Chapter Fifty-Nine: Dead Men Don't Talk
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It was the dark of the night: the bamboo grove, flooded with bright light; a full moon had risen over that spot. Shadows were behind their backs and white light sparkled off the glassy masks on their faces. They had a peculiar sheen to them that made the red marks more apparent.
In the darkness, they were black figures, billowing shadows wrapped round the bodies. The only features truly discernible about their constitutions were the bright fox, cat, monkey, and rabbit faces, a make-believe visage for the inquisitive eyes; but that was what Anbu stood for—a shroud for friend and foe, made by precarious natures and witless hands. There was nothing more to say on the matter.
Their countenances were dark and jovial and thoughtfully benign: whatever the common mask pretended to exhibit; it was meant to conceal the miens: stern or afraid, a foe was never meant to know—it was a secret.
Steadily, they ran over water that had gathered on the ground after the rains. No one heard a splash. They were meant to approach the foes without a sound. They jumped over the stream, landing on a pebble-riddled slush of wet earth and rain. Their legs bent slightly on touch-down. It was a soundless leap, but the last man made a rather generous splash when his feet braced the ground.
All of them stopped suddenly, and an eerie silence befell the place where they now stood. They gazed back at him: their eyes were various accusatory bright dots in the masks, and the man ran a hesitant hand across the bristles of tawny hair on his head. A nervous laugh rumbled behind the rabbit mask. He might have been embarrassed, but it was difficult to tell; his visage wore an obnoxious smile upon its shiny face.
The quietest man in front spun away and burst into a run. His feet did not touch the ground as he ran at top speed for the valley jammed between two steep, smooth-faced mountains. Large faceless giants, they loomed over the land. Others followed in his wake and strained themselves to match his speed. Two men pounded side by side over the hard-earth, with three more at their heels. Rains had left this place alone.
Black frames melded into a large shadow and kept pressing on to the gorge, flanked by the granite walls ahead. One by one, they leapt into the murky bowls, putting chakra under their feet to skid safely down the bone-crushing slick flank of the hill. It merged at the bottom with another one to form a deep round crater that was full of black sludge, made from ugly shadows.
Red flickered on in the slits of the masked man who was still ahead of the group. Feeling the powerful ripple of chakra from his body, another pair burnt red in the fox mask. He could not see the eyes, but he could almost feel their hot intensity in the chakra the man exuded; so he chased him, hoping to match his pace and shadow. It was his dream to run ahead of him, beat him, earn the much-coveted blessings of his father—even in spirit.
Yet, at that moment, it was merely a passing thought that cost him a part of a moment. His eyes saw the movements before the man made them: he was about to leap off the flank. He did the same, following the direction of his jump to land onto the branches, engulfed in complete darkness beyond the crater.
The men behind him did the same and followed like good, obedient soldiers. That was what they were trained for—that was what their purpose in life was. They were meant to follow. Their thoughts and desires were obsolete in their lives. Nothing mattered before the Will of Fire. Nothing.
A fleeting, delicate mist permeated the space, and a smell of damp rot rushed in their direction. They had probably crossed Rain's border. A pattering sound came to their ears, and the smell became stronger. It rained hard with the arrival of autumn in this village. Mist, desperate and porous, was trying to reform itself over and over again, but it was all for naught. He knew it was a hopeless struggle.
Soon, he felt the rain on the back of his neck and arms. Black hairs had traversed his pale forehead, and the wetness there made them stick to the damp skin. Cool raindrops had got in through the mask's slits. The thing was hardly waterproof . . .
Overhead, dense branches, ripe with flora, had burst into bloom during the rains. His Sharingan saw the pretty colours and chakra in their venous petals and branches. In this gloomy season of mist and autumn, a scene of spring had survived. The deep ground was choked with thick mud, and, everywhere, un-sheared shrubs had grown into massive mounds of tangled twigs and leafy boughs. Colourful flowers popped out from the sludge at the foot of trees. The ground would drink it good come morning. It was only a matter of time.
