Chapter Fifty-Eight: Brother against Brother
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The growing dusk of the house and the light of the moon that sailed behind the smothering grey shone into his sober eyes; and he saw his shadow drape itself over a mottle of pink and red there—sure signs of youth. Unsure eyes stared back at him and lost the red slowly.
A young night sang colours into his eyes and looked for darkness in his ears . . . purple wings scorching, searching in the purple light; Nature's fingers had stippled their wings—fluttering black eyes stared back at him, shadows dancing on the walls that closed in on him, revenge-soaked men advancing from battle.
He did not know what it was, but, as the blade moved across the throat, red flowed out in silence. A scream came from him as his body gave a shudder and denial deluged over him: his friend had not died alone in the water's black depths this time. Red bled in his eyes, and his body sang in pain, of which he had never known in his short life.
The scene before him was dismal and bleak. A slow black spread towards his sandals, and a strong smell of blood floated to him from the quiet, disturbed by the groans from wood beneath the body that convulsed under an unseen burden.
Rain came down, and the wood's pleas were muffled by its cold hands. It wanted to sing its own tune, drown out his word-less woes and loud stares. Its flashes glared at his tears, and he stared deep—O', so deep, touching the formless fabric that rippled there against a sound-less tune; its cold ripples travelled into his skin, and his flesh was alight with its song.
Red, red, red—the darkening red in his friend's throat and the dimming dull one in his eyes. A tune was played, and his heart trembled, sensed trepidations travel to its core to rattle his silent soul that sang out an unsung song. It shrieked and wounds tore open in his eyes and they, too, had sung—they, too, had felt . . . that sweetness of longing and passion and death.
Then they bled deep and they bled cold and there was no relief for his soul. He went down as the dark came over him, and wings cast the shadow on his back. His cheek met the red-smeared wood, putting a blush there; yet it hid it, too. He was a shy one still; but it would change. It always did.
And the red pinwheel spun in the wind, and the sight turned his eyes' pin-wheels into sharp instruments his hands would never wield. They cut through his eyes, little knives that metamorphosed into worms, and wriggled out. Reserved martyrs—his eyes bled, yet they remained affixed on the spectacle before them. What a delightful dance in protest, but his friend's spirit had not given up the hope to stay united with his flesh—an obscene conjoining: there was no greater intimacy to be had!
The thing came to him, silent and bold. He felt its fingers spread across his flesh, eyes still staring deep. They did not want to leave that place—that dark, dark place—in his friend's eyes. They had seen and they had felt and they had sung, but now they had to pay the price. Little hairs stood up, alert, and gooseflesh formed on his body. He had been so tempted to taste it, too.
Just a little sip . . . and the pain was immense. Infinite. Little hooks went deep into his bones and flesh, and he was strung up, a fish. They pried him open, breaking the seams, cleaving the tendrils, and he was cut open in ways that he had never thought possible. The faceless tormentor yanked at his spirit to let him go, but it could not. It was not the spirit's time to leave the chamber it loved to fill to the deepest depths his own thoughts had never plumbed.
His flesh opened here, there, everywhere, like a flower—bloody petals opening their mouths to the light of salvation and stab of absolution. It was not his time to go. Still, his stare did not waver whilst he looked at the shuddering, protesting spirit get dragged out from his friend's body. Blood spread copiously on the floor and flowed into the crevices and congealed there in the cold.
A smell of earth fought a relentless war against the stench, but it could not fend off its hard advance. Its sword was potent and its shield was cruel. The smell could not leave this chamber alone. Light and shadow danced and sang in the rain, but his pain was without end. His flesh was torn apart, limb from limb, yet there was not a cut on his white flesh that still possessed the suppleness of boyhood.
His friend's spirit was leaving, and his was being torn unwillingly from his body. The hooks pulled and yanked and drew it out of him. The little trickster had to take its leave, too. It had sung a song and called upon the great liberator. His jaws opened wide as screams filled his throat like rancid vomit. A wanton hand went deep into his throat and grabbed hold of his wet, sickly flesh, his very soul.
The fingers curled around its quaking form and dragged it out, and his body thrashed, his convulsions intensified, and he foamed at mouth, spewing blood; but the hand went in deeper, as though groping for bits of his spirit hiding in the crevices between bone and flesh.
Terror-tuned, his eyes rolled around in his sockets, and the world was dark as blood in the night. The retching sounds did not stop, and the hand went deeper still till it touched something in him . . . and his whole body went cold like a lonely grave. Everything stopped. The rain had gone silent. He had gone silent. A dark menace whispered into his ear sweetly, and his sight returned.
