Chapter Sixty-Two: Trouble for the Young 'un
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A stitch in time saves nine, but when many stitches came loose, you could only mend so many. His father sat before the lantern's light that crashed against his back, like smooth waves, spilt over, and cascaded down the sides—without disturbing the darkness that had fitted itself tightly against him. He could only see a bit of his left cheek, limned in the dullness.
Light came forth, from the same old and red lantern, and touched the careworn cheek of his young companion. His heart, which was usually aglow with a child's fascination, had turned old in the recent months. It had learnt to thump to the rhythms of lust, desire, caution. These were new things; and a secret chamber had grown inside its walls where truths alternated with lies, and his ever-ready tongue was less shy each time it made trip the words. Such was life—such were lies . . . such an eager little liar!
He had not had the courage, nor the conviction, to make trial of his own heart; no, but his father's eyes were stern, hard, sharp to see him—all of him. He always felt naked when he came here and sat before the man whose blood galloped in his veins, and deny he might its value and worth, he was his imitation—in the best of ways, in the worst of ways.
"He's made no mention of it—not to me," Shisui said, his voice failing to hide his anxiety.
He saw his friend's face, in the corner of his eyes, assume a more troubled expression—the kind he had never seen upon his face before—and it troubled him, too. He directed his gaze forward, eyes sensing the unease in his heart, not letting red come over for a reassurance. Outside, a storm was happening, and, inside, his own heart worked itself into a rhythm with the way the wind moved . . . he was afraid, but he stayed quiet: it was not his place to speak—he was too young for that.
So he passed his gaze over the dark faces and the meagre illuminations the lantern's old light provided. His father took in a deep breath, and as though it was in his nature to imitate him, he, too, did the same. Cool air calmed the anxious blood in his temples, but only just.
An old sword-rack sat inside the alcove. A beautiful scroll painting hung behind the rack, which was empty; his father had painted the scroll's shades with a fine brush: it showed a changing season in sweeping, bold movements—half of the trees wore decay's shades, and the rest swayed bare in winter's chill, their limbs twisting with frailty; crows had made nests between the boughs. That was all he could see in the play of dim light and shadow. There was an ocean behind the trees, but it was not visible from his perch.
"This is not appropriate, Shisui," his grandmother spoke, who sat on his father's left, her voice aged, but firm. He had never heard this intonation in her tone: it was commanding, almost harsh; but still he said nothing.
"Rao-Sama, I'm—" Shisui tried to speak, but he was cut short when Nomura raised a silencing hand.
"Danzō's men are running amock. He herds them well—perhaps too well," Nomura spoke, and his eyes narrowed upon Shisui before glancing briefly back at him; then he continued in a manner as if he was not even there: "he speaks of unthinkable things—terrible things, yet you are still in the dark. What have you been doing all this time, young Uchiha?"
Shisui bowed his head, hiding his face to escape the shame. Sweat had risen out of his pores to envelop his skin like little prayer beads in the light. Droplets lay scattered about his nape, which shivered in a way that was almost profound. He did not like it; he did not like it at all. So, at the sight of his helplessness, he forgot the codes, forgot the mannerisms expected of an heir, and felt his heart work itself, now, into a different rhythm: defiance!
"This isn't fair!" he said, fixing his eyes upon his father who was silent still. Nomura's and Rao's Sharingans came out to admonish him and his insolence. His, too, rose just the same to respond to the challenge.
"This is not a matter of fairness, my little darling," Rao spoke first, her voice mellowed much by emotion. "Times are hard. We as people have to stand strong and battle these differences, or else we have no legacy—no future." Then she was silent, and red got puffed out in her eyes, and his went away just the same. He could not even see the colour and shape of her eyes any longer: hide colour, hide, become this dark's bride.
"Shisui-San's doing as much as he can," he said and tried his hardest to make his voice harsher like that of a man's; but he was no man—he was a boy. A little boy who had tasted rancid things, ugly things, sweet things that confused him and hurled him into a dark pit of his reality; and slowly he changed, unaware he changed, unrelenting he changed; and sweet was this mockery and sweeter his lies.
