deep into the pink moth's skin, attacking its organs, and it died a slow, agonising death. It was his first time hearing something like that. How could a little drop of something so small could be so deadly? He was nearly beside himself with curiosity—a child's curiosity! He had taken a few deep breaths to get control of his building excitement and looked intently at the moth that lay dissected on the table. There was a cup of clear water beside it and two sharp senbons.

"It is easy to see the details with the Sharingan," he spoke. "See, Itachi?" Itachi did not have a Sharingan, but he leant his head forward and widened his eyes and then narrowed them to focus. He blinked and widened his eyes again to take in the light from his father's old lantern. He could actually see the purple glands now: they were so tiny!

Fugaku told him that it was not wise to take poison from inside the glands. It was too potent. That even the pink moth was not subjected to something so cruel and deadly. The few drops that clove round its glands were not that lethal to humans. They were filtered by the outer, fleshy layer. The real poison was somewhere beneath, and it had this dark purple colour . . . just like the lilies.

And he told him how the poison in the moth's body grew potent when it fed on the enzyme and chakra from the lilies. It was fascinating. His father poisoned himself to fight the poisons—a kunai against kunai? The sharp one won out in the end; it dulled the other's less sharp edge and corroded it.

Yet what surprised him the most was the confession: his father had been taking it since he was but a boy of six. He took a little twice a week. His powerful chakra fought against the vile assailant in his system. When he was a child, it gave him an aching fever; yet he would overcome it, rise anew like a boy turned immortal who had tasted something wonderful, like the lingering fear of death, only to be reborn as a new man, a new child; over time, Fugaku grew used to it. It was the other soul inside him that ran together with his blood—a shadow, a man within man!

Itachi did not know why he did it, but he did it regardless. Was it curiosity? Thrill? Stubbornness? He could not really say. It was such a long time ago. He caught one the next day, took it into his room, did what his father had done; he arranged the apparatus for the task: a cup of clear water on the side, two clean senbons, and a cloth. He had a book of poisons open on the table. His cup was bigger than his father's and it had more water. It was there to dilute the poison.

He realised that the poison was more effective if it was directly injected into the bloodstream with a senbon or a kunai. He had put the finger to his lips, pondering. If that was the right way to do things, then so be it! He pulled away the moth's wings, which had not yet attained a good purple shade, and they floated down to the mat, and unseen agony made it . . . writhe and writhe whilst he cut open its soft abdomen right in the middle with the senbon's tip and held it down with his forefinger and thumb.

A sticky sort of purple goo seeped out, but Itachi did not need that. What he needed was the poison around the gland, or perhaps . . . inside it? A strange, shuddering fear speared straight through his heart. His father had said that it was too potent. He had seen the moth feeding upon the lily under dusk's gentleness: the glands were engorged upon its essence. Up close, they looked round and fleshy and shiny.

Itachi gulped. He was only a small child—young and curious; and he, with a heart bold, cut the gland just a little. It expelled dark purple droplets, and when he bent his head down to take a whiff of it, he was surprised that it smelt sweet . . . like lilies, but a little different, too. He did not understand. What an odd little moth! He stared at its tiny, round, glossy eyes as if he saw death's flavour in them. It was dead, growing stiff like a dry piece of wood upon the table.

He had to do it and he had to do it soon. His heart decided: his mind decided, too; so he pushed the senbon deep into the gland, coating the tip with the tiniest of drops, and then he wound the cloth round his arm and watched as the veins swelled up. Fear and excitement raced up and down his spine, but he had already decided . . . he touched the surface of the water in the cup, and then he pricked his skin with the poison-coated tip of the senbon. A strange chill went about like frantic fish through his body—a deathly chill.

He felt nothing at first, but as a tiny blood drop came out from his flickering vein, and when he saw the water turn so purple there, he had known fear. That much colour with just a little drop? That was the thought that had run against his mind like a slow knife. It was a hurting, staying fear, the kind that went into the heart and remained, found a home in the depths—a knife lodged deep into the chambers and the shuddering pain and fear always remained. Always . . .

At that moment, he saw an unending darkness and sensed immense pain and a soft feeling that whirled his blood in ways that he could not understand. He fainted. He did not know when his father found him, but he was not angry. There was remorse and sadness in his eyes as he looked upon him, something he had never seen before as he lay on the bed, suffering from a terrible life-sapping ague that ached and burnt in his veins like something sinister . . . yet delicious—very delicious.

He could only see a longing in his father's eyes: a longing for peace, for the return of rosiness in his plump cheeks. There was a faint shine in his father's young eyes, too, and they, in that anguished state, were ghost-less mirrors of tears. There was a burning unease that pitted in his belly, and he moaned and sighed in distress; and his father wore worry upon his face then. The little darling, his little darling; how he wished to lift him from that cruel cradle?