Then it was pulled out of him, a velvet red, and it flowed from his mouth, colouring his lips and teeth in a decadent colour. Red went out from his mouth like frightened snakes and slithered away from the lantern's light that was growing duller, sinister things that fled from light, and he was re-made in death, eyes staring at the wings, treble instruments of his fate.
Something thick struck the stones outside, and the moth flew away, and his eyes opened. The man before him stopped mid-motion, trembling at the shurikens spinning with an evil tune in his eyes—a silence he had felt and heard for the first time—in the longest time . . .
The man muttered an indistinct apology and averted his eyes and bent down to pick up the heavy padlock. His brow strained, legs shuddered a bit, and then he turned to pull open the heavy door. The nails grated against rust, and a stale, rot-laden air rushed out from the darkness undulating on the stairs: they had put out most of the lanterns. A bone-cold light lay on the wall (covered in a layer of dank neglect) and the black floor at the foot of the chiseled stairs.
The guard stepped back, shrinking away from his tall shadow. Its blackness was a vivid mirage, a vast carriage of wickedness. Tonight, the flower's glimmer was lost and lay tucked away behind the fortress made from neglect and shame and honour. He had to pluck it out of the ground again, plant it deep into his heart's forest and its gloom, watch it grow, and feel the ripples of joy change its . . . unfriendly disposition.
The guard walked a safe distance in his wake, taking timid and cautious steps as though he feared his ire; his shadow flickered and swayed away from him, almost folding into itself as they walked into the long and narrow corridor. There was nothing here but broken pipes and briny water's musty smell and cheap alcohol-soaked air caressed by night's hand.
Yet his shadow was sure as it slithered across the walls and twisted along the uneven stones like snakes as he walked. This time, there were no leaves to crunch and no lilies to distract his gaze: the lush field was a cell and the ground was a cold-stone floor. Nothing grew here but traces of fungi. It had fed upon the musk and sweat in the air to grow in the forgotten fissures.
A terrible odour rose into the air as he drew near the cluster of fading lilies. The cool air turned humid and sick, the lilies vanished, and the night was darker now—a disappearing memory from a long forgotten winter. The scent of them wriggled like a restless worm in his nose, and then it was gone, a tricky spectre, and left behind an airy image of a child lying still amongst their flickering colours for his changing eyes.
The veil lifted, slowly, beautifully, as he moved through the illusion dancing on quiet steps, and he beheld a child: his young flesh had filled up the mould of nature's change, and a young man sat on the floor in the memory's place, hardened by time, softened by boyhood, surrounded by the wilting flowers of Itachi's past. Moths had come and moths had fled, but one fluttered close, lingering there, and red shuddered and emanated from his eyes—that, too, wore their own faces—set in a face that related a rigid control that never faltered.
Something moved back, a languid motion of darkness' able hand, dispersed before his eyes, and they became accustomed to the nature of his surroundings. It was quite dirty in here. Filthy. Something slick and slimy was stuck to the side of the charcoal-coloured wall. He could not tell what it was as it wriggled there, shining in the light, going into the cracks for refuge as though his heavy shadow had invaded its quiet sanctuary: maggots?
Walls were grimed and candied with dirt and soaked through with autumn rains from the window. The floor was smeared in mud and dust that encrusted the little bumps, embedded in the gaps between the stones. Something festered between the layers, alive and wriggling, breeding unchecked. It was so quiet that the sounds of his breaths were enough to invade and lay waste to the silence; the light from this moon was shy. It had laid down its weapons before the battle even began.
Pale beams struck his back, distorted, spilt over his form's contours and, like hammers in the blacksmith's trusted hands, beat down the shadows of several bars on the young man's body, but he was unmoved as though he had borne and worn them for ages, made a pact with fate with a brave-hearted resignation.
A frown crossed Itachi's brow, throbbing there for a moment, out of place, and a look of utmost displeasure came into his face. Then it vanished, and his eyes settled on the youth who was but a boy child, just sitting there, legs folded underneath his thighs, back stooped like that of an old man's, and head bowed.
A collar was put around his neck, and a stout chain at the back was made fast to a big hook pegged deep into the wall. His hands were tied behind his back. They had removed his flak-jacket, but he was still wearing his office uniform . . . he was barefooted—a little white in the unforgiving dust of light. He was breathing slowly, and a little deeply, turning his face away from the light as he felt it tingle on his white skin, dirtied by sickness and rot that permeated the air like an invading pestilence.
He could not have seen it as an ornamented, Fuin-Jutsu seal-cloth of a dimity sort was wound round his eyes and tied at the back in a knot. It was meant to seal the sight and ears. Itachi doubted that he could feel much, but his shivering skin was an evidence of his working senses—the vibrations in the air had become his eyes and ears.