Why—he did not know why he was following him—why? He was asked to. It was a command that demanded utmost obedience. He had to cringe before him, put aside his natural closeness, and uphold the request like nothing else mattered. His heart had beaten in such protest. They were close, but he had to obey him like this daily: his father had perished years ago, so he answered to him now—just him, only him . . .
Yet now was not the time to play family. It was a duty bestowed upon him, and he had to see it through to the end. He was asked. Then he had to do as he was told, and he had asked of him to follow and stay silent and only observe without any wild interferences: a strange selection of simple commands.
But why did it matter? That was how they all learnt. It was beaten into their heads till it became a second habit to their bodies: obey the command, sneak past the enemy, cut down the foes like unwary cattle. It was as simple as a mechanism that drove Anbu men, hungry dogs led barking and slavering in chase of meaty bones.
Simple rules. Simple consequences. That was all in the life of an Anbu shinobi. No unnecessary questions tripped from their tongues. They had to train them, rein their wild heads towards silence's gates to keep the unpleasant words to themselves, bury them deep into their breasts whence no whisper escaped the stubborn soul that naturally sought its freedom. No, like the Man it possessed till death did them part, it was created to hope for the hope-less.
Shrugging off the menacing feeling, he looked ahead. He was meant to chase and aim ahead. That was what he had trained himself to do, and that was what he would do. A grey wind pushed him back, but he was no child. His feet were cold, but he kept leaping from one branch to the next to catch up to him.
The distance was reduced, or the man had slowed down; he could not say. It was always hard to tell what he was thinking. Rain hit his skin hard like little pebbles. The gaps between the branches above his head had widened. They provided very little cover now. The noise was rising to a loud crescendo. There was not going to be any respite for them tonight.
Suddenly, the swift man in front jumped down and ran into the dark and crooked trees. They, too, went behind him. Slithering across the sopping-wet patch of grass, they came upon a muddy clearing under the full moon. Rain had pounded the flowers into the ground and dug up the vulnerable earth. The hard-packed one next to the moss-encrusted stones lay untouched. A rotten odour rose with persistence about them. It was not a pleasant smell . . .
A pearly mist rose unabated as the rain thinned, and this time, it was a clear, thin pall that spread over the space. The man in front suddenly stopped and they did the same, looking around curiously to peer into the shapeless mass of many shadows. Foes could be hidden behind the slanting trees. Some had learnt clever tricks to extinguish their chakra. Only the red eyes were blessed with the power to sniff out such wicked tricksters—sensing always failed them.
Rain's sound mellowed, tinkling like silver coins on the stones' slick surfaces. Deep fissures adorned their forms: fungi grew in-between them as viscous and thick green-surprise that gave off a musky and wet scent he could smell from several feet away. The air was filled thick with it. Persistent rains had given them a fertile ground to germinate and spread. It was piled upon the base of the trees—a thick slime. An odd sort of place for a short respite, he did not understand . . .
Swiftly, the silent man's hand flickered to the hilt on his back, and he vanished with great speed that he barely saw him move. His Sharingan had failed him . . . again. A slow, burning resentment rose like a torrent in his breast, but it was quickly overcome by shock as he saw blood fly up into the damp air—hot plumes from deep cuts in visible throats.
Severed necks tipped back with unnatural shudders, and one crackled to the right and fell off to the ground like a ball, bouncing once on the soggy grass before hitting the puddle of mud with a dull splash. The rabbit mask slowly came off and revealed the smiling and confused face of a man he had never seen before. He . . . did not even get a chance to truly taste death, and it had consumed him. His head bobbed grotesquely in the mud, and a few bubbles rose to the surface and popped there as his final exhalation. Then the ghastly face turned a little to the left and sank below the thick surface. Now, he could only see the tawny, prickly hair on the head . . .
The flak jackets were soaked red; happy masks, streaked with fresh blood as though trailing marks made by shaky fingers. Even the rain was not strong enough to wipe them clean—blood's metallic stench nearly overpowered the fungi's rotten smell. His hand went to the slits on the mask to press against the porcelain surface. He could still smell it: rotten, disgusting, revolting!