"Itachi, stay quiet," Shisui mumbled from his right, his countenance showing even more shame than he had hoped.
"But—this . . . "
"What is this—this matter of fairness?" his father spoke at last, in a voice that was deep, rich, but so commanding that it hushed wind and storm into silence. It went into his ears, and it was all he could hear, see, feel: it had invaded all his senses to become a single sense that flowed through him as waves, which filled his imagination—he feared him; he imitated him; he . . . loved him, too? He did not know . . .
"Otō-Sama, you . . . you're not being fair," he said, hesitant, bowed his head low to look upon the sweat-drops that covered his hands.
Itachi expected his father to speak, but it was Nomura who spoke first: "your son has grown disobedient. He does not even have the sense to stay silent before his elders. You have been lax with him."
He did not raise his eyes to look upon his father; he only heard a release of breath from his lips, which sounded slightly laboured. Itachi did not like Nomura. The storm's voice had returned with a new ferociousness now; it knew that his father's voice had gone silent for the time being.
"What does he say about that Elite Force business?" Rao asked and coughed afterwards to clear her throat.
"He hasn't said anything to me," Shisui replied, and his voice sounded no less meek.
"Danzō loves his lies," Nomura spoke, his voice sharper than before that it was clear enough in the wind. "He has made an alliance with this force to defeat us. We will not stand still and let him create schemes of our demise—be wary."
Shisui nodded and mopped sweat from his brow. "He didn't reveal anything more?" he asked and raised a shaky hand to adjust his Anbu flak-jacket; it was clear that his mind was elsewhere, and Itachi knew why; but he kept his promise and said nothing.
"No," she said, and he heard a rustle of heavy garments, "he died before we could get anything out of his mind. Who knows what Konoha is planning now?" Itachi grimaced at her remark—this was bad. If Danzō found out, Shisui would be in trouble!
"Must be the lands they desire—still crawling like rats in the tunnels," Nomura spoke, and he saw Shisui's expression change subtly, which must have been seen by the keen red of his father's eyes.
"Leave—both of you," his father commanded, and, like an obedient son, he rose to his feet and bowed and left the room behind Shisui. Voices floated like dust upon air to his ears, but the seals on the door were too strong to allow them their escape.
He stood silent in the dark, gazing at Shisui's face, which was illuminated continually by the lightning's flashes powering through the lattice. The corridor was dark. His father had not asked of Tanaka to light the lantern in the entrance. Itachi heaved a sigh and looked to his left and saw big black eyes peeking around the corner, spying on them; then they disappeared after another flash, and he smiled—all his anxiety forgotten.
Light Feet thumped down the wooden corridor, and the shadow, which was much larger than the small body before, grew smaller across the wall on the right; but Itachi was too fast. He flashed towards his chamber's door and grabbed hold of the little boy before he could slide the door open: the child emitted a startled sound. "Out of your bed and playing games at this time of the night?" Itachi asked and lifted him up into his arms. " Okā-San will be angry with you."
"Can I sleep withyu, Nii-San? Can I?" Sasuke asked, his cheeks growing ruddy in anticipation. He created a half-toothy sort of smile as he had yet to grow few teeth in the lower gums. Itachi let out the softest laugh at the sight of him: Sasuke was all pink and sweaty in the face, his smile growing bigger, cheeks growing rounder and pinker! He wanted an answer—now!
Then a loud sound shook the whole house; Sasuke reflexively buried his face in Itachi's shirt and let out a sound so loud that Itachi felt it through his whole body . . . This storm was no less ferocious, felt by this room full of Men; its voices moved into his bones, and they vibrated as though in answer. He preferred his tongue to be quiet, but what to do about that disobedient heart and flesh and bones? Some things were beyond his control—beyond every man's control.
So he sat on a slightly raised section in the room, fires lighted on his left and on his right, looking at the Council of Elders: Ten sat on the left, and ten sat on the right, facing each other. As his gaze crossed their faces, he was a little surprised that he could not recall the names of some of these men and women. Kai and Serizawa sat on either side of the heavy-door, and from this far (in shadows), they appeared like two bronze Buddha statues dirtied by dirt and muck to darker shades.