Itachi took a single step forward and watched the young man's face turn angry, almost resentful. A breath shuddered out of him, and he clenched his jaws for a moment before his face faded into the same soft look of resignation. Bits of dust sparkled in the light, a mockery of a man-created morn. Itachi did not like it at all.
A feeling of freezing anger rushed through Itachi's body. It was a tidal wave of change, mirrored by his eyes. Anger singed their surface, and they turned, bleeding there to show what his face could not. His shadow moved, still haunting an inch away from the child's shadow, as though saving it from its sinister mantle.
Itachi turned slightly and half his face was cast in light. The guard flinched again at the sight of his mien, clutching the padlock tightly as though it might slip and explode right at his feet if he dropped it again. "Why did you bring him here?" Itachi asked, eyes dangerous and bold.
"Itachi-Sama, I-I was told that the prisoner will be kept here till his—" he stopped and dragged in that terrible air that made him cough, "—execution." He lowered his head and eyes almost immediately and felt a rigid intensity come from Itachi's eyes and strike his spirit into submission. A chill vibrated in his bones, and he clutched the padlock harder as though he had it in his mind to cast it at Itachi's face as a last resort to save his neck.
"Open it," Itachi commanded, voice thick, and trained the eyes' light on the man's sweaty face; he was staring at Itachi, appearing quite dumbfounded, and not staring at him, too, but looking at something there in Itachi's eyes, something faceless and inwrought with a feeling that was as nameless as the sensation that had been nagging him ever since Itachi stepped foot into the prison about an hour ago.
"B-But I was—"
"Are you denying my command?" Itachi asked, and it sounded less like a question and more like another command, with a faint note of threat that was punctuated that much more by his humourless smile.
He flinched again, as if out of a new habit he had developed in the presence of a man he had never seen up-close till today, and moved, hand going into his pocket to pull out a thick set of keys.
The keys jangled as his hand fumbled to grab the right one. He lifted his head thrice and cracked a nervous grin, assuring Itachi that he was not doing this to make a fool out of him; he truly did not know which key was needed; the damned guard before him had left in a hurry after pressing these keys into his hand.
At last, he found the right one, rammed it into the keyhole, twisted it, and saw the seals burn and fade from the door. The man in the cell slightly stirred as he felt the vibrations and cold move up against his skin. Then he relaxed again, and his face went calm and suggested little of the misery and humiliation he had faced in this cell.
Itachi stepped into the cell, and his eyes fell upon the glass of water that lay untouched close to the boy's knee. The loaf of bread in the plate—under the shadow of his breast—had gone soggy and rotten: he had not touched it. The red was in slumber now, and Itachi watched, without that anchor, the cracks in his younger brother's lips: thirst and hunger had been his sure companions in this lonely cell.
There was a moment's pause before Itachi moved his own hands and made the seals to cancel out the Fuin-Jutsu bindings on Sasuke. A slow tremble flowed in a wave through Sasuke from the surroundings—sensations, sounds, feelings. He suddenly looked a bit wary. He was still a child, young enough to not hide the feelings that attacked his heart with all their might now. Itachi saw sweat form on the visible parts of Sasuke's skin, quivering there in the cold; one of the large veins in his neck was throbbing erratically in anticipation of something dreadful and cruel.
Itachi gestured the man to remove his bindings. The man did not flinch this time, having developed a sense of habitual ease to deal with him now, and tripped to Sasuke with clumsy steps. His hands faltered and the chain shook, clanked loudly in the gloom. Slowly, and with as much care he could exhibit, he removed the collar, unclasped it from behind, undid the binds on Sasuke's hands, and untied the knot at the back of his head. Then he pulled away the cloth as it slipped down over Sasuke's cheeks. He backed away and sighed. It was done.
Sasuke brought his arms forward and blinked once, twice, thrice . . . his eyes tried hard to get used to the ugly light coming in from the corridor. His pupils shrank and dilated as he focused his attention on the feet that invaded his vision. A chilly air came to him, a tuneless oppressive sound, and then it was a shadow that brushed a bit against his own, sending a current of realisation skittering through his veins faster than blood. He craned his neck and raised his gaze to look upon his older brother's countenance: it was frigid, a thing created from marble.
Itachi saw the dark red that rimmed Sasuke's eyes; pallor was perceptible in his face under the untidy hair that had lost its lustre with dirt and neglect; and there was no surprise in the boy's gaze, just bits of innocent anger and a superficial sort of cool that hid his feelings—almost. He could not conceal the formation of a little crease in his brow. Itachi walked away from him, dragged his shadow from his body, and stopped by the door in the cell.
"Come," Itachi spoke without emotion as he stood there motionless and still before the light to, almost deliberately, cast his shadow on the wall behind him; and then he walked away.