He squeezed his eyes shut, terror giving way to shock, a feeble and dilapidated building standing on its last leg beneath a storm, which was meant to destroy, consume, ravage all in its path. What . . . what had he done? He pulled off the mask slowly and watched as the quiet killer knelt by a dead man, whose face was still smiling obnoxiously in death; and he was forced to suppress the ghost of a laugh that rippled humorlessly in his throat. He was almost disgusted with himself . . .
The man raised his head and observed his white face that was pelted relentlessly by rain. He wore a smiling face of a fox, pink lines running down the sides. An uncharacteristically mild blush rose in his cheeks in repose to the rain as warm blood danced defiantly in his veins. It was bitterly cold, and a soft admiration fled in panic from his fear-filled countenance. He stared in open-mouthed horror at the corpses and gulped down the raindrops as they went into his mouth.
The fox-faced man slowly rose to his feet in a dignified and resilient manner. His bearing was stern, sure, deadly. The sword was held in his slackened grip. It returned the murky reflection of his young face and red eyes behind a clear and smooth layer of rainwater trailing down its edges. It was clean now, washed of all the sins and all the bloods. Red had disappeared into the welcoming, and forever-greedy, earth of this Village. There was a little of it left now in the flak-jackets' fibers. That, too, would surely disappear soon.
The man's hand reached to his back and sheathed the sword with a sharp, cutting sound as it filled the sheath completely. Then his hand went to the smiling face that mocked the dead and pulled the layer away to reveal a young man's sober countenance that was un-smiling: another mask. Long tear lines were etched into his face like a memory. A smile ghosted over his face, touching the deadly eyes . . . and they softened almost instantly, melting the red there to return to the deep dark, with which he was familiar.
He walked to him and stopped, still smiling as though he had not killed them in a horrific manner. His hand reached sluggishly for his wet hair, and he stroked his head so affectionately, and spoke in a voice that sounded so strange in the soul-chilling moment that followed the slaughter, "come, Sasuke. Let us not linger here."
Then he put the mask and the smile back on and started walking back to Leaf. Sasuke looked to the darkest shadows that lay about in the mud, lifeless, and the perfect, theatric expressions on the stained masks almost about to burst into a delirious laugh at the fates of foolish Anbu men who wore them; but dead men did not talk. They did not laugh. They did not smile. And then he stared at his beloved brother's back in equally long measures. He did not understand him at all . . .
Such were the days he had spent in Anbu Training. A spat or two with his brother earned him a life-long removal from Anbu Division. It was but a dream now. Sasuke sighed, shoulders slumping a little with fatigue, but he straightened his back when the deep voice of his brother broke him out of his reverie.
He blinked, eyes tired, and tried to get accustomed to the dark room. Sparse light emerged from a lantern set before his brother, Itachi, in weak waves that folded in smoothly against the darkness. Partition screens lay quiet, donning the Councilmen's shadows. They were beautiful and exquisite, painted in delicate brush strokes to create thick flames and dragons roaring in silence—lost voices, quiet sounds, calm thunder in the breasts of inky Men and beasts and storms.
A man sitting beside Sasuke spoke, his voice rough and strained. He did not heed his words as he was distracted by a bold Autumn Moth wriggling into the room through a small gap in the paper-screen. Morning's wind had cut into it with a cold assault. Its delicate wings fluttered in nervous haste as it struggled to find the right air-current for flight.
Its wings looked mighty as a growing shadow that intruded upon the empty space with a weightless black drape—shuddering little thing, so threatening in dark's grip. It finally located its path, hesitated for a moment, and then it mounted upon the air-thread suffused with chakra . . . it so adored as though it was its own.
Sasuke's gaze followed its steady path; it was being pulled to the source by an invisible string he could not see, despite passion's rise in his eyes. It settled down on Itachi's shoulder and went behind his back, wings moving in delight now that it had found its mark. Its shadow merged with Itachi's defined black one, and they became one, and it seemed to him that his brother had grown wings, too.
