Chapter Fifty-Two: A Grave Illness
AN: In Japan, children sleep between their parents (in traditional families). It's an enactment of the River character in the Japanese Language.
Canon-Manga Info: I'm not a part of this rivalry between Hinata and Sakura lovers, nor do I care for it. I'll only show what the canon illustrates, and Sakura is a much stronger, faster, and resilient and an intelligent shinobi compared to Hinata. The latter has no strategic or analytic feats when the former has plenty. Give the credit where it's due and don't let likeness or dis-likeness for a character cloud your objectivity. In fact, early Shippūden Sakura (the one that took part in the bell-test with Naruto against Kakashi) absolutely pulverizes any version of Hinata. Mind you, she has Ōtsutsuki Hamura's blood, not his chakra; so this goddess version of Hinata doesn't exist in any known canon universe. Her performance against Toneri's puppets is proof enough. If she had it, she would've easily taken on Momoshiki or Kinshiki or done something to aid her husband. Instead, she got knocked out off-screen (in Boruto: The Movie) and was healed by Sakura, without contributing anything to the rescue of her husband or any civilians.
That's not to say that Hinata is completely talentless as her serviceable mastery over the 'Lion Fists' shows that she's somewhat decent, given that it requires good chakra control to master; however, there are tiers in the manga and Sakura simply surpasses her on every front. Despite being from the Head family and training with a rare prodigy like Neji, she barely performed 'sixty-four palms' unsuccessfully on a Jūbi clone (it was still getting up, and she had to activate her 'Twin Lion Fists') and still didn't know 'One Body Blow' and 'Kaiten'. And many years later, she still doesn't (she's the only Chūnin in K-13 save Sasuke and Naruto); Neji was never taught these as he's from the Branch family: he learnt them by simply listening to the Head Branch members; thus, keep everything in mind as I'm only showing Hinata's development and struggles as a Shinobi (Naruto's to an extent, too). The rest have been knocked down several pegs to keep this a balanced affair, which includes Sakura.
# # # # # #
Night, a young mistress—the kind that sighed and moaned between the soiled sheets but denied the wanting man any company. A bitter wind was blowing in from the north. It would take time for the cold fronts to envelop Konoha's skies and change the weather there; but Winter was almost speaking; Autumn was nearly fearful of its slow awakening. Its designs had woken, and it would see the life left behind in Autumn's wake and a few graves. Winter would complete that happy reaping with unfriendly abandon.
When sun deserted the sky at night, it became bitter and windy. The early snow threatened his health. He was already a little fragile. His fever was in control, but it was not that his body had been given a chance to heal. The crows wrung out the last bits of his patience from him. This task was nothing more than an annoyance now.
The official missives from Tsunade had no meaning: her succinct replies said little to soothe his worries. She stated that the matters were fine there in Konoha; yet, somehow, he felt that she was lying. It did not feel right. A seed from fear's bough had gone into his heart, and it sent out an unusual alarm every day, every hour, every moment. It was a kind of paranoia he had not felt in a long time. Sasuke . . .
He left the wild child behind, left his watchful eyes behind his back to keep him out of trouble, but he knew it was not enough. Had he been given some time, he would have taken Sasuke with him to another city in the Fire Country for a few months. He had not taken a good long leave in so long. It would have been enough to take the child's mind off this deadly game he willingly and happily became a part of.
He needed a little time to be kind to Sasuke, let him know that he was not alone and that he did not need to win an unwinnable battle . . . as nothing he would do would undo the past. It was done. It was over. And he knew that, in the end, Truth would cause his wild, unyielding, fiery heart more grief; it was still a child's heart that elated with an innocent vanity of winning games and grew resentful at losing them. Yes, he was still a child—a pure child.
As a child, Sasuke would weep and weep, and he did not know what to do then. The empty room of their parents terrified Sasuke; he used to sleep between them often, clinging to Mikoto's breast in the nights, disturbed by storms. His forays into his room were always the playfulness of a child, yet when they were gone, he thought it necessary for Sasuke to sleep beside him. His new eyes became a terrible burden for them both . . .