Sasuke breathed in twice, deep and slow, and raised himself to his feet. His joints ached and his limbs, stiff as iron, throbbed in retaliation—he had not moved from this place through four days and nights. The new light felt strong in his eyes and on his skin. He squinted against it and walked out from the cell, struggling to keep his back straight. His legs threatened to fold beneath him, but he was too stubborn to let his body win. He climbed the stairs, leaving behind a pursuing hand of dark and its hooked teeth, feeling a sense of freedom and elation swell in his heart against his will.
When the night wind hit him, it filled his body with an invigorating sensation he sorely missed in that cell. A smile lost its way before it could reach his lips as his eyes peered at the darkness rising up to create walls about him; his brother had not stopped, and he was moving with a poised gait and dignified bearing to their house—a place that had become more and more dreadful with each passing winter.
Sasuke looked back and saw an opening in the ground vanish in the yellow grass. A little rancid smell of that place floated out, but it was trapped behind the barrier's formation. Fuin-Jutsu seals! The corner of his dry lips pulled down into a frown, and his eyes narrowed. He looked ahead, searching for his brother in the darkness below the menacing sky that growled with impatience and a hollow belly. Itachi had not stopped . . . and there was no use calling out to him, so Sasuke did the same after sparing the underground prison one last sour glance.
The forest around them was singing as it stood shapeless in the night. He did not know where they were, not till he came across the lake that was now but a shapeless mass with waves chasing one after another on its surface. Lights blinked in the distance behind the twisted branches—they were outside Leaf! They walked along the edge of a dry path, and he trailed behind his brother, eyes on his back, through the haze of a distorted mist.
The walk back home was a quiet one. There was a perceivable distance between them, long enough for the older shadow to not disturb the younger one's domain. A cool wind went whispering into Sasuke's ears, and its muffled sounds intensified, hissing out wordless things. A storm was approaching. He could tell.
Usually, Itachi always called Sasuke to his chamber whenever he came back home from long journeys. It had become a habit: Itachi would ask how he was, what he did, and other little things. It had been this way as long as he could remember; but tonight it was different—tonight that routine had broken—and his brother's silence was louder than the wailings from wind's toothless mouths. Wind had become hungry babes, eyeless in search of her breasts that, in search of something more, awaited the belly above their heads to split-open, spill out its innards, and feed the little beasts.
Sasuke stopped for a moment to catch his breath: his bones hurt, and a chill had gone so deep into his flesh. A hot current coursed in his veins alongside the blood. He was coming down with another terrible fever. He gulped down the cold air, as if it was water, and looked through the swirling deep grey that mingled with the darkness. Golden leaves, crackling and fragile, flurried in the wind that stung his eyes. Itachi still had not stopped . . . and anger whipped him good this time. His brother had ruined it: he had ruined it all!
A blush crawled to the crest of his cheekbones; it was so cold here that his body, now, was battling feverishly against its assaults with a weapon of anger in one hand and a shield of rebellion in the other. He would not go down easy. The demonism of his brother's wicked ways was clear to him now—very clear. The darkness stood at the door of his sanity, and he would open it this time and wage a war against him. Sasuke's anger morphed into determination, and he pulled in a deep breath to walk into the opening mouths of darkness.
Wind was blowing strong when they crossed the garden of their manor. Kai had been standing outside all this time, shivering. Soft rain was splashing into his eyes, and he widened his eyes and said something Itachi did not bother to heed. He kept walking, as though in chase of a helpless prey that would drop dead soon, and made his way to the damned room that was no more than a prison for the younger one.
Sasuke let out an uneven white breath, stopped for a moment to cast Kai a look of utmost disgust, followed his brother down the wooden stairs that led away from the main house. The sounds of rain tinkled here, soft and subdued. Yuu stood with his back to the lantern he had lighted just now. His shadow flickered for a moment and steadied with the flame.
He turned around at the sound of Itachi's controlled steps sloshing through a layer of water upon the wood—his face grew white and surprised. He opened his mouth at the sight of Sasuke's face, which was dust-white against his coal-black hair streaked with rain and so much dirt. He looked miserable, ill, and a little angry.
"S-Sasuke-Sama, you—" he gasped and moved towards him, emotions overtaking his usually timid face, "—are you all—"
"Why is there water on the floor?" Itachi asked, face whiter than his younger brother's in the light.
"The wind blew in this direction, Itachi-Sama. I'll clean it up," he explained and clamped his one hand on Sasuke's shivering shoulder and held the other one above it to exude a green glow: he was trying to heal him.
"Leave him be," Itachi spoke as coldly as he could, and his face turned to them to appear black in the shadows, with red decorations in his eyes that burnt bright. "Open this." He gestured with a subtle tilt of his head towards the sturdy double-door.