Black hair streamed over his brother's shoulders in the manner of a King's Son—many moons past. His clan had not thrown away their traditions. Itachi had chosen to leave his hair open tonight: sinister-black framed the winter-white that shone, a sickly brilliance of a man's skin barely approximating supple flesh. His haori was expensive, eyes sober, and when he spoke, his voice was a cold and gentle breeze over water. Actor—Trickster—Liar!
Red was a stagnant pool in the younger one's eyes and innocent face—innocent mischievousness and anger hiding beneath the shadows, eyes peeking out from a hard face, looking out through the rising gloom. His brother's gaze had not answered his this time; blind to his plight and misery—as always. Anger had not let go of Sasuke's spirit.
Sasuke turned his face away and hid it below shadow's waves that still remained, relentless in their pursuit of being armed rebels that fought a losing battle: a proud hunter running in the gloam, chasing after shadows in the dimming light. Soon, they would merge and a shapeless fate would befall them—for another night. Dusk broke them free, and they rose, passion and vengeance in their breasts!
Murmurs rose and fell, yet his heart was a quiet place of silenced thoughts. He did not want to think with tongues lest their whispers be heard by his brother's all-heeding ears. He sat crossed-legged, weary. Then he bent forward, rested his elbows on his knees and forehead in his right hand. Hidden behind the looming shadows, Itachi's eyes could not have seen his relaxed posture. He sat so far away from him, left to fume and worry behind men that mattered—tonight.
Hushed voices continued, dangling there in the air, weightless things. Footsteps moved on his right and on his left; all of them had come to gaze upon the new Head—from another city in the fire country, from nooks and corners of this village, half-breeds in tow. His gaze was in darkness. He chose majestic silence in the arms of a stubborn anger that, too, had its own merits: remnant of pride; gristle of arrogance.
Thoughts drifting further into the past's domain, on timid steps they trod, and he found himself nearly peeking into his father's room. There he would sit, back to him and all of his little world; a light blinked against the draft behind his Otō-Sama's back—Mikoto had gone out to wait for Itachi in the garden. His little shadow lingered a moment too long, and his father looked over his shoulder, red diminishing from his face, lips parting in the room's haze to speak—his name: "Sasuke . . . "
"Sasuke, are you ill?" he asked, a shadow's lips moving. He could not see him that clearly. He was always hidden from his gaze and his heart. His small heart was set to a quicker pace and its voice rose to a falsetto.
"Sasuke, are you ill?" he spoke again, and this time, his thoughts were broken, and a little spill from light invaded the dark cover his hand assured.
Sasuke pulled his hand away and gazed: the room was empty. They had left, all of them, and discarded odours from traditional perfumes and smells imparted by dyes in new cloths inside the large room. The vibrancy of colour had dispersed from the room—like the smells. Silence approached, a menacing presence.
His brother spoke again, and his tone was like their father's. Itachi sounded . . . just like their father. It was as though his words had the serrated teeth of resemblance, and, now, they gnawed at the base of his spine. He pretended not to heed his father's voice-stealing sibling and slowly rose to his feet and threw away the mist's cloak from his shoulders—incense smoke was still coming from the pots as twisting lines.
Sasuke's gaze roamed the room, roamed the darkness beyond Itachi's shoulders. It slept in Itachi's eyes, beneath the black smear that lay upon his face still. Sasuke saw it wriggling now, and he felt sick to his stomach. "Anger should never make you blind to your health," Itachi spoke, his voice a breath on ice against his shivering body.
Then, before he could move, Itachi rose to his feet with a regal bearing, garments trailing in his wake as he approached him, dragging the shadows of wings in his wake. He walked with the quietest grace that the wooden-floor absorbed any evidence of his presence.
Itachi's face came into the light, and Sasuke took in the countenance of a man who was as merciless as he was perfect: his brother, his tormenter, his father . . . for a moment, he was left tongue-less by this new visage of royal mockery, bewitched by this wicked grace he knew to be just an act, a personification of outward perfection—another convenience.
"Are you still angry that your eyes do not thaw?" he asked, voice unchanging, mien shrouded in steely indifference.