A deep sigh came from his breast, and he closed his eyes. Something in his mind expanded like the sky, and there, upon that black and bleak horizon, paranoia and omens met in an eerie way. Fear's ineradicable seed was sown deep into his heart, and he felt a tiny bud dig its way out from that untrodden soil, frantically. It was only a bud—a young bud. There was no need for it to flourish. He could cut off its head with a sickle and grant it a premature death and then he would rest easy. Sleep easy.
The night bird that was singing somewhere in the forest fell silent. It was quiet now. The quiet burrowed into his ears that now he heard a ringing-like low-pitched sound: he had damaged some of the nerve hairs in his ear; a paper-bomb went off near him when he was on a mission in his boyhood. The medics healed the superficial damage, but, by the time he noticed it, his entire auditory cortex had embraced this new pattern.
It was irksome. He always needed a white-noise to make him sleep. It was strange. He loved and craved silence and quiet, and yet, they had become his worst enemies. He always had the steady company of sounds to put his mind at ease: soft breathing of a child, drumming sound of rain, words from his father, stream in the garden, songs from Mikoto's lips, hot panting of a woman's breath . . .
A smile's ghost rose to his lips as he stood in wait by the window for another song. The song rose and came to him again, and he was soothed. It was a delightful feeling of peace after the rattle of an unseen force. Kikyo laughed by his side, and he turned his eyes to look at her face: it was not painted as carefully as she usually did—it was painted like the face she wore in that warm winter's night.
She turned her face and it came into the half-moon's light—cheeks hot, lips curled, eyes lustful. A gleam of the blade's shine flickered behind her back. A sword-stand was set close to the wall. It was made to hold three good swords, but he could only see one. Her men had probably taken the rest.
She looked at him intently, staring into his eyes as though she could see his scattered thoughts, and spoke as sweetly as she always did: "what's made you smile so softly? I've never gazed upon such a smile on your lips."
He looked at her for a brief moment, a red shine flickering from his eyes. "Why did you not investigate your men's slaughter at the hands of bandits close to Konoha?" he asked, and she turned her face towards the dark, and it closed down on her face and bosom. The contours of her features were cast in shadows.
"So unfair, Itachi-Sama," Kikyo said and put her hand delicately to her bosom. "You ask for many things in return for a little request. I just wanted to know what made you happy." And then she was smiling that bold smile of hers.
"It is not a matter of fairness, but of principle," Itachi spoke in a very cold voice and turned his head to look outside the open window again. This outpost sat atop a cliff. It was held there by seals, good woodwork, and many miracles. If he was honest with himself, the thought of it sliding down the cliff to get smashed onto the rocks gave him three uneasy nights.
Itachi heard her breathe deeply, and then she stepped closer. "You still don't trust me?" Kikyo asked in a sad voice he knew to be fake, and he turned his eyes slightly to bore his gaze into hers. She stepped closer still, and her body warmed. His Sharingan saw it all: her blood's speed whilst it energised her veins like water in a tree's thirsty boughs.
He chose silence, and his eyes went back to the forest and the shadows that slithered there round the trees, under the cliffs, in the black and wave-less lake's waters. His ears wriggled, and a new sound mingled with the hum of the night birds and insects deep in the forest. It was a sound of steps.
A knock came upon the door. He turned and spoke, "come in, Karin."
Karin stepped a little daintily into the room, barefooted like he. The wood was polished and clean, and her feet squeaked as she stopped by the fireplace. It was burning brightly. Cool shadows lay upon half her face and the other half was illuminated by fire, her hair fire-struck and bright in the light.
"The bandits got away," Karin said and took in a deep breath. "They were probably tipped off by someone. I think they erased their chakra. They know I'm a Sensor." Her gaze wandered from a faintly sly look on Itachi's face to Kikyo's smiling eyes.
"Troublesome bandits," Itachi paused, sounding almost delighted, "always ahead of the game. They should be hired by the military as they are making fools of us all. Alas, the villages can be inflexible."
"Itachi-Sama, we should—"
"You should use your Sensing to get them first in the mountains," Kikyo cut her off, hiding her face behind another red fan—she appeared to have a great stash of those. "My men have told me that they might be hiding close to Rain this time."
"I don't take orders from you, woman!" Karin said harshly, and her pink mouth vanished into a razor line. Kikyo let out a pleasant laugh, but she said nothing.