Outside, there was still light, which had gone behind the storm clouds. Light came dull grey and soft through the paper-screen, fitted in the wooden panel on the right. Behind his back, a bonsai tree's wood-work decorated the large wall: its leaves, dirty green where shadows became thick, appeared to touch the ceiling.
A forest sprawled behind the backs of the elders on the sliding-doors and wooden panels, their boughs lush and rich, eternally green—or as long as the colours did not dim and attain a dulled state. A sword-rack was on the right, but no girl sat there this time to hold his sword (an old custom forgotten by his people during the days of his grandfather); his sword lay by his knee upon the mat, its sheath dark in the intermittent lights of the storm. Would Sasuke be afraid tonight? His heart did not know . . .
He wore traditional clothes, like always these days; it was required of him for these quaint meetings. His face was very serious, long throat bare, as always, and hair tumbled loosely over his shoulders. From their perches, he looked no less intimidating than an emperor.
"What a mess," one said from the end, his tone filled with derision. Itachi did not need the Sharingan to see his face. It was less aged than others: some shallow lines were etched in his forehead and around his mouth; he was young compared to most in here.
"How many accusations have been leveled against him? How long must this go on?" another spoke from the left, his tone no less harsh. His countenance appeared to be the same—hard, round, angry. He, probably, was even younger than he. Itachi was silent, his heart elsewhere, caught up in the tunes from wind's mouth, mind embroiled in a turmoil. Oh, Sasuke—what had the child done?
"Things happen, young' un. It is best to locate reason," an elder man spoke and moved a little to sit upright—a futile struggle as the stoop in his back was too great—and the loose skin of his chin swayed between his small shoulders like a sail in wind.
"Why now have these accusations come?" an old woman, almost as old as his grandmother, asked in a smooth voice, her bearing calm and regal that defied her age. She had done up her hair into a large whorl on the back of her head. Four ornamental pins, her family's heirlooms, decorated her hair—most of which were still black; a few silver streaks ran from behind her puffy ears to the back of her head.
"We lost the lands, our honour, our men—and now they come for the young heir? This is not a coincidence," Nomura spoke at last. He occupied the space his uncle had only a year ago: he was taken by a long illness this spring. The loss had tempered the haughty look on his face; he appeared almost sober in countenance now.
Itachi never enjoyed his company, and his presence, here today, meant nothing but trouble in his eyes. More murmurs and questions came from the elders' lips. He did not know how to answer them all; it was not as though he ever sat with his father much to oversee the proceedings. They always irked him, and his lack of interest had resulted in this . . . dilemma.
"The young heir is silent," one young man spoke—Seiwa was his name, regal was the expression on his face that was much too pallid; and, suddenly, all eyes (young and old) were upon him. This sudden weight of gazes did not change his expression: he looked coolly back at him, a faint smile crossing his lips this time.
"You all have many questions. I am but one man," Itachi spoke, and his voice sounded almost amused.
"What is this assassinations' business, young heir?" an old woman, Kumiko, asked in a coarse voice. She was said to possess great beauty in her youth. Her name was . . . strange, he thought.
"I shall tell you what it is," a rowdy-looking man spoke, who looked a little older than Seiwa, "Sasuke has killed Toruné—he had killed Fū, as well. Kami knows how many others he has felled. Am I not right, Itachi-Sama?" He looked over to him, and he saw anger, hatred in this man's eyes and it surprised him . . .
Horrified gasps circled it thick waves about the room, but his calm was undisturbed. "Perhaps you should share what you know of as I remain ignorant of the authenticity of these accusations," Itachi spoke, and one old man let out a subtle gasp of surprise, and then his mouth sagged open: he seemed disturbed. They had thought these to be accusations—where was this man steering this?
"Are you shielding your brother?" he accused, his voice bolder than before.
Itachi considered him for a brief moment: he appeared young, younger than he, resolute, unrelenting in a way that was beginning to irk him. His expression was hard, almost smug, as though he was challenging him.