At that moment, from the wounds that stayed fresh, something akin to dark despair crept slowly up the length of his spine, and he was suddenly fearless in the face of his brother. "I hate your cold and smug face. An entire council under your thumb—hope you're proud of yourself," Sasuke said, sounding rough, face betraying defiance and anger.
Itachi did not move an eyebrow. His face was still the same, frozen in an expression that guarded his thoughts well. Itachi considered Sasuke for a moment, and his eyes drifted to the sweat gathering copiously at Sasuke's still shivering nape. Whether he was afraid or feverish, Itachi could not say.
"Your little fury . . . " Itachi spoke, and his eyes glimmered, a cooling fire in the tempering dark, a manifestation of his usual aloofness, " . . . are you not content that I took you out of the prison? You wanted to rot in there? You child." He smiled just at the corners of his mouth, and his smile was such that it appeared equally exquisite and frigid—this angered Sasuke even more.
"You did this," Sasuke hissed, and a black anger filled his face, a whirlpool of fury sending flashes racing towards the back of his eyes that they burnt brighter, fiercer than usual. "You saved her. Did you ask Kai to protect that soiled wench? Are you fucking her?"
Itachi's placid eyes reflected no anger at his remark, though his ghost-smile slowly faded away right before his eyes. The dark was palpable about him now and fluttered, impatient, like the shadow's wings. "You have become a sponge for boorish remarks. I knew, it was a terrible mistake to let you mix with the runts from Rain," Itachi spoke, and his matter-of-fact manner of speech was as harsh as ever.
Anger lashed Sasuke's bones and furious tremors rushed through his blood in violent waves. He craned his neck and looked Itachi straight in his eyes that beheld him through the grey of mist and supreme lens of authority. "Are you?" his asked again, and his eyes widened to show him the red that nearly spilt over to consume the white there. "You have no taste. Just what I'd expect from Leaf's dog—you always were so common."
The venom in his words gave an unexpected shock to Itachi's senses. Suddenly, there was fire in his black-eyes that cut through the unwavering cool upon his visage like a deadly blade. His brow furrowed, and almost by reflex, his hand shot forward and a fierce grip grasped the back of Sasuke's neck with a force that, for a moment, the hollow at the base of his throat pulsed, jumping as though he had been puffing through a fierce run to elude his foes.
"Your language is coarse . . . " Itachi paused and drew a slow breath to calm his temper, " . . . vulgar. Have you no shame?"
Light sparked in the dark outside and flowed in through the barrier of paper-screens. It illuminated Sasuke's red eyes more and the side of his sweaty face: he did not seem intimidated. His heart was his only betrayer as it throbbed in his visible veins, a show for spectators; to Itachi, he was a child who had not even begun to sprout.
"Let go!" Sasuke hissed, a clear warning, innocent face warping in anger and defiance, lips shaking with a hot fury to match his brother's cold passions. He was not backing down.
Itachi's eyes glided across his features that had not returned to the state he preferred in the face of his changing demeanour, but he himself had calmed down. It was a sudden reflex action, and he was quick to recover from that unnecessary slip. His grip slackened, hand pulled away from Sasuke's neck, and he backed away wordlessly.
"I have not touched that girl," Itachi spoke in a softer tone. "Would this confession satisfy you?" He straightened his back and slipped his hands into the long and luxurious sleeves.
"Liar," Sasuke accused in the same tone of voice as he glared at him with upturned eyes. "Kai wouldn't have done anything had it not been for you. Do you think I'm a fool? You've ruined everything. You—you're a liar!"
Sasuke stepped a little to the right and came into the bowing combers of light. His eyes appeared all the brighter with the dark behind his back now. More light came forth that ran from the belly of the clouds with loud, shattering steps. It would rain again tonight—autumn had overstayed its welcome this time; winter's cold hand had not attained the strength to overwhelm it—yet.