The memory passed like the pain, like the pleasure that was brief, foreign for a little body that had yet to know the aches of youth and speed of passions. Now, he stood by the set of drawers, a senbon in his hand. His grip was firm and that hand trembled with uncertainty no more.

The moth was dead, a little dry husk on the wooden surface. He had caught it in a glass bottle days ago. The purple drop clung to the senbon's tip almost desperately. There was no cup of water to dilute it; he had outgrown those safe practices in his childhood. There was such addiction in this private pleasure—thrill, an insidious sort of romance.

Looking intently at the drop, Sharingan whirled in his eyes and that familiar fast pace of his heart responded to his decision. It anticipated and released sudden vibrations, born of dread and joy. It was restless. He could say that he was, too. The vein pulsed and throbbed there—right there under the senbon's tip and its elongating shadow. It was what it was—a sweet little habit!

Itachi jabbed the senbon into the vein, and the sensation exploded inside like hurting and pleasuring pulses. The shuddering spasm contracted the muscles of his white face. Red flooded his cheeks. Sweat beaded across his forehead and poured out of his body. His breaths came out quick and sharp, uneven and unnatural for a man of unnatural control. The senbon dropped from his hand, and he clasped hold of his other shaking hand. He did not even hear the sound when it hit the floor.

The affected vein turned deep purple, rose up, pulsed in his wrist. That poison, travelling like a snake in his arm, spread into his body, exciting, hurting, granting him wondrous visions that he was otherwise blind to. The lock was a twisting snake upon the door. He wanted to close it, secure it, indulge in this pleasure to his heart's content, but it was too far for him to reach, and he stood on weak legs now.

He stretched his hand slightly, but staggered like a clumsy toy and fell back supine on the futon behind him. Then his vision exploded into a tight ball of colours that would not blend. It was a strange, swirly kind of mixture that spun and spun, a pinwheel in the hand of a child that remained standing between Autumn's song and Winter's stillness; and sounds . . . of sighs, laughter, wind's murmurs slid upon him and shuddered like veils he could actually touch.

The pain was immense, yet so was the pleasure. It was unthinkable. It was as though he was being dismantled and made anew. Every sinew, every fibre, every bone in his body vibrated in rhythm with their perverse machinations. It was a body wrought by a polluted soul. Perhaps it always was.

And his mind found its right pace for his condition: a chaotic scene of many memories, an ink-blot that was the world; and then it spread and the mental template became a canvas of unending designs and colours; a shattered glass that broke into new pieces as the light from his eyes passed through their broken edges and became something more than a thing worthy of a fleeting glance. It became his world!

Ah, a mundane little world: swirling fabrics, delirious panting, sheen of hot flesh that trembled with the want that was always a kind of habit. That perfect rhythm that twisted the limbs and made the muscles throb their protests, a lingering scent conquered by lily, lantern, incense, sandalwood, poison . . .

And his vision saw the rabble of moths and their fluttering little wings like vibrations upon the air. Hands wandering the bodies. Thighs parted and the vulgar show of flesh and bodies. The careful spills. The hot sensation of a delicious abandonment that his body fired up, a burning flame spewed forth from the lips. It broke him, consumed him, and left him wanting, gasping for breaths. That perfect want. That perfect freedom . . . that perfect ache.

He saw nothing but the endless oceans and their endless waves; and they crashed and crashed upon him and the water smothered him; but it was painful; but it was also sweet. What kind of paradox was this? His clever mind was left in a mess, and he was but a helpless child bereft of reason and logic. And he cast a delicate little net to catch delicate little things.

And then his eyes wandered towards the door. The tricks, moonlight, and cracks and the rowdy crowd . . . the usual things—little things he did not want; and he cast that net again with a little piece of thought as his breaths tore from his spasming throat. His skin ached and the poison burnt in his veins like stabs from heated swords that had yet to be given a temper.

A red taint issued forth from the walls, and he raised his hand and touched it and it rippled deliciously—a warning from his Sharingan; a throbbing slit of a harlot; a wound in the heart, red and raw, wet and sugary. His teeth began to vibrate, and he burnt with lust's fever. His body was a crucible, and his spirit, a wanting and wispy mirage that filled that container and an arch formed in his back. If she came to him now, he knew he would not be able to resist her. He knew he would have to snuff out the fire that raged in him, the fire he always put out in the company of Tayūs.

It was just a little game, and he loved to play it; but this time, there was a new net and new memories. And then his sad little heart ached like that of a babe's, and he felt a veil form upon his eyes. Control. Control. Control. Yet there was so little of it now. There was the smells of lily and old lantern and the fleeting aroma of sandalwood. The smells would not lift and bits of his soul and mind were like children: bored of one task and set to the other. It was hopeless to catch and scold them. The little misfits. Leave them to their devices, he thought. It was a private place—his place.