"Who are you? I have never seen you here before," Itachi spoke, his tone without an emotion, and he bent his gaze full upon him. The man did not flinch.
"Yamato," he answered, subtly puffing out his breast. "My father, Otomo, was killed in the massacre with Fugaku-Sama. My uncle used to sit in my place. He passed away three years ago." His face became harder, like chiseled iron, at the mention of him, but Itachi remained silent.
"Yamato enjoys Konoha's whip on his backside," Seiwa spoke, and his wicked smile drew a growl from Yamato.
"Someone has to safeguard this clan's future. We cannot remain stubborn any longer—refuse to mingle with the Elders' Council. This will alienate us more," Yamato spoke, an angry twitch apparent round his sharp-as-metal cheekbones. He gave the impression of an ill man.
"And that shall be you? Then I fear for us all," Seiwa returned, amusement in his voice and upon his face.
"Better than our Head's wild brother," Yamato spoke deeply, his breast pumping up and down under the layers of his kimono. He was unable to hide his anger.
The storm outside halted, and Itachi, if nothing else, became immensely curious. Cool wind sung autumn's song; a leaf had stuck out like a sour thumb—autumn's reaping was needed to attain true equality in Itachi's garden. So he watched, nearly amused by Yamato's vehemence to implicate his brother.
"I am Kiryū," another young man spoke from Yamato's right, his face set in a look of utmost displeasure. "Forgive me, but you are being . . . lenient with you brother, Itachi-Sama. If he is truly involved in this crime, he should be handed over to Root. It is only just and fair."
Nomura let out a shallow laugh, which rang out louder in the quietness of the sleeping storm, and looked at him, his face inquisitive. "And, I suppose, you will be content with what clan-related sensitive matters they drag out from the boy's head? Do you make light of our Sharingan-legacy? Fool," he spoke, still smiling, though Kiryū seemed unfazed.
"Itachi-Sama can wipe his mind clean of such things—his Genjutsu is powerful. I do not see how the whole clan should suffer at his hands." Then he huffed out a sigh and went silent. His words had sparked displeasure in Itachi's heart that his Sharingan nearly slipped up to skim the black-waters.
"How foolish," Kumiko mocked, her hand resting on her breast. "Handing over the brother of an heir to a foe? Your father has not taught you well."
"Kumiko-Sama, if I may," another man, younger than the Elders, spoke from the end; he sat beneath the growing long shadow that heralded evening. "We have to integrate into this village. We cannot prolong these differences if we are to survive as a clan. Our past is filled with bad blood—it is time to put this behind us.
"How long must this go on? Sasuke's actions are terrible and deserve punishment. He should serve as a mean to strengthen the broken ties between Root and us—a sacrifice for the greater good!"
The hall went silent, and his words went like a knife through Itachi's heart. It was as though he was hearing his own words through another's lips, and the conviction in them . . . nearly frightened him. Rao was shaking by the fireplace's light. Sweat channeled through the deep wrinkles in her face and fell down on her breast. She was livid.
"How dare you—speak this way about my grandson before me? How dare you!" she rasped in anger, voice rising like a storm's fury in the silence.
"Forgive me, Rao-Sama," the man spoke and bent his head a little in a customary bow, which Itachi knew to be insincere, "but I see no other solution. What happens when Root and other Shinobi come for us all? Do you wish for every man, woman, and child to die for Sasuke's sins? It is not wise, nor fair in my eyes."
"I will not hear any more of this poison," Rao spoke, voice rough, hands shaking; she did not look well.
"It is better for Sasuke to stand trial," Kiryū suggest with confidence, and Yamato gave a murmur of agreement. Old voices rose from the elders, who were nothing more than vestiges of the past, withering away right before his eyes, and he . . . felt distraught.
For the first time in Itachi's life, he did not know which thoughts he was supposed to weave. His darling was truly in peril. Had he made an error in thwarting Sasuke's designs in that girl's demise? He closed his eyes and drew in the scent of earth redolent of autumn's reaping. Winter's smells had not invaded their essence. It would not come that soon this time . . .