"Why are you consumed by anger?" Itachi asked, and the cool tone of his voice remained unchanged. "What ails you now? Are you dissatisfied with your easy release? Do you always crave punishment? I must confess, I am not equipped with the means to grant you the thrills you crave. Forgive your brother." His demeanour now was the perfect distillation of his sanctimonious nature: his condescending talk, his indifferent face, his commanding bearing—all of this, to Sasuke, was a perfect fit that he could not help but smile at this meticulous façade of illusions. What a trickster his brother was?
"Look at you," Sasuke began, a contemptuous curl of disdain showing itself on his softer features with haste, red rising in tow along the contours of his cheeks, "the same sanctimonious tone, the same tongue—coming from you, it's . . . amusing."
Itachi replied with silence, and his gaze crawled off Sasuke's face to find a distraction in the painting hanging in the alcove. It was drenched in shadow's paints. The sword-stand before it was dark and black: he could not see the fine hilts. Red would have to mate with the black in his gaze to see through the rapturous curtains of haze.
"You're just like Otō-Sama," Sasuke said, and his lips were dry, voice so low that Itachi's eyes moved back to him with a sudden swiftness; the mood in his gaze's impenetrable depth metamorphosed so slowly into something unreadable. "He was your architect. Nothing about you is different—just as insufferable as he was. It hurts me because—" he stopped, breath scalding his throat, "—because I loved him."
Sasuke turned his face away as a sheen came across his eyes. Itachi was still quiet, face expressionless, eyes empty; he was looking at Sasuke now, heart cool, sturdy in the grip of control. The shadow falling on Sasuke was thick now—a lamp had died behind Itachi's back, but his shadow's perch on Sasuke's body was always assured. The spacious room boasted high ceilings and the walls were quiet as monks vowed to silence—stillness and dark germinated unchecked with no bright hands to smother them now.
"I won't let you—" Sasuke stopped to clench his jaws harder, "—become the architect of my life. I won't." Then he looked to Itachi, red stabbing through dark, bleeding its bosom with no guilt.
"Did you really take Toruné's life?" Itachi asked, and his lips curved a little so wickedly. "You never told me why you were seen in the woods, caught red-handed in the act. You child—you sweet child. You try so hard to hide things from me. Tell me, why would you take that fool's life?"
Anger burnt in Sasuke's body, gaudily advertised by the nature of his eyes: Nature of an Uchiha; red was passion, anger, love, a sweet love that knew not the bounds of reason, knew not the shackles of limit, knew not the fetters of compromise; free was its nature and freer were its passions—limitless, boundless, fearless.
"What's it to you?" he asked, knowing full well that Itachi's demeanour was training itself into something he would not enjoy, but so rebellious was he that he did not care. He would speak of what was in his heart: fear of him was but a burden he had grown accustomed to; it was second-nature to him now.
Itachi took one slow step to become a darker looming figure before him, and his eyes changed to battle Sasuke's red this time; his seemingly off-world attire, luxuriant hair mixing and diluting into the dark with perfection that the only remnants of a man on his whole form . . . were the nature of his eyes; a sudden tremor gripped Sasuke's legs, but he held his ground. He would not let him win this time.
"It is everything to me," Itachi spoke, and his voice did not betray any contempt, but his eyes . . . sharp, hot, dangerous like an all-consuming fire. "You will do well to remember my words. I warned you last time that I will not be kind if you disobeyed me again. You took the life of that man, plunged yourself deep into another mess I will have to clean up this time, as well. I want your little game to end . . . now." Itachi's last word was a barely coherent hiss, and red flared brighter in his eyes to punctuate his point.
Sasuke slightly flinched, and his hackles rose at the sight of fury his brother exuded, but he had more to spare. "Why don't you prove it?" he spat with a clenched hand, a vein trembling visibly in his neck, defiant like he.
"Is that how you want to play this? This is not a game. Not your playtime. End this self-indulgence, or—"
"Or what?" Sasuke challenged him and betrayed an ugly derision in his voice; his face, a visage of such fury.
"Or I will make you end this," Itachi warned, and there was no hostility in his plain tone, but when he bent his face forward into the light, as though he wanted Sasuke to see his changed countenance, his face and eyes were cold as death.
