Chapter Sixty-One: And Sweet was the Smell of Spring
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The feeling that shock stirred in her was of anger. Dark was but a foreboding companion amongst them, daubing their faces black and grey, night's dye on its fingers. Her pink hair had lost the hue sun always made gleam with its rays. Tsunade could barely see her face; behind Danzō's unendurable, evil aspect, she was but a wee thing—lost and foolhardy.
This building was exposed to a terrible weather—rain lashed, wind whipped, thunder cracked and waged a war against this patch of concrete woods. Outside, wind wails joined together and put forth a harrowing sound that went straight into her heart, and it reacted with an unsteady rhythm.
Concentrating her gaze lower, she watched darkness spill towards her feet like the slow movement of sludge. This was not right—nothing was right. A lantern sat on her table, and when she shifted a little to the right, in thoughtless motion, yellow light struck the girl's young cheek, and it glowed pink.
"Out," Tsunade whispered and curled her fingers around the edge of the heavy wooden table, her hands going white.
"This boy needs to—"
"Out!" she shouted this time; her head snapped up, eyes rounded, and she took deep breaths, angered by his presence.
Danzō had gone silent. In the darkness, his features related the evil she always associated with this village's terrible past. He was a leech now, a terrible leech, growing grotesque and full and big by sucking up all this place had left to give.
To her heart's relief, he did not answer. His stick clicked against the floor once, as though an announcement of his leaving, and he turned around and walked into the direful dark that filled into the door's mouth. He had straightened his bent spine unnaturally in her gaze to appear prideful and honourable. A shadow fell off his shoulders as he disappeared; she did not know where it went.
Cool breaths invaded her lungs, and, finally, her senses found comfort in his absence. She looked about and saw flashes of lightning light up the office's contours. Sake was red and enticing in that flask, but she was disciplined enough to forego this temptation for now.
Her gaze passed over her student's body: it was contoured with a shivering anxiety and sparse light. She was nervous, and sweat punctuated that quite clearly. Tsunade took one step forward and blocked light's path with her body. It trickled over the sides and made her appear large on the wall behind her.
"Why are you doing this?" Tsunade asked at last, her voice low, expression subtle.
Sakura lifted her eyes: light struck them and they sparkled like the verdant valley in spring. Her face, framed by a softer pink which love's season had to offer, assumed a worried expression—so young and foolish to be cast away upon the tides of loyalty for the Land . . .
Blood pumped a pink hue towards Sakura's cheek and its tender shade spread from her smooth neck upwards along her face, mapping her features that were cast in a familiar mould of wild youth. She was . . . young, foolish. She bent her head, feeling ashamed that she was being scrutinised by her mentor's gaze.
Sakura gulped, wind moist in her gut. "Sasuke—he's . . . " she paused, unable to voice what was in her heart, " . . . he's a traitor. I saw him kill Toruné in cold blood with my own eyes."
The palpitations of Tsunade's heart were louder this time whilst her eyes, quite tirelessly, searched for red dots in the dark. The room was empty, but his black crow's silent beak always pecked through the walls, merged with the shadows, and assumed sinister, shapeless forms to hear her thoughts, see her speak, feel the anxieties in her heart—what an evil man, what an evil crow.
"Why did Sasuke kill him?" Tsunade asked, and the words barely left the tip of her tongue—they wanted to cling there and not let go.
"I think he's controlling Naruto," she said and looked up to meet Tsunade's eyes, her voice a little robust than before. It was as though the mention of Sasuke's name had poked at an angry animal in her gut and provoked a terrible response.
"You think?" Tsunade hissed and observed Sakura flinch at the intensity of her tone. Tsunade crossed her arms over her breast, her heart angry and wild.
"No, I know for sure!" Sakura said, her voice rising in a loud retort, her fingers clenching to form two hard knots by her side. She looked angry. The pink had drained away to reveal a darker red in her face. Her frayed emotions were laid bare for Tsunade's eyes to see—again!