"Tell Serizawa to get the scrolls. We leave in fifteen minutes," Itachi spoke and watched as she bowed low and left the room in silence, after she pierced Kikyo with the fiercest glare.
"Feisty, isn't she?" she asked, but it came out more like an accusation. "Did you take her to bed, too, Itachi-Sama?"
"Good grief, no," he spoke tersely and there was no shade of humour on his features. He turned around and began to look at the forest again. Irritation came to her face, but she quickly overpowered it.
"I was thinking that it's her that makes you happy here—sometimes," she said, and her usually simpering voice was still laced with accusation. "You must love someone. We all do . . . " and she said in a sweeter whisper this time. Her hand reached out to the bare tip of his shoulder, and she traced the path of warm blood in his vein with her fingers, feeling the healed wound there.
"Tell me," she spoke and slipped her fingers under the black glove and pulled it down. Then she pressed her lips to the skin above his elbow, waiting for some reaction, but still he did not stir and she decided to speak again—more softly and more sweetly this time: "who makes you happy? Is it the memories of your dead parents? I've heard that they were killed quite gruesomely. A belief? A woman? Or is it your brother? His smiles, his laughs, just the sight of him that makes you happy? Tell me, Itachi-Sama? You must love someone."
Kikyo tilted her head, and her eyes traced the lines of his features cast in a perfect mould, bathed in the whitest shafts of moonlight. His face was without emotion—it did not seem that he felt anything for anyone. Even his eyes, veiled by long lashes, did not have any emotion in them. There was nothing there but an empty passion's deep colour, and it made her shiver. He was a stone, and when she drew closer and pressed her breasts against his arm, he turned his face to look back at her.
"What are you doing? I do not have time to play with you," Itachi spoke and the glassy sheen of his red eyes filled with danger that did not disturb the rest of his face.
Kikyo drew back quickly as though he was a flame that had burnt her skin raw, but she grabbed hold of his hand and placed his glove and her fan on the table by the window. "Your mind and body, a meld of perfection, but your heart's black and cold," she said in a voice as if she was sad and hurt. Then she brought his fingers to her lips and took one into her mouth and bit its tip playfully, scraping it lightly with her teeth.
"I did not allow you to come into my chamber for I had a desire to dandle a child tonight," he spoke and still he sounded so distant. "Your intelligence reports are unsatisfactory. Do you want to end this, or do you only enjoy playing?" He bent his head and looked into her eyes. His face was hard this time as he pulled back his hand from her slackened grip.
"You make it seem so dirty," she said a little heatedly, offended. "And why do you call me a child? It seems obscene to me that you allowed a woman to come near you, many times over, whom you believe to be a child." Her cheeks grew bright red, and her mouth drew down into a deep frown.
"You behave like a girl child, yet you want to be treated like a woman?" he asked and suddenly he looked amused in a manner as though he was mocking her.
She breathed in and out deeply a few times, and then her mouth rebounded into another clever smile. "You're being unfair again," she said, and her tone cleverly changed to a forgiving one. She was such an actress. "Why don't you stay? I shall give you such pleasure . . . " There was a full smile on her pretty face now, and she moved between him and the window.
A sharp light cracked down upon them from the sky, and a puff of air blew a hair across his cheek. She looked black in the shadows, but his Sharingan saw lovely colours in her heaving bosom and the sweat that oozed out from between her breasts. He had allowed himself to play, with her, many times in a span of one week.
How many times had he lain with her? She always came to him in the dead of the night—sometimes when it was dawn, too—and he never sent her away. She was convenient, a willing woman in the waking poison's presence in his blood; yet it was more than that. She was also naïve. She felt that these tricks would mould his heart for her, change his decision—a child's seduction. It was a futile game, and he did not want to end this show of desperate passions.
And she wanted to be touched in such girl-ish ways, and he obliged for that was what it took to make her delirious, leave her panting and willing for more carnal meetings. She was so charmed that he did not think it was just the alliance that drew her to him with lust in her heart. No, it was also pleasure, a deep, sinister pleasure; the kind that made her breath hitch, beaded her bosom, made her painted-lips swell as they parted on moans without restraint in his chamber; a pleasure that was new to her body; a temple that lost its purity to a willing act of natural desecrations; she had ruined it herself, sweetly—or so a devout Hyūga woman would say; yet what was youth's temple without sacrileges? A boring place . . .