And the voices kept rising, and the storm kept roaring beyond the sturdy walls built by his people, but Sasuke was not a babe who would cling to his breast anymore in fear; but he was not as old as he, either—he would never be; and a child he would remain, always, all sweet and pure and innocent; for that was how he saw him, and that was how it would be.
"You have not answered any of our questions," Yamato persisted like an ever-present annoyance, and his voice pierced through his serene thoughts and cooing sounds from a babe's lips, who rode upon wind's cradle in happiness.
Itachi's vision focused on him, and this time, Sharingan rose. Then it metamorphosed into shurikens that spun like a wicked threat in his eyes, which were cool and glass-like despite red's sure warmth, that Yamato's façade crumpled into an expression that showed his present state: he seemed fearful now.
His Mangekyō crawled on their faces, watched the red rise in each person's eyes as silent retorts and cool assurances, tracked the formation of sweat upon the napes of the younger ones. Silence hissed from the walls, heard by his ears as a sharp ringing sound that momentarily attacked his senses; but wind's noise proved to be a quick remedy for the pain in his ear.
Itachi returned his gaze back to Yamato, his eyes tracing the poor visage of bravery he wore to hide his true nature from Itachi's other eyes—he was unsuccessful. Itachi pulled in a breath so deep that it moved his breast; then he spoke: "I do not know of this assassination matter any more than you, Yamato."
Yamato lowered his eyes, almost feeling Itachi's Sharingan poke through his pupils to reach the back and burn his chakra-veins there. "Root's affairs are not my business," he continued, passed his right hand over the left, and held it tightly. "If Sasuke was guilty, he would have been put to death in my absence, but his execution did not occur."
"It hardly means that he is innocent," Kiryū spoke, earning more nods from the same men.
"You are quite keen in your pursuit. Why do you desire to see my brother's death so badly?" he asked and created an unfriendly smile. His face suddenly seemed whiter in the light as the shadow of his spectral form spread behind his back, leeching the colour from the veins of this painting that it looked . . . dull behind him now.
"This is not just your concern, Itachi-Sama. It is our business—" Kiryū stopped at the sight of Itachi's hand.
Itachi grabbed his sword and rose up from his perch, and the shadow behind him stretched tall, like a daemon, on the wall. His face suggested nothing—like a white theatre-mask, all perfect and white and horrifying. An artificial smile cracked that perfect countenance a bit, but he looked no less unnatural than before.
"My brother's life and his affairs are my business, not yours," he spoke, voice cold and slow like the first winter's wind. "You should worry less about what happens in my house, Kiryū." His name sounded odd from his lips—his tone suggested a latent threat so sweetly; but Kiryū did not have the courage in his breast to answer that threat.
"I have seen his mind, and it tells me nothing new," Itachi lied as easily as a child and closed his eyes to breathe in, his lashes sweeping against the sharp cheeks. "Even if he had murdered these men, the blame would fall upon him. It would affect no one but him. This worry of yours is foolish and misplaced."
And wind sang through the bamboo, and it knocked against the thick stones. The hall was silent now that he could hear every breath escape their lips. Hazy fog rose from the fires and spiraled round the pillars on the right and left, like airy serpents. The smell of earth had risen from the ground as breaths at the first touch of rain. It flowed languidly in his direction.
"You young ones have wasted my day—and that of the old men and women. Your accusations are empty. What am I to do with them?" Itachi spoke, his gaze moving over the faces of the young elders who refused to meet his gaze. "I have a duty to Sasuke as his father and brother, to this village as my position demands of me—and to you all as a Head. Leave the small worries about Sasuke to me and direct your concerns to other, more pressing clan matters that demand your attention. Do not summon me here for trivial matters again."
Then he went quiet, looked about in peculiar way, and left the hall with smooth steps, a sort of rhythm in his onward movement. Kai and Serizawa left the hall silently in his wake. Silence pervaded the space for so long before it was broken by an exasperated breath that came from the depths of Kiryū's throat—he truly loathed Itachi . . . outside, rain had started falling, hitting against the stone-pathway. A storm was approaching, but he would not let Itachi get away—not this time!