Yuu did not have to be told twice. He nodded and opened the thick latch on the door. Then he pushed it forward and felt a rush of warmth slide up against his skin. The fireplace was hot, and a kettle was whistling on the bronze brazier. There was food on the low table, too. The window was closed. He had done exactly as Itachi had asked of him.
Itachi directed his gaze to Sasuke, eyes burning hotly. Sasuke looked at them once and felt a chill rush to his heart. He did not say anything and walked into the room and welcomed the engulfing warmth. He had not expected to live through the ordeal and the terrible cold in that cell. A part of him was happy to see Itachi . . .
Sasuke slumped down against the wall, exhausted, his breathing calm now. He leant his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed in the aroma from tea and food. The hunger was killing him now, but the drowsiness was stronger. He began to float in the air when the loud thud of the door woke him up. He sat up straight with a jerk, blinked, and bent forward, putting his face in his hands as though he was hiding it from Itachi's Sharingan.
"I am surprised that you did not starve yourself to death before my return," Itachi spoke and watched Sasuke pull his hands away from his face. His eyes were bleary and weak. His Sharingan had been defeated before his nature this time, but he did not meet Itachi's gaze. Silence. Thunder rumbled, impatient, and rain answered sweetly. A storm was approaching, and it would be upon them in the coming moments.
"Why be so stubborn?" he spoke again, his voice unfriendly like the fingers of the dead. "Why play these games?" The wind shrieked, struggled in through the gap under the door from behind Itachi, and his shadow drew near. It was no more, no less, colder than his wintry voice that was at odds with a slight red hue that warmed his lips—probably the only thing on his face that made him look human . . .
A red glow travelled along Sasuke's left cheek and neck as he turned his face away to look at the fire. He did not want to look upon the dreadful countenance of his brother. He knew he would find nothing but anger in his face and eyes now. The silence prolonged, finally broken by a particularly sharp whistle from the kettle's mouth: it was emitting a gush of steam. The shadows by his side danced like boisterous children that wore a prickly yellow glow on their heads.
A perfumed steam still rose from the food, its aroma pleasant, but not with as much intensity as before. The food was going cold, and his hunger was diminishing, as well. He found solace in the company of dark by eluding the red. The fire was warm on his face. The sky growled again, its belly vacant, and the wind's answer was sweet still—a child's plea.
"What mess have you made for me this time?" Itachi finally asked, his voice less sweet than the rain's and the wind's. Sasuke could hear it so clearly in the murmurs from begotten mouths. His gaze was distracted by a red streak that travelled along the low table's edges. The red in his own vision needed the cadence to rise again to the surface. Sasuke did not have it in him to battle Itachi's red tonight—not now.
"Silent, always silent," Itachi spoke in one of his softer tones that his voice was almost gentle. "When I want for you to stay put, you never listen, and when I want for you to speak, you choose silence. You have grown so . . . disobedient, hot-headed, stubborn."
Thunder struck the room, scrapping the wooden walls, begging to be let in. It disturbed his brother's voice for a moment that was still resonating in the room, but the coldness that laced through it hung between them as though a menacing spirit. It moved, undulating, silent.
"I am speaking to you, you ill-mannered child," he spoke, and this time, his voice did not get caught up in the wind. It was piercing-cold—colder than the ravenous mouths that begged before their mother to feed their hungry bellies. Sasuke shivered, pulled his knees close, and locked his arms around his knees—like a child.
"Have it your way. I will find out in the coming moments, regardless of your silence," Itachi spoke and his voice was still the same, an angry intonation invading its smooth tone. Sasuke heard his steps move towards the door. Then he heard him stop to add: "you create dreadful surprises for me, but this time, I will make sure that you are remorseful."
A scraping and a thudding sound came to Sasuke, and he turned his face to the door. Itachi had closed it behind him. Now, he was alone in the company of dark and shadows. He heard indistinct voices speak beyond the door, but it was no use . . . thunder was too loud. He returned his tired eyes to the comforting red of flames, and his face turned so angry. Kai had saved her on purpose, and the thought made him grit his teeth, his face warping, contorting in loathing, red rising like slips of fish to skim the black waters in his eyes . . .
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A wind with greater strength swept at him from the mountains. It carried the rot and cold from autumn. The ground was uncertain beneath his feet, shivering in fear from the coming lashes of an angrier thunder. The wind was shrill, no longer sweet before its pleas. He raised his eyes and saw lights flicker in Tsunade's office. It was not a surprise: the guard had been quick to report to Danzō.
Itachi made his way to the office with quick and stiff steps. Arguing voices from the door intruded on his ears, but he did not slow down; he did not have the luxury. When he pushed open the door, he saw silhouettes. He had put the red to sleep for now. They had gone silent at the sight of his countenance that betrayed the mildest presence of displeasure.