Ugly passions, ugly things, pleas for intimate acts and timid touches—they never made his heart sway like a desperate lover's. Kisses, lovely and soft kisses, he denied them. A light press of the lips to the moist seep of pleasure, a warm, chakra-infused breath against the aching emptiness . . . that was enough. He did it for they were pleas from her lips, her sensuous body and its uncontrolled trembling.
She was an easy girl. It was easy to please her, create an arch in her lovely back. A paroxysmal excitement in the air. A shuddering in the limbs. A perilous lust. A desperate time. She had no idea how foolish she was—he had slightly overestimated her at their initial meeting.
Itachi grabbed his glove from the table and turned away, a faint ire upon his face. He sat down on the large futon and grabbed the sword from the side-table and began to strap it to the back of his Anbu Jacket.
Kikyo, looking a little wary, approached him again in a hesitant manner. She sat close to him but made no attempt to touch him in any way. The light of the lantern, sitting on the side-table, made his red eyes gleam dangerously; he was a predator, ferocious in the dark.
She gulped once, unsure of herself, but quelled her fear enough to speak. "We're alike—you and I," she said with an uneasy hesitation, and to her surprise, his lips twitched as though he was about to laugh. The emotion passed so quickly from his face like a sudden burst of light. She did not even get a chance to see it fully.
"Are we?" he asked, giving her a sidelong look, whilst he counted the Kunais habitually. His face was expressionless again, though she could tell that he was very slightly amused.
"Come now, Itachi-Sama," she said, her manner of speaking perky, and she was not a very perky girl, "you don't think that's true?"
He was silent. The shadows flickered on the side of his white cheek and the wall behind him. The red did not go from his eyes—the stain shone defiantly there. It was not going away, and it mesmerised her, made her so afraid of the dangerous game she was playing.
"My father was a brute. He broke my mother's ankle once—stomped on it—broke the bone in two," she said, and when he looked at her impassively, she was smiling. "She couldn't walk for months—poor thing. I nursed her back to health. I loved her, you see, but my father loved me, cherished me like he knew no other." She widened her eyes as if it was an exciting children's tale.
And she went on: "love can be terrible. I never loved him, but he always told me that I was the light of his eyes, the warmth in his heart and soul. I was his everything, but I never felt the same. And when he died, I felt free, like my mother had been avenged of his cruelties. I thought of him as an adversary to overcome—to leave behind. His love didn't mean a thing to me. I thought of him as a clever trickster." The light flashed into the room, and she saw his eyes again; they were still . . . empty. She wanted to read something there to create a perfect net of deception, but it was hopeless—for now.
As shadows' slivers traversed his face, she locked her eyes with his, feeling her bursting breast heave with lust and a tongue-less longing. "Do you think it hurt him, Itachi-Sama?" she asked and curled her fingers around his un-gloved hand. "Do you think it hurts you the same?"
Her words brought out little from his eyes. Amusement hovered above them, an ominous ghost. "Perhaps you should have asked him. Alas, he passed away. A missed opportunity," he spoke and smiled his habitual cold smile, his eyes flashing from beneath his tar-black hair. "I am sure he will be sorely missed." That amused smile did not reveal itself again: it touched his eyes and vanished.
"You hurt me," Kikyo said in a mellifluous, seductive tone. Then she climbed onto the futon and raised herself on her knees and parted her thighs as if she wanted to be taken in that posture. She stretched forth her thin white hand to his un-gloved one again, grabbed it with a new strength in her fingers, and she placed it between her legs and stroked the inside of her thigh with his fingers.
"You are insistent," Itachi spoke, a hint of displeasure in his usually expressionless voice. His fingers raked up her inner thighs, and the heel of his hand grazed the curls between her legs. "You would not leave this alone till you are not touched, would you? You are an irksome, needy little girl . . . "
Kikyo shuddered from the bitterness in his words and the feel of his fingers that felt hot and slippery on her genitals. A pretty colour, like the first sake-drops, spread on her cheeks, and she began to look inebriated. Her eyes fluttered and she bent forward, leaning against him and dropping her head on his shoulder.