The red strain on the walls turned grim, and he looked into the eyes of a child, cradling that small face in his palms. It was the face of his father, his mother . . . and then it was his own; but the innocent bundle of bones and muscles changed still more, and it was Sasuke! The motions of lust impeded in these moments, and all that was left was emptiness and sadness and loneliness in the eyes of his mother, his father, and his little Sasuke, his little darling—a bud shaking and in peril in the new wind.

His lips began to tremble, and he did not know when it hitched his breath a little, and he put that palm upon his eyes, shielding them from the world. Everything was the dark flames of his Clan's eyes, hurting and burning little pieces of him. Then ache stabbed into his heart, his father's heart. It was a different ache; and fear and love and sadness fell from the wound, torn agape by his own hands, the mechanisms of his sad, little, unhinged mind.

Itachi, Fugaku's darling, the little babe in the cradle of his arms, lost somewhere in the depths of dishonour and fears, drowning like the man gasping for the surface; but he was a babe no longer. Much was lost . . . much. The feeling went away and so did the sounds, and his heart became a lonely sepulchre. He woke up to the room steeped in silence. A dark shroud lay upon the sky's visage and wind was cool. It was night and sun was gone. Another night. Another time.

A sound came from the door and he listened. He was needed for the theatrical show in the hall. How foolish were these frivolities? He sat up, feeling his limbs ache and burn. It would pass. It always did. He took off his sweaty shirt and grabbed another one. His Anbu jacket had to be worn, too. It was an official business—a serious business.

When Itachi left the room and climbed down the stairs, the crowd had subsided into silence. The room was large and Kiyo had reserved a place for him upon the cushion beside her. There was a smile in her eyes and red paint on her lips. It was a different kind of conquering and leering smile. Shadows danced across her white bosom and her face that was still painted in a customary show of a deft actress.

He was silent. He said no words and none captured his tongue enough to make him slip. He walked, and then he sat down beside her. It was a show of dancers. They swayed and sighed. Prostitutes. They were here to name their price behind the sensuous movements of their limbs and back. They cringed on the floor there and bowed down, arching their backs. Then they raised their heads and rumps into the lordosis posture as though they wished to be mounted on the stage.

Murmurs rose from the men sitting on his right. One of the over-dressed, fat one had his eyes set upon the one wearing a red kimono. What had she set her gaze to? He could not say. Kikyo let out a girlish laugh beside him, fluttering her fan as though she was in heat; but, at that moment, something so peculiar happened: his eyes went to a man bowing to Kikyo from across the room.

She whispered to him that he was a man working for her; but his chakra . . . it had a quick pattern—the kind his little sibling had. And he slightly bent his head down and hid his face in the shadows. His eyes gained red, and he felt the smile touch his eyes and it was a cold smile. Control. Control. Control. He had all of it now!

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It was another night—another day was gone. The accursed crow. He hated the thought of being a little insect under its beak. It had pecked the freedom out of him, poked it out, and the innards of the last bits of his patience were falling out. It was a hopeless struggle. Why would it not disappear? The air sighed, a needy little thing that wanted the sun's warmth. Well, it was gone!

The walk home was a lonely one. Naruto had not come by. Was he ill? He was sure that the seal would hold, but Karin had made no promises. Sakura . . . it had to be her. She had to be the snake devouring him. She was always an obsessed little thing. Reason was beyond her. She was a fool. He had little desire to taint his hands with another murder, but if she was involved in the designs of his demise, it was justice to pay her back!

Sasuke cared little for her lust and desires. He was not obliged to indulge her. Her mentor . . . she always made it seem as though it was a moral dilemma to save himself from her insanity. How she looked at him wrong as if he was a kind of madman who stayed cooped up in his home, playing with forbidden Kinjutsu at the cost of many lives. Her accusations were subtle, yet absurd.

It was another problem, another issue for him to bury. The thrill of child's play was gone: it was serious and deadly now. He never thought it would be so tough as he struggled day and night to fell his enemies, cut off greedy snakes sitting in his sleeves, like a gangrenous foot. The air was cold, but it felt fetid and hot. The wind held the tiny voices of his schemes. They were his little children—babes with their own minds—but he had disciplined them. He was too stubborn to allow them an easy chance to play.

The sounds of the chimes upon the door and the whistling that escaped the well drew him there. It was the same old path and the same old manor. Everything was the same: the cold and detached demeanour of his brother that remained, and the empty room of his parents. Gone. Just like that. Life was fragile. He breathed in deeply and stepped into the house. The crow cawed behind the main-door, but he fastened the latch on the door. Tonight, he truly did not care for its prying nature.