"Do you?" Tsunade asked, almost feeling the white light's lash on her skin, which reacted with anger's blush as a silent answer. "You've started a mess—you've made a mess of things! What do you hope to accomplish?"
Sakura had fallen silent, her breaths soft in storm's voices. A dry branch, now bathed in rainwater, smacked sharply against the window-glass, but so consumed by doubt and anger she was that the rough sound did not intrude upon her thoughts.
"Itachi knows," Tsunade whispered, eyes widened so much, and her voice rose slightly to develop into a hiss as the last of his name's syllable rolled off her tongue. Sakura sharply looked up to see Tsunade standing before her now, a clear fury in her face.
"He knows," she spoke again, and still her voice was like the smallest and sharpest hiss from a frightened snake, "but I don't know why he hasn't killed you yet. I don't know why . . . why . . . " And she looked away towards the window, towards the dark face of storm: it had a distorted countenance of dark ferociousness, decorated by streaking lines of white and blue and purple.
"I'm doing this to protect the village—my home—Konoha," Sakura said, watching her mentor's eyes search for hers in the dark in the manner of a lost drifter's quest for treasure. "Sasuke—I think he's controlling Naruto with his Mangekyō—the new eyes he flaunts. He's hurting Naruto. I won't allow it!"
"And why would he do that? What proof do you have of this accusation?" Tsunade asked, and the sound of her voice was very harsh, her features grey to Sakura's eyes.
"I—" Sakura stopped and her words stopped and her heart stopped; and then something strained inside her, broke, and out came an insidious and harshest of anger and loathing and lust, which she chose to spew forth and fill this malleable mould of lies she had created to fashion into a tongue, face, apparel of lies—as she saw fit!
"I learnt sensing to keep track of him," she began, tasting the vile nature of her words as they effortlessly slid over the lying tongue. "I'd planted a Mokuton pellet in Fū-San's clothes, but he disappeared in the forest. Sasuke found him so fast.
"No one knew where he went, but Sasuke located the bodies in a day. Don't you find it strange? Sasuke killed Fū-San, because Danzō-Sama had asked him to keep a watch on him. He'd been loitering about the forest and meeting someone in Night Flower. I couldn't find out who, but—"
"Many Shinobis go there to drink and play with women," Tsunade cut across her, and Sakura beheld a full smile curve her red mouth in the most tantalizing manner. "This isn't a proof of the boy's treachery. You just proved that he's a man."
"Tsunade-Sama, it's—"
"Did you kill the prisoner?" Tsunade asked, watching her student struggle beneath her gaze, her breaths loud, rough tunes in the office.
"W-What prisoner?" Sakura feigned ignorance, but she failed to control the discernible stammer in her voice. The sweat's sheen was bright in the sharp yellow from the old, old lantern's light.
"You've learnt to lie well, but not well enough," Tsunade spoke, and her voice dropped to a whisper full of anguish. Her face, though still beneath the airy mantle of shadows, wore the same expression that showed her discontent and fear.
Sakura held her lower lip between her teeth; ashamed and quiet, she did not know what to say. A spiral of storm raged inside her heart, emotions went away on the ebb and came back biting and roaring to collide against her composure. What was she to do in the face of fates?
Tsunade turned away towards the lantern, a dark figure in Sakura's gaze, and then she whispered something that wounded Sakura's heart so much: "get out of my sight . . . "
The words struck her, like an axe, in her gut that wrenched out a sob from deep inside her throat, but she held back the tears this time. Her whole body shivered in pain, but there was no blood to shoot all over the place this time: it was a different kind of disarming pain that had left her spirit paralysed.
So she forced her body to bow before the woman, whom she loved with all her heart, and turned around, but before she left, she, too, whispered something that frightened the woman facing the light even more: "I'm the one who suggested to Danzō-Sama that a letter should be sent to the Daimyō's assistant. Sasuke can't be trusted. He needs to pay for what he's done—what he wants to do. I won't let him hurt Naruto, my friends, and my village. I won't!"
Then Sakura pivoted smoothly and left the office, tracing the invisible prints of Danzō's dark steps; and Tsunade moaned in anguish, silent and still, in his wake . . .