She parted her thighs wider and wider, whispering, shuddering, a moist flood travelling down her thighs; her lips wet against his nape and they trembled—too weak to plant any kisses there this time. She just whimpered, clinging to him, feeling him touch her there, around the flesh, on the flesh, in the tight flesh that wanted something to fill her more, fill her full. He had touched her there before at her behest, but she felt so desperate now. It was unfair of him to play hard to get all of a sudden when he had not denied her for many morns and nights.
And a sudden tide filled her full now, and he felt a wild spray of her desperation on the palm of his hand. A shaking, weak breath came from her lips, and she fell back and he, too, pulled his hand away. "Stay here," she sighed out so meekly that it almost surprised him. "This won't satisfy me." And her desire shone brightly from her eyes.
He grabbed the corner of her Kimono and wiped his hand clean on it. Then he grabbed his glove and left the room in silence . . . without looking behind at the dangerous anger that warped her lovely face in an ugly way.
The night was calm. The storm that was coming this way had changed its direction. It went to the west to show its anger to another village; and he waited and waited for the man to bring him the scroll from Tsunade. He was getting weary of it all. If it did not have anything in it this time, he would have to rethink his part in Tsunade's quest for a full Council control. He had not thrown in his kunai for all this . . .
Serizawa brought the scroll with him from inside the office. It was a post-office with mews in the back. Hawks and Falcons came and went with the mail. Karin was sensing by the shrine that stood in the post-office's shadow. What was Tsunade thinking sending it here like this?
"Read it. I am too weary for another empty missive that means little," Itachi commanded, looking at Karin who was busy with the task he had given her whilst she stood some twenty yards away.
Serizawa fumbled with the scroll, lowering his eyes. Itachi looked angry, in his own peculiar way. He unrolled it and read the details. They surprised him and he raised his eyes and looked at him with a sheepish expression. "It's just like you said, Itachi-Sama," he said, looking and sounding shocked, "Cloud had hired her to investigate Danzō's ties with Mist in the past . . . "
A smile did not make his lips tremble this time. No, he felt it in his eyes. The irksome, needy little girl was too predictable . . .
# # # # # #
Suigetsu stood beside him, wearing his customary ground-length cloak, chuckling. Next to him, Naruto looked downright whimsical. Everything was awash in grey colours, filtered into unkind tones. If it was not for the scene before Sasuke, today would have been another boring day. It was Report Day. The most hated day of the month. He loathed it with passion. It was tiresome to see his ninjas spar and write hours upon hours of lengthy recommendations, which he was certain his brother gave a single glance to and threw away in the dustbin under his table (with a sure smile on his sober face). He always had been a cruel perfectionist.
But today was a little different. Today, he got to throw one weeping freeloader out, see Naruto's progress, and to his delight, he was close to making his new Futon-infused Rasengan with a single hand. It was something big for his friend; that and Hinata and Sakura were sparring. If only it was not so obscenely one-sided. If he had not stopped Sakura from using her Byakugō, she would have crushed the Hyūga girl into a thick red paste by now. Neji was downright dejected.
Hinata was getting thrown around like a rag-doll all over the place. She would swivel around and try and hit Sakura's chakra points, but it was a hopeless tactic. Speed was not on her side. Sakura was simply too fast for her. He had to admit, she had taken his criticism to heart that day and improved. She was faster, more dexterous this time. She was working hard to get into Anbu. All for the better. If she did not turn out to be the culprit, she would be out of Naruto's hair for good. The foolish romantic would focus on his own life and hone his talents—for once.
A whack resounded; the ground was crushed; Hinata went flying into some trees and was knocked against a couple of thick branches. She fell down and struggled to get to her feet. Sakura looked happy. He would have to forward her Jōnin application now. It was only fair.
"Yor wife's bein' savagely slapped like the rump a' whore," Suigetsu said, chuckling. He was chewing on a straw clamped between his razor-sharp teeth.
A disgusted expression rose to Naruto's face, and he looked to Sasuke. "Sasuke, this man is vulgar," he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
"Tell me something new," Sasuke said and folded his arms across his breast.
"Ya could've chewed on her pussy some more, and she wouldn't have ta join this bloody army. She ain't made fer this life. It looks bleak fer 'er, mate. 'Am just sayin'," he said and spat out the straw from his mouth.