Itachi reached home and changed his ceremonial garments for his Anbu uniform. He had that bandit business to handle. They were running amok un-herded in the mountains. This was not how he had imagined this—everything had turned into a mess; but he was calm and calculating and dangerous. He would find another way to clean this up.
When he stepped outside, he found Rao standing by the leaning tree, a large traditional umbrella in hand. Water streamed off the umbrella and fell down on the grass, which was still green. From this angle, she looked small, shoulders hunched forward—tiny and frail. Izumi stood beside her, a pink umbrella above her head. Her black hair was twisted into thick whorls on either side of her head, and, as always, ornamental pins and a bamboo-comb decorated her head like extra accessories. Her kimono had several layers of clothing, and it floated in the wind as though she stood in knee-high water. She dressed in this manner every day, and he found it so . . . odd.
The stone-pathway was slick, and a silver sheen covered the stone-lanterns that were out. As he approached her, he noticed that her right fist was clenched by her hip; she heaved herself down into a squatting position and pressed something through the soft earth. He could not see what it was . . .
"If you do not go inside, you will catch a cold," Itachi spoke and watched as she moved the earth around with her aged fingers. She looked over her shoulder, her face gathering into a tender smile. Izumi whipped round, her face going as red as apples, and the ornaments chinked in her hair, announcing the movement before she made it.
He turned his head a bit and gazed to his right, watching Jūgo make his way down the stairs to the room that held Sasuke. A slight look of displeasure came to his face, but he made no movement to stop him. That look was not registered by Izumi's eyes: she looked on, mesmerised by the sight of him and his hair that whipped around his face in the breeze. He turned his face towards his grandmother again, and the tight look faded from his face—slowly.
"Leaving already?" Rao asked as she rose slowly to stand on her feet. Itachi held out his hand; she wiped her hand over her kimono and pressed it into his palm. Then he nodded towards the house once without looking at Izumi. She huffed out a sigh, bowed, and tramped across the garden to go back into the house.
Rao emitted a laugh and sat down on the wooden bench-like structure, with Itachi. "Invite her into your chamber. She is distraught," she spoke and made a rough sound in her throat to clear her air-passages.
"I do not have the time, nor the patience to play with this girl," he spoke, his eyes transfixed upon the lilies swaying in the corner. "These meetings are a nuisance. I will not entertain another one."
"Oh, darling," Rao sighed, reached up, and pressed the palm of her hand against his blushing cheek. It was cold—so cold outside; but he was young, and his male blood was strong enough to combat this bitter chill in the air.
Rao leant her face up close and pressed kisses to his right cheek and lips, which were red in the cold. Then she placed her hand on his and caressed the fingers, almost thoughtlessly, her head against his arm. "I used to sit here with you in my arms—right here under this tree," she began, taking in a long breath that filled her with the unforgiving autumn air. "You would coo at the sight of Autumn Moths.
"They fascinated you, and your pretty mouth would smile like that. You never smiled a lot, and I was afraid that you were unhappy. I really was . . . " And her smile grew solemn, and her face filled with love; sitting there in the light that came down from a dissipating storm, he was just like Mafuyu—her Mafuyu.
Then her heart did a pitter-patter at the sight of him. It was a day like this: dusk was approaching, and red was turning to purple beneath the horizon. A war was happening beyond these walls, and he had sat by her side and promised her that he would come back. Her nose wriggled, registering the smell of dying leaves and growing lilies—a lovely mixture.
And he had promised her again that he would come home as he sat in the light rain like this, his face turned away from her to look upon the reddening sky that was like blood—like his Sharingan. Droplets of water streamed off his black-as-night hair and beaded over his lips and skin. Raindrops stood quivering over his lashes, and, as his mouth smiled, soft, like an image in a mirage, she recalled the day when she saw Mafuyu for the last time—as he had asked for her forgiveness and said his farewells to fight for this village. She never saw him again . . .
Wind's breaths melted over Itachi's cheek and left a deeper blush. He was not like Mafuyu—he was Mafuyu; and this thought lighted her spirit inside a cool fire. He had come to her: he had promised! Her hand trembled on his, and he looked at her and saw a quick gleam appear in the corners of her eyes that were old to hold the shimmer.