He took off his sandals and made his way to his own room. Sleep beckoned him. He had only made it halfway down the corridor when Rao spoke: "Sasuke, is that you?"

He turned around and stepped into the sitting area. She sat there with her back stooped, eyes shining in the light like pearls, and a smile was on her aged face. "Obā-San, you haven't gone to bed?" he asked, looking at her curiously. "Nii-Sama will be angry with me if he hears that I kept you awake. I told Tanaka to tell you that I'd be eating in the hall. I hope you aren't hungry. Did he give you dinner?"

"Concerned about me, are you?" she asked and let out a laugh. Sasuke did not say anything, and in spite of himself, he smiled.

"Come here. Put your head in my lap, and tell me what you did today," she spoke and tapped her hand lightly on her thigh.

Quietly, he made his way around the table and sat down. Then he stretched his legs out and pressed his back to the mat-covered floor and placed his head on her lap. Rao moved her fingers through his hair, and he told her of all the mundane things he did today. How one of the foolish new ninjas in his team nearly blew up one of the trainee dogs of Inuzuka Clan, and the grave injuries of one of his new Medics. How the weather was a bit cold today. And how much he resented Itachi's unfair treatment of him; but he kept the secrets. He said no more than it was necessary. It was easy to make her happy. She was an old woman with an older heart.

Rao bent her head down and placed kisses on his cheeks and forehead and lips. He felt that she always treated him like a little child. The little matter of tales was done. He said his goodnights and led her to her room. She patted his head affectionately and went to sleep. He, too, made it to his room again. When he opened the door, the fire was lit and the room was warm, and there on the table was another scroll-letter. He could tell it was from his sibling.

Sasuke closed the door and sat down and stretched his feet to the fire. Then, even though he did not want to, he picked up the scroll from the table. He unrolled it and ran his eyes down the words:

Sasuke,

In this time of biting cold, I wonder if your heart is in the right place . . .

Things are not always what they seem. Truths are elusive. You do not see things the way I do. It makes us different, yet it does not make us wrong. Otō-Sama was the same. He was different than I. I was to him what you are to me: someone who is my own, but is so different from the way I imagine things to be.

Is it wrong to be so different when I, the older one, have to be wiser, as well? Perhaps. I do not know. There are many things I do not know of. Your brother is not as perfect as you believe him to be. I, too, am a man of faults. What ails you? It may be strange to ask of you to pour out your heart to me. We all have our secrets: the little things we do not choose to share. I have them, as well. I would never be rude and unkind as to ask of you to bear such a burden; but you can still tell me of the things that anger you and cause you grief.

You thought of him as someone who was distant to you, but that was not true. He was not a very expressive man. He hid his emotions. It was a sign of strength. It still is in our Clan. We exhibit our emotions through our visions. It is the way of things. I may . . . question this notion, yet I will not change it. For your sake . . .

Wars and the Clan's burdens had made him hard. He was kind to you in his own way. The death of his brothers before you came into this world made him seem uncaring. I saw light in his eyes when he saw you the first time. He was happy. There was a smile upon his unyielding lips.

When you used to lie down in the sitting room, he would stroke your hair and you would stir, thinking that it was me, or perhaps, Okā-San—a callous hand that knew love. The strangeness of fatherhood and tenderness . . . that was all that there was in his gestures. He did not know how to be forthcoming. It was not in his nature.

There are many things that are not a part of my nature—many things that are not a part of yours. We are different; but you are still my brother, and I will always care for you. Differences should never come between families. It destroys them. I have seen it with my own eyes. When I return, I want you to tell me what is in your heart, and I shall try to be someone you desire me to be.

I do not want you to slink away into darkness, with grief in your heart. Share your burdens so that it may lighten your spirits. I am offering this to you when this was something that was never offered to me . . .

Take care of yourself and of your health. Autumn can be cold and cruel.

Itachi.

The letter ended. There was nothing more to read. He tossed it into the fire. The scroll burnt, and then it was no more than floaty ashes in the fireplace. Itachi's words hurt him. After all these years, why was he telling him of this now? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. His brother was such a liar . . .

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EN: The poison of the 'wandering spider' gives men a glorious (and very painful) erection for several hours. Its bite is quite painful, as well. Albeit not the same thing that happened in this chapter, I still thought it was necessary to inform my readers that there is some truth in that scene.

Also, I don't like using italics unless it doesn't become absolutely necessary. I believe you can tell where the letter starts and ends. I only use italics for a paragraph or two. Anything more makes my eyes hurt. (It's a practice I absolutely despise!)