"And I suppose you have the experience of tasting so many—" he stopped, looking so offended as though he did not want to say the word, "—pussies!" he almost choked out the word that it came out like a croak. He turned red as a tomato and sharply turned his head away.
Suigetsu let out a loud laugh, and Sasuke sighed out. Suigetsu was at it again; Naruto was too innocent for this silly talk. " 'Course I do!" he said, with determination on his face, and slammed his fist into his breast as if he was about to give a speech of valour before the Shinobis. "We 'ave a motto, lads!"
"We?" Sasuke asked, feigning surprise and emitted a soft chuckle. Even Naruto looked a little curious.
"No, the men frem me mighty Hōzuki Clan!" he said aloud and raised his hands into the air. "We lads say, no muff too tough, we grow gills fer the thrills! We called it, the muff-divers-clan-association!"
Sasuke emitted a short bark of laughter behind his hands, his shoulders heaving, his cheeks growing so red. Naruto had an odd, baffled look on his face. He did not get a word of it . . .
"Yes, I've heard about you men," Sasuke said and wiped a hand across his eyes. "That's why it went so fantastic with that Cloud woman last year, no?"
Suigetsu's mouth hung open in shock, but he quickly regained his composure. "So what if she pissed on me? I've got meself a fetish!" he said with utmost confidence and cocked his nose with an air of supercilious vanity as though this 'motto' was a real thing.
Naruto's eyes popped out—he could not believe what he was hearing! It sounded so dirty. Filthy. Vulgar. He loved Sakura-Chan. He pleased her in many ways, but urine was where he drew the line! "Sasuke," Naruto said and placed his hand on Sasuke's head, appearing very sincere, "this man's spoiling you. If your brother finds out, he'll faint with shame. He'll be crazy mad, I swear it—that you—that you've been hanging around a guy who lets women piss on him. Think of his blood-pressure!" Then he made a thinking face. "Does he have a blood-pressure problem?"
"The hell I am!" Suigetsu yelled. " 'Am the man he made me. Ya don't know the half of it, ya egg-haired goof!"
Before Naruto could say something, Hinata flew again to the left and hit another tree and fell down, but this time, she moved no more. Sasuke gazed at Neji; he looked disappointed. At least, she had defeated two Chūnins on his team. She was ready for the next trial. His brother would have little on him to throw her out. He looked at the crow and created a smile as though Itachi was actually looking at him.
"Go to your wife and say few kind words to her," Sasuke said to Naruto who suddenly looked very guilty and then gazed at Neji who was helping her on her feet. "She might need them from you this time."
Naruto did not protest and slowly made his way to Hinata. Shock permeated her face, but she let him grab her hand for support. Yuu approached him with the report from the infirmary. One of his men got injured a week ago on a mission. He was a young Trainee Medic. He fell down a tricky trap and suffered severe lacerations. His condition was stable now. He was relieved. The trainee was a talented boy of fourteen.
He had Raiton affinity like him, and his chakra control was phenomenal for his age. He was thinking about making a good shinobi out of him, who would aid him in healing, as well. He would replace Sakura with him. The thought made him raise his eyes, and he saw her leaving the grounds all on her own.
Sasuke followed her, with Yuu in his wake. The sky rumbled, and a drizzle fell down on his warm face and it felt cold upon his skin. "Where are you going?" he finally asked, not wanting to pursue her foolishly any longer.
Sakura stopped and turned around, surprised. "I have to prepare a medicine for an Anbu soldier. Itachi-Sama left me with the task," she said, her green eyes raking his face ferociously.
"I have a mission for you," he said, and a ripple of unwanted irritation crossed his face when he heard the crow caw behind him. The damned thing never left him alone!
Stealing a glance at the red-eyed crow, Sakura returned her eyes to Sasuke's mildly troubled features. "I'll do it after I'm done with the task," she said, and he heard a note of wild resentment in her voice. Then she turned around and walked away towards the densest fog that stood between the grounds and Leaf's narrow streets.
Yuu stepped forward and parted his lips to call out to her, but Sasuke put his arm in front of him. "Let her go," Sasuke said and turned around to face him as he smiled, "let her fly high. I'll drag her face-first to the ground. This is the third time she's disobeyed me. She thinks I don't know all the rules. She thinks herself to be so clever. Let Nii-Sama come. Let's see if he coddles her this time."