He did not turn to close the door and gave it a slight push with his hand. The click of it was louder in the silence. Its sound was sucked in by the walls with a sudden temptation. Warm glow radiated from the lantern sitting on her table that was still cluttered with an untidy mess . . . and sake. It was a mild red one tonight.
"You—" Danzō began in a voice that had the rough and jagged edges of old age, "—how dare you remove the prisoner without my consent?"
Itachi considered him for a moment, eyes tracing his real form out of the haziness of a going shadow. "It is in my authority to handle the prisoners as I see fit," he spoke smoothly, voice firm, face a blank canvas below the brush of emotions.
Danzō turned around and his body assumed a darker shade. Behind him, his shadow climbed up to engulf one part of the ceiling. He tapped his stick lightly on the floor the way blind men did. It seemed as though he had lost his way and found himself in a room he had no place in. "Your brother has committed yet another remarkable act of treason. I would have sent you his head as a welcoming gift, but you have the Hime under your thumb," he spoke, a chill from age and anger running through his raspy voice.
"Hold your tongue, you miserable old fool!" Tsunade retorted, letting her hand fall from the large table. Her cheeks had an angry tint that glowed in the light.
Light spread out, a soft wave, towards them as she took a single step back to increase the distance between Danzō and herself. His old face was cast in light and shadow, but their trick was not enough to hide age's deep marks in his withered face. The grooves appeared deeper, more pronounced in the light.
"You are hasty to reach a conclusion, Danzō," Shikaku said, appearing tired. His deep-lined brow was frowning under the black hair. Sweat lined his brow, and his hair was wet with perspiration. He was usually a reserved fellow, but he appeared a little agitated tonight.
"Where are the rest of the council members?" Itachi asked, and his eyes roved over the hazy faces and settled on the deep shadows under Danzō's eyes. There was a glint of wickedness in their deeps. He did not require the Sharingan to see the unrest and uneasiness prodding at his heart.
"Danzō has called for a meeting tomorrow," Shikaku said and heaved a sigh. His frown deepened.
"He always likes to trick us with his games," Tsunade remarked and cast a glance at the temptation sitting on her table and allowed herself a little smile. "Don't you, Danzō?"
"Enough!" Danzō retorted in a throaty hiss and struck his stick onto the floor with as much strength as his age could allow him—as if to punctuate a point. The sound reverberated in the quiet. Thunder had chosen not to impede its path. His eyes travelled to the slim and tall figure that stood silent and dark in shadow's vestments.
"Your brother," he spoke, voice shuddering in his old throat's depth, ringing there as though a rusty clapper of a temple's bell, "he has killed another one of my trusted men—Toruné!" And he was shivering in anger, teeth clenched, back straight like his stick.
A beat thrummed from Itachi's heart, going deep, diminishing like a weak vibration. Then it collided against the ethereal substance that lay still and quiet in the deep recesses of his mortal frame, slumbering; and it stirred in answer, releasing a whirlwind of sounds and smells and colours that went through his bones and flesh and blood, coming back with force to crash into his heart again with a new song: A wild child, stay wild, filled with mistrust, beguiled. It was singing now in distress, fear, fury.
The glaring old-eye was bent on him, and for the first time in his life, Itachi felt a sinister chill unfurl its serpent coils in his heart. The little hairs on his nape reacted, and his blood turned a bit colder, and the thrumming became louder; but he had control, frightening control, and he did not let Danzō invade his calm any longer.
"They are dropping like spring gnats," Itachi spoke, a faint touch of amusement in his tone, watching as the shivering upper-lip pulled back on pink-gums with a ferocious sneer of contempt.
"How dare you!" Danzō hissed this time and advanced towards Itachi, hoping to win a challenge, but his languid feet stopped short—as though they had been clogged up with mud and rotten leaves of autumn—at the sight of the threatening red emerging from the depths in Itachi's eyes. He tapped his stick on the floor twice and turned his face away to escape the tricks of Itachi's visions.
Lightning cracked down on them and filled the room with a blinding brightness. It vanished and left cobwebs going in different directions in their visions, but the red had stayed—it always did. "If you had found him guilty, I would have seen his head on my doorstep—a free gift from your generous hands. Is that not so? A man like you would not have let this chance slip by," Itachi spoke, and this time, his eyes changed to spin as shurikens. Tsunade and Shikaku were quiet.
"Your tendency to shelter Konoha's traitor has disappointed me. How long will you protect him—shield his lies?" Danzō asked and shifted on the spot to cast him a terrible gaze, and his face had suddenly burrowed itself under the sludge of shadows again. "We shall see how you drag him out of this terrible crime. He has killed two of my men in cold blood and vengeance. I will not abide treachery!" His last breath came out as a shuddering and noisy sputter. He was shaking in anger, his old frame vibrating in rage.