The walk back home was a sad one. Where was her heart bound? She did not know: she had never known its path. Spring came and went, but her heart was left without the essence of its springing sensations. How terrible for her that she shared a name with a flower that bloomed pretty every season, relished the taste of rapture she never knew.
And she recalled the day when she had lost her virtue after pining for him to return her wants for so long. She was eighteen, older than most, and had desired to keep herself pure for him (a silly sentiment, she thought), but even when he was a boy of fourteen, he knew how to reject her heart, her advances. He always broke her—always.
Her steps, slow and uneasy, lead her to her room, thoughts trapped in the season of spring. Spring's sun, benign, had touched the blooming skin, washed away the burden in a stream of bright light. Breaths of air laden with new flora, it was time for the wild spirit to be set free into the arms of primal callings.
Outside, ground was abloom—many colours of pleasures, a feast for the eyes. Smells, sweet and enchanting, enticed the flesh and the slumbering animal to shudder and come forth—to take over this coil in mad ways.
Yet inside she lay wide open, thighs spread obscenely on his knees, flesh blushing in the vocative candle light, lips and cheeks flower-coloured in the ghastly flicker. A cold darkness sat upon the room, hiding her and him away.
Young and naïve still, yet Nature did not care: she had Bled from the deep groove between her plump thighs one day, and red trailed down her legs as an obscene show of that place's ripened state—red against soft-pink, an invitation to invade that place with hard strokes, leave the seed, watch her belly grow. Nature was a cruel master—an invasion, a fate of her form.
And she had surrendered to him, her growing body akin to a man's feeble imitation of a little nymph. He bent over her and licked a wet line from tiny pebbles on her breast to the tight cunt right between her legs. It was moist and welcoming to take him in, lips swollen, fleshes open to show him that heated state for fucking.
Scents and fluids came from that place, and the still air soaked them up to become a restless harlot in heat—sweet, sweeter, so wild. Wood absorbed the groans, pink hair silent on the dirty planks.
A thin streamlet came down from the crack in the roof and fell on her pronounced ribcage; it travelled between the shallow grooves, like roads, in her torso. Big hands, sure hands, drew sensations from the tense muscles in light strokes; and when it breached Nature's barrier, which sat before the deeper passage to her womb, an infernal pool was drawn from her body . . . skin shivering, eyes stinging, cunt vibrating against repeated intrusions.
His white hair appeared grey in the dimming light—a spectre in the shadows. A haze came over her eyes and pleasure stung the cunt to press harder. He groaned, and in his deep eyes that shone with a strange attachment now, she saw not the boy she wanted, but a man. The one with hair of gold on his head was too blundering for this old ritual, a fool, a nosy boy back then.
She could barely sustain the grimace in his expression: he was pushing harder, and with wild strokes, into her cunt to find contentment for his body. When it had risen from between his thighs, she had been surprised, afraid even; but now, her body welcomed the vibrations it enjoyed. Her heart did not; no, it feared and caved in upon itself, a fallen tomb, to know of the mishap—she was too young to watch her belly swell for him! Thin lips had wrapped around the moist crown, taken all of him in to feel the hot and twitchy thing slide back and forth inside her warm and smooth throat—a vulgar irrumation.
Yet the red in that boy's eye had tumbled into her dreams: a red that could fill her body and soul with unending want, but it was a cold red. Her body ached and rejected the reveries, in which she busied herself daily and nightly, a silly girl's fancy as he walked ahead aloof in front, steps stiff and sure.
Breaths scalded her throat and tears went down her cheeks, her skin a scorching inferno of primal urgencies—release, cum, expel. Fluids sprung from his cock and filled her womb to its depths and pooled as white on the dirty brown inside the dark. She was his, marked like a whelp in weak moments of arousal, and she did not want to be his . . .
Her limbs started trembling, fighting, ears listening to the old house that yawned around her, and then her cry wore off in a collection of primal screams that he had to put his hand on her glazed lips to silence her—she had cum . . . naughty, filthy, decadent creature. What a rutting whelp in the season of heat and desire, but he was still not hers—yet it was spring . . .