"What worries you, my sweetest darling?" Rao asked and closed her eyes, his wet hair, which were scattered about his shoulder, plastered to the side of her cheek.
"This matter is tiresome. Who proposed this meeting? It could not have been the old elders." He heaved a sigh, his disposition unchanging.
"Kiryū," she spoke and looked up at him, seeing a dangerous look flicker in his eyes for just the briefest moments—only to disappear.
When he did not say anything, she spoke: "overlook his mistake—he is a fool."
"A fool that desires the demise of my brother? You have grown soft, Obā-San," he spoke and heard her huff out a little laugh.
"No, my darling, I have grown old," she spoke, her tone a little robust. Then she raised her hand and combed her fingers through his hair and smoothed his hair in a manner she loved.
Wind came to them and shushed their breaths. Rain had grown mellow, and autumn's presence was still spurring its mount into a wild state again: he could smell the grass, soil, rotten leaves in the air; yet the smell of lilies was the strongest, overpowering his other senses, like the sound of his father's voice.
"Take him out of the room—you are unhappy," she spoke, a smile that grew wider at the tight frown in his brow.
"He has grown obscenely disobedient. I say one thing and he does another—just to spite me. He needs to realise what he has done," he spoke, a thread of irritation in his smooth voice, his face suggesting the same; then he turned a bit to gaze upon her, and his cheek came under the lush leaves' shadows. "I do not want you being lenient with him. He has to listen. I hope you have made arrangements for the gathering?"
She hooked her hand around his arm, hand across her mouth, and let out the loudest laugh he had ever heard from her. Little charms, which Mikoto had made in the past, tinkled at the heavy-door, and her dying laughter mingled with the sounds and overpowered them, which disappeared like a babe's breath.
"He would become more angry. Must you be so strict?" Rao asked and pressed her lips into a thin line to hold her laugh.
"He needs to be disciplined," he answered and stood up when he heard sounds of soggy-steps beyond the garden; Serizawa had come and he had to leave and there would be such trouble for the young 'un. Then he gazed down at her, and a faint smile crossed his lips. "You look cold. I will instruct the servant girl to make warm tea for you."
Rao's eyes wandered from his face, which still wore signs of dusk's light, to the sky; purple had grown richer, deeper at the far end. Wind's breaths came cold and harsh. Night was approaching. She rubbed her hands together and leant the umbrella against the large stone jutting out of the wet-grass.
"Instruct the feisty girl to behave herself when he is in the house. You should not have chosen her, Obā-San. She has been quarreling with him like a child behind my back," Itachi spoke, and his mouth showed the first signs of a frown.
"Did Tanaka tell you?" Rao asked, amused—Itachi only smiled in reply. "I like her tea, and her pretty lips, and her small nose. She is a lovely girl. Not worthy of my beautiful, beautiful boy, but she can be obedient if you talk softly to her, look at her full—you do neither, you naughty child." She wiped a hand across her cheeks, loving the touch of cool rain on her skin; his chakra had travelled from his pores into her aged skin, invigorating it with a magnificent fire that she felt alive—her heart was alive!
"Then you should have chosen Tanaka as my wife. He can brew wonderful tea," Itachi spoke and amusement came into his eyes that gleamed in the shadows. Rao's shoulders heaved, and she pressed her hand to her lips again, softly laughing.
"Oh, hush, he cannot bear children—and he is too old and ugly for you," she spoke and dabbed her cheeks with a cloth she had hoisted out of her obi.
Itachi leant down, his hair cascading against his cheeks. "You have dirtied your wooden sandals," he spoke and nodded towards her feet. She looked down—dirt caked her toes. She had been thoughtless in her task.
"Shall I pick you up in my arms? Your sandals will make a mess on the wooden floor," Itachi whispered, mouth smiling in a way she loved—Mafuyu!
Rao could only smile—lost in his eyes that cradled her whole world!