"For Sage's sake—" Shikaku mumbled and wiped his forehead clean, his face wearing displeasure. They all watched as Danzō walked out of the office with robust steps, his stick clicking against the wooden floor.
Tsunade grabbed the glass from the table and emptied it in a single breath. Light trickled over her face, and the blush shone with a deeper flush in her supple cheeks. Breaths hissed out from between her teeth, and she made a silly face after she passed her tongue over her lips to re-discover pleasure's sting. The sake was good!
"Send the letters to the council members," Tsunade spoke and let out a puff of warm air through her nostrils and nodded her head a few times. "Make haste." She gestured to the door with a quick movement of her hand. Shikaku sighed but did not object. He left the room with quick steps.
With the shadows gone, the lantern cast enough light now and limned the curves of her beautiful face. "Your brother—he's created another trouble!" she said as she turned around to pour out another glass for herself. She was clumsy and sloshed a little sake on the scroll. It did not seem to bother her.
"Has he?" Itachi asked and there was a subtle hint of curiosity in his voice that she found to be mocking.
Tsunade turned around fully, fingers tightening around the empty sake glass. "Don't play games, boy," she hissed, ruddy cheeks growing redder still. "They found the runt with his throat cut in the forest. The same wound—just as deep, too. He was bled dry. We couldn't even find a memory in his head. What did that wild boy tell you?" She gulped and pressed the glass to her lips to take a whiff of that sharp smell.
"He has not said anything to me. He is angry that I left him all alone in the cell to be punished. He is only a boy child, but why ask me when your mind is already made?" Itachi spoke and there was a ghostly smile that hovered over his lips this time. He looked almost amused.
Tsunade's face contorted, and she threw the glass to the wooden floor and broke it. Its shards spread out, glinting in the scant light. He lazily looked at the broken glass and then to her. There was no change in his expression. "Don't mock me!" she warned, voice hissing in anger's grip, lips red as ripe berries, shuddering.
"I am not," he spoke, tone calm—serene—eyes fire-struck like a dangerous mechanism, face sinister in a silhouette. "If you had found something, you never would have asked me of it."
"I protected him. Had it not been for me, he would—"
"Have you?" Itachi cut across her and took a single step towards her. She was in half a mind to move away from him, but she held her ground and raised her eyes and face to meet his eyes. Red had come out from them, and they bled unchecked with an eerie aura. It chilled her. "You made me heartfelt promises, yet he was rotting away in that cold cell in my absence. All it took was one leave—you could not wait to tighten your grasp on him." Then he bent his head down, and she felt as though he was pouring that cold red sludge straight into her eyes.
"The same accusation? Haven't you grown tired of it?" Tsunade asked and reached for another glass on the table to distract herself. "They had evidence against your wild brother, but Kai came through. The boy was with him and the chakra in his body was good and strong. It couldn't have been a Bunshin, but Danzō had evidence that he killed Toruné in the forest—cut his throat in two. Ibiki confirmed it, but he couldn't have been at two places at once.
"That's not the only thing that saved your brother. I stopped Danzō from reading his mind on grounds of Clan secrets. I couldn't have allowed it in your absence. You're the new Clan Head, after all. You should be thankful that I kept your secrets safe." Then she tapped her hand against her breast twice and clamped her lips together in a tight line and spoke no more.
To Tsunade's surprise, he smiled and stared down at her thoughtfully—butterflies appeared in reality's translucent fabric, changed into moths about him, and then they vanished. She looked about him, confused. He could only smile. "Tricky child," Itachi spoke and turned away and walked out of the office, and she did not have it in her to stop him. She reached a hand up to feel sweat come out from her pores. What was that . . . ?
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Itachi's heart was beating inside ferocious anger—the kind he had never felt before. It pumped poison into his heart as a rain stung his skin with tiny, skin-hurting bites. The child had trodden too far into the dark. How would he pull him back this time? He grimaced, teeth clenching as rain poured down on him hard. His steps were quick and swift, eyes watching as rain dug deep ruts into the ground of his garden.
He did not stick around to see them beat down the child lilies into a deep bow. He walked to the room and saw nothing but red now. The anger was too immense. He did not want to unleash it on the child, but his wildness had wounded him this time. Was he even aware of the severity of his mistake? Breaths sharply hissed from his lips when he heard the sounds of Karin's giddy laughter float to him from the room.
When Itachi pushed open the door, dripping and cold, all of them went silent. The fire in his eyes blazed lively, and he directed all of its intensity towards Sasuke, watching as he slowly rose to his feet, trying hard to hide the look of a child awaiting punishment at his hands.