Yes, spring came and spring went, but he was never hers. Never. Why? She always wanted to know. He slept and rutted with women, but he never wanted to touch her, come closer, fuck her. What did she not possess that others did? What? Though her face less than pretty, her body less than womanly, she was not unsightly for he had bedded women less remarkable than she. Men found her physiognomy comely—they pursued her: he never looked at her in the manner of a man who possessed a natural desire to lay—some of it, at least. His constant rejections of her made her question her worth, made her weep.
She closed the door behind her, thoughts stopping, body firing up in need—again. "Fuck you, Sasuke . . . " Sakura hissed in a low voice, her head bent, tears falling down on the floor. "Fuck you . . . "
Then, as though trying to reject her thoughts of him, she proceeded on to her own room. Sheets lay rumpled on the bed. She had not been here in days. Her father needed her now, so she spent most of her days in her parents' home.
A smell of neglect, dusted up by her feet, rose up from the wooden floor; she would have to clean this place come tomorrow. She flopped down on the bed, which faced the mirror, and gazed at her reflection: an attractive young woman gazed back at her, her countenance affected by the usual emotions she was a thrall to.
Slowly, Sakura reached into her pocket and took out the phial of pink moth's poison—it was pink and shiny, like her hair. She removed the top, took a whiff of it, and placed the top back on. A sensation rushed at her, and her mind flashed into a black-out. All colours vanished, and the phial dropped from her shivering hands to fall down on the floor with a soft clink.
She fell onto her right side, eyes still on the mirage in the mirror, hand reaching between her thighs in search of her pleasures. Then, from the left side, an airy shadow moved into the mirror: what a beautiful mien, white and perfect. He laid his hand on her stomach, other hand trailing down to locate the source of her pleasures; and it was throbbing there still . . .
Colours moved across the ceiling, and a lovely intrusion split her open from her flesh down to the soul: rhythm, beauty, colours. An explosion of lights and scents, and nothing was as profound as the core that took a part of him in, so that he was her and she him.
Upon the air, smells vibrated, smells of rot and neglect. Pipes rusted through, metal bent, wood hollow, such was the state of things in her mind; it was all heavy decay and light festering in the walls and rooms; but she was safe, feeling undulations deep in her flesh from the intrusions. And it dripped down on the floor, blood from maidens and men alike, but this time, it was colourless, viscous strings, pleasure's gift.
Deeper his finger went, worming into the slimy wetness to touch the damp walls of secrets, but in the end, everything was a shape-less smudge on the mirror—belief, make-believe toys from illusions; and she whispered, enamoured, bewitched, stupefied by poisons and him, finger slick and quick in its motions: "S-Sasuke—come into me—p-please . . . " she pleaded, voice as earnest as an ecstasy-struck dervish's.
Yes, sweet was the smell of spring he exuded—always. Then, finally, she was undone . . .
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Thunder came rolling and crashed into the walls, and they shuddered like frightened children in response. The whip of light was kind and did not have the bite to leave any colour of its violence on his skin. He drew one knee to his breast, the other dropped to his side, his hand resting on his thigh.
His complexion had improved in two nights: he no longer looked like a white corpse pulled out from the grave. His fever was gone; his mood, a little better, too, though he was still quite moody and easy to anger. Some things never change, she thought and smiled, standing with her back to the thick wooden wall, gazing at the thin shafts of grey light coming in from the sides of the wooden-bars—he had not bothered to close the portal; and, as a result, streamlets of rain travelled down to the wooden-wall and reached the floor; they had made quite the puddle by his futon. Itachi would be irritated again. Sasuke was doing this on purpose now to draw an angry emotion out of him . . . so far, he had not been too successful.
By day, Itachi ignored him and the prison altogether. Itachi had come by twice to check upon him, and both times, he was fast asleep, too intoxicated by the sleeping-draught to notice his older brother's presence. She sighed, eyes fixed upon his cool expression. He was gazing quite thoughtlessly at the missive he had thrown into the flames: it was ashes now. She did not know from whom it was, but its contents had not interested him in the slightest . . .