Seeing that uncaring and furious mien, Sasuke's indignation rose. He would rather urinate on his parents' graves than let Itachi have his way again. "I'd rather choose the company of Root dogs poking inside my head than let you do as you please," Sasuke said in a voice pregnant with a mischievous melody born from rebelliousness.
"Quiet," Itachi spoke and his deep, threatening voice commanded authority. The smooth shadow of wings expanded behind his back, wider and wider, till he was a crow with a human face. His white cheek in the light was without a blush or pink hue: he was a deathly white face shrouded in a cloak without colour, sinister black wings behind him.
He stepped closer, and Sasuke was in half a mind to bolt from the room, fly away from him, his wings, his escalating beak, but Sasuke's pride disallowed him to cringe before Itachi now in shameful servility; so he watched, with near fascination, this new face of his beloved brother: light behind him dimmed in envy; sky glared in anger at his lovely and ugly perfection that was displayed before Sasuke in all its wicked glory—naked, shameless, rapturous.
"You end this now, you child. Do not test me." Itachi's voice fell over his face in soft waves and mocked him in the most profound manner.
"I know what you did—back when you had started your captaincy in Anbu," Sasuke whispered, tone struggling in the deathly shackles of anger and fear. "You slaughtered a whole village to protect this one—men, women, children. You're cruel, remorseless, unkind. You care about no one but yourself.
"You don't know how I feel because you have no heart. You make me sick, and I can't stand the sight of you—you value only what you think is right, only what you think is just, only what you've filled your head with. You're an animal at the end of the Council's leash. That's all you are—that's all you ever will be." Sasuke's eyes were fires in the dark, but his insolent words had sent a red arc flying across Itachi's eyes; and such was his anger that he saw nothing but red haze now.
Itachi's face slinked back into the dark once more as if he wanted to hide his features from Sasuke, and red ripened to shurikens in his eyes: they had betrayed him before a breath came from his lips. The sharp-ends of his fingers dug into his wrist inside the right-sleeve, enough to bruise, to assuage his burning anger. A spurt of blood came out from his left eye's tear-duct that was hidden in the blackness, expressing fury which his Sharingan could not.
At that moment, before Itachi could succumb to anger and inflict punishment upon his younger sibling, the door opened and Yuu stepped in with Kai in his wake. His gaze left Sasuke's strained face and settled on the timid Medic who seldom talked and always obeyed. "Get him out of my sight before anger gets the better of me," Itachi spoke without looking at Sasuke, voice firm, unwavering.
Yuu bowed meekly, approached Sasuke, and took him out of the room. Sasuke's weak state was enough that he did not protest. He walked away, leaving Itachi and Kai to stand in silence. Outside, wind was a wild child that scampered across the garden.
"Itachi-Sama, a letter came from the Hokage. She requests your presence in her office," he informed and pulled out an official scroll from his pocket.
When Itachi did not speak, he stooped down and placed it on the table by the unlit lantern. Then he bowed and left the room quietly. It was . . . silence now, disturbed by autumn's unending wild nature. He looked down at the scroll, reached up, smoothly wiped away the red tear from his cheek. The moth had flown away, and he had not even noticed it. It fed on his chakra, ripened its belly, and now, it was as deadly as ever . . .
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When he opened the door to Tsunade's office, he was a different man: hair neatly combed back, expressions subtle, body clothed in Anbu uniform's superficial glory. Her office was a room that wore darkness habitually. She was an odd one. When he closed the door, she got distracted by the click and looked up from the scroll. Her lips did not smile this time, and there was darkness behind her eyes that foretold her unease.
"Why have you called me here at this time of the hour?" Itachi asked, looking a little weary. These back and forth meetings and unwinnable quarrels with Sasuke had sapped him of energy.