"Leave," Itachi hissed, and his voice oozed malevolence. No one argued at the sight of his warped countenance. Kai bowed and left the room. Karin hesitated for a moment, but she, too, left with a reluctant Yuu. The door closed behind them, and the sounds of their steps on the soaked wood dimmed and vanished in the storm.
Sasuke took two steps forward and blinked. He wanted to say something. "I would've—" and he could not speak any more as Itachi struck him across the face with an open palm; the strength was such that Sasuke stumbled back and tasted his own blood. His lip was split open and his vision swayed. Anger boiled to the brim; red bloomed in Sasuke's eyes; he raised his face to glare . . . when Itachi struck him again; Sasuke almost lost his balance this time and a metallic, warm taste filled his mouth.
Yet Itachi was unrelenting as he struck him again: first on the right cheek and then on the left. The last one beat the wild nature out of him. His head jerked and he collapsed onto his knees, wheezing. He was hungry, thirsty, and he was sick. The marks burnt raw, but the shame burnt him without measure.
Sasuke sat like this for some moments, vision swirling, breathing heavy and strained. Itachi's violence had popped open the flesh inside his cheeks. He did not have it in him to bear his anger, his beatings. His fever was rising, sizzling his flesh from the inside, that he puffed and blew now.
Sasuke felt a cold hand brush against his throat, and he was lifted up by his dirty collar to stand on his feet. He braved a glance up into his brother's wicked eyes: carrion eaters of his dreams. His vision dimmed for a moment, and a terrible silence descended on him. His brother's face . . . Sasuke had never seen such anger etched in his face, not even on that night when he had broken his bones and his pride in the dark that swallowed up his screams and his misery without reluctance. Itachi looked murderous as though he was about to take his life.
"What did you do?" Itachi asked and his low voice tapered off to a cool hiss, and for the first time in his short life, Sasuke saw his lips vibrate with anger.
"What did you . . . do?" he asked again and appeared almost confused as he lifted Sasuke further up, and his feet could not quite find purchase on the warm wooden-floor. Itachi's hand traversed his throat, and he applied a little pressure as if he was endeavouring to choke the fight out of him.
The younger one had nothing to say. His tongue battled silence, and his heart thumped wildly against his ribcage. It was no use: Itachi would never understand, he never could. A bright light flickered out of Itachi's eyes, and Sasuke's body shuddered—it had awoken Sasuke out of his stupefaction.
Sasuke tried to touch the floor but only his toe's tips felt the polished wood's smoothness. Itachi raised his head, stretched his neck just like a crow, trembling, and beheld his sibling's gaze, replete with the innocence from childhood.
"What did you do?" Itachi shouted in his face this time, and he had never heard him shout—for as long as he could recall, he had never heard him shout. Itachi's lips had gone red with the heat of an angry blood and lost was the languid coolness it was typically accustomed to.
"Let go!" Sasuke snarled this time, his anger matching his. He pushed him back with all his strength. Itachi's grip slackened. Sasuke fell back and almost tumbled down to the floor, but he regained his balance. His legs were tired and they threatened to give way. He placed his hand on the wall for support and listened to the subdued shriek from thunder.
"Did you . . . kill Toruné?" Itachi asked, and he was so quick to remedy the patient rest of silence.
The lantern's light spilt on Sasuke, and he was remorseless. The bruises glowed a fierce red on his cheeks. He was overtaken by anger now. "Damn you," Sasuke hissed and straightened his back. Red crawled down his chin and dripped down to the floor and left a little trace of red on his white toes, too. He spat out the blood and returned the bold gaze to his brother's fury-loving face.
"Why did you do this when I told you not to? How could you—how dare you?" Itachi spoke, and his voice was sharp like a cutting blade that was without feeling.
Sasuke sat down; his legs had lost the strength to support him. "I have nothing to say to you. If you think I should be put to death, then let them take me. I don't care. Get out of my sight—out!" he rasped, his voice approaching a feral growl; and then he smiled and showed Itachi a face that wore a child's wild innocence upon it without the burden of shyness.
Itachi did not speak. He clenched his fingers into terrible fists. His anger had not subsided, but the sight of Sasuke cooled its fire. The air was keen in its search of his anger. It was not lost; it was not thawed; and if he stayed here, he would be so unkind to him.
"You wicked child . . . " Itachi spoke, his voice heavy as he watched Sasuke put his forehead on his knees after he squeezed his thighs together.
Itachi turned away and approached the door—Sasuke's voice stopped him: "you look just like Otō-Sama . . . "
Sasuke's words floated to him from the vast obscurity of silence. The storm was spent, thunder quiet, and those words had just driven out Itachi's anger . . .
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