"Did you do it?" Sasuke asked quite suddenly that she had to fetch a quick breath for a response. Then he looked at her and his face and eyes hardened much—he was more angry than she had hoped . . .
"Sasuke, this isn't—" she stopped her words and gulped at the sight of a deep, threatening frown changing his features. This really was war now—anger and determination without a war-paint glaring upon his face.
"Do it, Karin!" he rasped, red coming out to make certain that his point got across, "don't make me tell you again."
Karin exhaled a long breath, seeing him appear hazy through the fog, which her warm breath had created. "He'd find out, you know," she said and reached up to tangle her fingers in the red hair that lay on her breast.
"Doesn't matter," he spoke, his countenance fierce and angry, his voice no less rough, no less burdened. "I can't open the seal without his blood. Yuu told me that he would be called there soon. I won't get another change."
"But, Sasuke, you—"
"Just put it in there, damn you!" he hissed and, almost in reflex, got to his feet, his posture threatening but weak, his face hard but gaunt, his eyes bold but cold—with the heavy hand of anger and illness and something else she could not name.
Karin's heart lurched, hairs prickled on her head, and she felt so sad at the sight of the man she loved so much. The emotions evaporated from his face; red went away; he slumped down onto the futon, back bowed, head bent—she could not see his face behind the fall of his black hair that had grown longer in these past few weeks.
Then, as though a mischievous spirit possessed him, he let out a faint sound of laughter that startled her: her face reflected shock and a bit of pity. "My brother's a man of contradictions," Sasuke spoke, a faint note of glee in the sound of his voice, and she saw his lips move through the curtain of tar-coloured hair. "You don't know him like I do. He made himself into what he's now. The rest is history . . . do as you're told. I intend to end this—even if it kills me."
And Karin was silent. She raised her eyes, and saw the sun creep below the trees that had thrown a dark apparel upon their natural features. This would not end well . . .
Night crossed the face of the land and a dark smile rose to its mouth and shadows bloomed fresh everywhere, a spring in autumn's time. The sky was still black in the storm's grip, but its nature had been tempered a bit by the time's passage. Inside this room, wind's voice was softer than the voice of his wooden brush and the popping sounds of coals in the hearth. Their edges were deep red and hot—Tanaka had put them there in the evening.
It was warm in here, but that warmth had yet to affect his heart in the way she desired, wanted, wished. He had a richness of mien when he smiled (before his Obā-San), but it was always a cold smile that it wounded her heart so. Winter was coming, but it had come early from his breast to envelop his face and body that the language of his actions was beholden to his aloof nature and manners.
Ever since his return, he had not so much as smiled at her, looked at her full, nor had he invited her to lay with him: she was still disallowed to enter his chamber. Even now, in the glowing lights from the lantern and hearth, his face possessed the same indifferent expression that had a touch of detachment she did not understand. Rao-Sama told her that he would come around, but he was as distant as ever . . .
Outside, the bamboo knocked against the rock set firmly into the ground, but owing to the present elements of nature, it got repeated several times till a loud one announced that the wind had finally calmed. She breathed in the charred-incense breath and looked at Rao's face out of the corner of her eyes the way one would cautiously gaze at a searing light. The old woman was smiling, a scroll in her aged hands, eyes bright and full of love. The wrinkles in her face appeared more pronounced when her smile deepened.
She pulled her eyes away and passed them over the room: it was spacious and the cupboards, set into the wooden walls, had many scrolls. A partition-screen was placed in the far corner—Kirin danced in the rain and threw lightning at his pursuers. It showed a clash between seasons: Autumn and Winter, in-between which, Spring and Summer bled in vindictive colours. There was a deep shadow behind it.