"This came from the Daimyō's Councilman," she said in a worried voice and placed the scroll on the table for him to take it. "I considered your vote. Shikaku and I voted in Sasuke's favour. Hiashi did not. He remained neutral—and useless. Danzō, however, went behind my back and contacted this—this wicked man. I can't override this. It's too soon . . . "
Itachi picked it up and read the contents. "Your Private Intelligence is useless," he spoke indifferently and his face suggested mild scorn. "Why show me this now when you have drowned the boy already? Do not think that you can force my hand. You will not get the scroll, not till you fix this mess . . . Hokage-Sama." His face was black, eyes red again—his gaze's threats were predictable but no less fearsome.
Tsunade knew she would not be able to parry the swords from his evil gaze and his slippery tongue. She had to quell his rising wrath . . . "Are you blackmailing me? Without that scroll, all is lost. If you give it to me, I can apprehend Danzō. I can end this," she said, but her tone lacked authority: it was laced with desperation as she endeavoured to placate him. He was not moved.
"Of course not," Itachi breathed out almost sweetly. "I lack the authority to force any decision upon you. I killed a girl on your orders. Imagine the mess if her thugs knew of your hastiness. They play well with Mist and Cloud. What a glorious mess that would create?" And his eyes were smiling, Sharingan burning so exquisitely on his face like a gaudy show of seduction. He placed the scroll back on the table and spoke no more.
Gooseflesh erupted across her tingling skin. His words had made her mind reel madly. What was he suggesting? A War? . . . surely, a radical like him did not value Sasuke this much? His words had bitten off her tongue, and she had no words to spare. He made to leave, but turned around to add: "it was Sakura, was it not?"
Her student's name made her momentarily recover. She gritted her teeth, angry at his boldness, and said, "of course not!"
Itachi merely smiled, and his eyes darkened in the slightest. Then he left her office almost soundlessly. Outside, winds had gone to sleep, lying in the embrace of a momentary lull.
His energy was gone when he reached home. He did not know what to do. He wanted to visit the graveyard, but it was raining outside now. They could wait. He opened the door to the room that held Sasuke captive. A fire burnt with a tender glow in the fireplace—it was warm.
Sasuke was lying prone beneath the kakebuton. Itachi sat down cross-legged beside the futon and still Sasuke did not stir. He was fast asleep, his anger gone in slumber. Yuu had not neglected his duties: the sleeping draught was strong enough not to rouse the little one. Itachi laced his fingers through the sweaty hair lying on Sasuke's neck and stroked his head very slowly as though he was putting a distressed child to sleep. He had no stories to tell this time. His tongue was silent, heart weary. Sasuke's anger had given him no chance for even a little display of affection. What had he done? The child had grown so disobedient, wild . . . insolent; and he did not know what to do . . .
Itachi moved the hair to the side and pulled the high-collar back to gaze upon the bruise left by the collar. Sasuke was so stubborn that he had disallowed Yuu to even heal it. The prison guards had not bothered to take up the excess slack. Had Sasuke been left there longer . . . Itachi did not have it in him to imagine that scenario anymore.
"You child . . . " Itachi whispered, not ceasing his loving caresses.
Light silently flashed in the sky, but wind laughed in jovial abandon, elated at its quiet call. A flash lit up Tsunade's office and her hand jerked in surprise and sake slopped over the edge of her glass. Thunder's roar chided the wind. It was the tinkle of sweet rain now.
She pressed her hand over her bosom and took a little sip to lighten her stress. Her thoughts were still in pursuit of Itachi's words when the door opened: Danzō came from the darkness and stopped before the door, his deep eyes indiscernible in the shadows. Her anger mounted and knew no bounds. She slammed down the glass on the table and it wobbled. She did not care how the red spilt over her scrolls.
"Get out of here, you snake!" Tsunade shouted and red rose in her cheeks. "How dare you—you go behind my back and shame me like this? You—I know you! What do you want with that boy? How could you come up with this scheme to—" she stopped and her voice became silence. Out of the darkness, from behind Danzō's evil shadow, emerged Sakura—her expression meek, her gait unsure.
"Your student is the one who testified against that treacherous Uchiha child," Danzō spoke, and his voice was like venom that burnt on her skin.
"Sakura . . . you . . . " Tsunade's wits left her. She could not believe her eyes. Itachi would kill her if he knew . . . what had she done?
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