And then he walked back to the grounds, an angry glint in his eyes. Yuu breathed in deeply—she was making things more difficult for herself . . .
The steps back home were affected by a flood of thoughts. They were unsteady, shaky. She did not know why she was even doing all this. For whom? An unsteady breath made her heart answer. Her father? Her mother? Her Konoha? For . . . Sasuke? Puffs of wind blew in her face. Winter was cold on the heels of autumn; and Sakura flowers, almost dead. Few resilient ones adorned the dry branches. They, too, would perish in winter's rains. The winds would kill them.
She did not know why, but the thought made her sad. The Purple Lilies remained and Sakura wilted as it waited and waited for the pink moths to bring something of the lily back to her; but the impassioned pink moths always died, drawn to the cruel Purple Moths for pleasures fleeting. The sons survived and the daughters always perished. Always . . .
Sakura stopped by the gate of her house, hand squeezing the knot of cloth tightly. She looked down and saw a pink moth writhing pitifully by her sandals. It was dying. The show of death was cruel; her lips went dry and silent and torrential tears streamed from her green eyes—their white pools flecked with stings of pink pain and passion.
She bent down and, with shaking fingers, picked it up from the ground. It fluttered and jumped into the air, its belly filled full with a purple poison. The colour looked vulgar beneath the thin layer of pink, like something big and thick was buried there in a cruel ritual of coitus. She kept watching it till she could see it like this no longer; and she made a soft fist of her hand to hide it there and stepped into her house and called to her mother. She came running and took the cloth from her hand.
Sakura went to her room first and placed the moth there on the small table by the purple lantern, thinking that, perhaps, the light of something it craved so much would soothe the pain of death. She made her way to her father's room. The old partition screen was folded there. It let in a faint, bleak kind of light she did not like. It struck her father's sleeping face, and he looked fragile and old, older than his years. This grave illness had left him hollow and frail.
She sat down on the bed beside him and fed him the medicine made from the ingredients Danzō had procured for her. They were illegal in the Fire Country. Even the Kinjutsus it required were not allowed here. Only few no-named nomadic villages grew these herbs. She had pleaded before Tsunade to get them for her, but she was bound by law. If Danzō had not offered her aid, her father would have died two years ago.
Yet it was only prolonging the inevitable. Silently, Sakura got up, said a few reassuring words to her mother, went to her own room. She locked it from the inside this time and slumped down beside the table. The moth was dead—it moved no more. It was as if its death had sapped the life from her body, too.
A sudden feeling of loss gave her cold shudders in every fibre; and she grabbed the needle and punctured the dead moth's bulbous belly. The poison, as expected, had turned a little pink now, diluted and weakened by a weak defence mechanism of its own tiny body; it was by Nature's design. She grabbed a phial and positioned it underneath the moth and squeezed its belly a little. A few drops fell down. That was all she needed.
Sakura put the stopper in the phial and placed it in a wooden holder sitting on the table. It was half-full, filled with a clear pink poison that was deadly. This one phial of it was enough to kill a man. It was not as lethal as the one within the glands of the Autumn Moth. No, that one was much more sinister and evil. A little whiff of it was enough to induce a terrible, aching fever, and few of its deep-purple drops killed a robust man in moments; but she knew that, if the right amount of this distilled pink one (which she had created by combining the essence from the lilies and pink moth's poison) went into the skin, it, too, could grant the affected man an excruciating death within minutes. If he were to survive its administration, he would wish he had not . . .
She sighed, and then she started crying. She bent her head down as though she was trying to hide her shame again, watching as tears fell down on the shaking fists resting on her thighs. "Sasuke . . . " she whispered and that name fell from her lips so suddenly, unbidden, raw with a visceral want that never failed to rattle her body, " . . . why are you so cold to me?"
And her weeping grew in earnest as she raised her eyes and saw the hazy form of the moth through the shroud of painful tears. If he had embraced her, given her his love, she would have left her parents behind—left behind this loss that would be upon her in the future. Her eyes went back to the poison, and the tears stopped. The few of them that stubbornly clung to her pink cheeks made her skin itch. All he had to do was love her, and she would be free, free of everything, but he was not fair . . . he just was not fair . . .
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