She had been curious this morning to see what was behind the partition-screen, but a young male servant had forbidden her to go any further, said that Itachi-Sama did not like when his things were disturbed. A frown came upon her red lips, and she, quite slowly, returned her gaze back to Itachi. He was quiet, his face calm, and exhibited an air of authority, which was betrayed just a bit by the perfection of his appearance: he was truly beautiful; strong, powerful, intelligent—things she always admired about him.
He was everything Sasuke was not: he was wild, rowdy, cunning in an impish way she detested. Sasuke lacked the refined manners Itachi possessed, which had always drawn her to him, like a pink-moth to the purple ones that grew from silver bulbs, or the purple ones that grew stippled wings from wriggling things. When Rao had come to her with the prospect of laying with the younger one, she scoffed at the idea. She had always felt the sharpest loathing for his tendency to draw Itachi's attentions to himself—all of his attentions.
Giddy, foolish girls may have been enamoured by the younger, more beautiful one, but she knew that her heart belonged to the older brother—the one who had stolen her heart, and her breaths, when they sat under the tree as children, and she wore, upon herself, shadows of leaves under the dusking sky with a willing disposition. Sasuke did not deserve his love; he was just a greedy boy—a hateful boy! Itachi deserved someone who would return his warmth, his love, his kindness, with the same intensity; and she would grant him that and much more. Sasuke and his deceit were to be damned!
Izumi curled her fingers into a fist and pressed the sleeve-covered knuckle to her lips. She wore a big and expensive kimono tonight. She had been careful about the style of her long hair and had asked a maid to help her with the impossible task, who did up her hair in the most delicate fashion. Pretty pins were put into the bun, and a comb was put in her lush hair, too—a shiny black one. Tiny ornaments, which decorated the pins, clinked and glimpsed whenever she moved. She wanted to say something to him, but it would have been rude to speak without permission before the Clan's Head; so she stayed silent, heart angry and sad, and waited for him to gaze upon her and return her smile with something more than an indifferent gaze . . .
"You are still working?" Rao asked and loose skin gathered around her eyes in deep folds when she smiled.
Itachi stopped writing, and rough sounds from the wooden-brush stopped, and he returned her gaze with a glance. "A few missives from Anbu office," he spoke and put the brush into the ink bottle. "You should be in your room—resting. It is a cold night."
"Oh, you sweet boy," Rao replied, her voice sweet and lovely. "I came here to speak to you of Sasuke. Even you know this."
Izumi's ears pricked up, and her eyes shone with a curiosity that Itachi was quick to quash. "Return to your chamber," he spoke, without looking towards her, and she felt a sense of humiliation rise in her.
When she did not move, Itachi gazed at her and his eyes hardened and a frown appeared in his brow. To her dismay, Rao was still smiling at Itachi: she had not bothered to intervene, nor had she stopped him from sending her away.
Izumi took in a shivering deep breath; then she got to her feet, gave a bow, and left the office in silence, long garments trailing and rustling in her wake. When the sounds of her feet died in the distance, which was created by the barrier of the thick wooden door, Itachi spoke: "the girl of your choosing . . . she is quite disobedient."
Rao emitted a laugh in response and pressed her hand to her breast as though his remark amused her to no end. "You have not even bothered to invite her to your chamber. Be a little kind to her. She is distraught—poor girl," Rao spoke, her eyes and lips smiling.
Itachi remained silent for some moments, his gaze bent upon the scroll in her hands. "Tell the Elders that I do not wish to speak of Sasuke," he spoke and let out the breath inside his breast in a slow exhalation. "The matter can wait."
The happy smile went away from Rao's lips that formed a dainty, sad smile in its place, and the lines in her face appeared less deep, almost shallow now. "They require an answer. You must give them one," she spoke and placed the scroll on the low table before her.
Itachi picked up the scroll and opened it. He read it with a calm expression, and, as always, his features told little of his heart. The scroll had the seal of Uchiha Elders, and they desired an urgent meeting concerning Sasuke's role in the assassination of Danzō's guards. In silence, he placed the scroll back on the table and regarded her with a settled glance that mingled many emotions—yet showed none for her eyes to behold, and that left her so distraught . . .
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