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He sat in a chair, back stooped, and held his forehead. His eyes upon Kirin as it pecked at the fish pieces in his plate. It had made quite a mess on the futon: bread crumbs lay scattered everywhere, and numerous trails of muddy prints travelled to and fro across the white cover—it had chased a few insects simply to fulfill an adventurous hunger.
At last, he bent forward and grabbed hold of it with a sweeping movement of his hand. It let out an ear-splitting sound in anger and glared at him. "Do you want to get locked up in the cage again? Stop that!" he warned when it pecked at his fingers, without wounding them. After a few more frantic movements of its sharp beak, it fell silent and started to emit soft pattering sounds.
"It's quiet out there," Jūgo said, his voice calm, soothing like the rain. "Are you sure that Root is involved in this?"
Sasuke took in a heavy breath, his groggy mind starting to find its pace again. These sleeping draughts had robbed him of his thinking capacity. Sweat ran from his brow, and he moved his free hand to wipe it away. The fire felt too hot on his skin. Did he still have a fever? He did not know. He would ask Yuu to put it out . . .
"Nii-Sama killed Meru. He wouldn't have done it without a reason," Sasuke said and straightened his back, his vision murky—he could not see the shingles on the roof that clearly.
"Is this true?" Jūgo asked Karin who stood in silence, with her back pressed against the smooth wall.
"That's what he said to Serizawa. I wasn't there, so I wouldn't know," she said, eyes upon this giant of a man who looked tall and intimidating in the shadow. A loose and massive cloak hung from his broad shoulders—compared to him, Itachi and Sasuke looked almost delicate.
"He could be lying," Sasuke rasped, and a look of confusion came into Jūgo's face. "You can never trust anything that comes out of Nii-Sama's mouth."
Karin folded her arms across her breast, her Sensing on to feel things beyond the Fuin-Jutsu barrier ripening on the door. She had put hindrances in its mechanisms on Sasuke's instructions, but Itachi had yet to notice anything; and if he had, he feigned ignorance.
Why had Itachi not killed them all? She did not understand him. He was a strange man. Did he really have something to do with the massacre as Sasuke had rambled in the grip of fever and anger? She did not know, but his attitude was troubling . . . it seemed to her that he did contradictory things: he did things out of love for Sasuke, but he did things to hurt him, too. His extremes, vicious. She did not understand him at all, and his decision to spare Taka, she thought (as Sasuke had suggested), had a lot to do with the scroll he had taken from Suigetsu's possession than his love for Sasuke.
She fetched a quick breath, and her sensing collided against Itachi's form in the garden and that of Rao's. Then it trod further and enveloped the smooth petals of lilies as they bounced up and down in the soft rain. Autumn had sapped most flora of chakra and energy, but theirs was a peculiar one—strong and beautiful and resilient.
Thunder clapped, and a sudden shiver raced through her upper-body. Her gaze fell upon Sasuke again—he was unusually quiet. He had not spoken a word since morning, but what he had done would surely get him in trouble, and they would all face severe consequences.
"Who leads Meru's men?" Sasuke asked, his voice a little rough in his throat.
"I don't know, but it's someone close to him. I haven't been able to find out who," Jūgo replied and adjusted that big cloth around his shoulders; his bearing was always kindly, considerate, and he regarded Sasuke with fond eyes.
"They haven't stayed here without a reason," Sasuke said and stood up, and in the light, his face was dangerously pale, his bearing slack as though he was tired beyond belief. His cheekbones were sharper than usual; her heart could not bear to see him this way. Was Itachi poisoning him again?
Thunder clapped again, but this time, the sound was louder. The whole room shook, and the vibrations lasted for some moments. Karin saw Sasuke turn around, open the cage, and put Kirin inside; it had fallen asleep in his hand's soft cradle. Then he slumped back down into the chair and assumed the same tired posture again.
No one spoke a word. A smell of damp earth and lilies invaded the space, and as though it filled Sasuke with strength, he straightened his back and looked towards Jūgo. "Find out who it is, and tell him . . . " he paused, and his eyes moved slightly to focus upon the fire that crackled as though it had distracted him, " . . . tell him that Nii-Sama killed Meru."
"Sasuke! Are you mad?" Karin gasped and jerked forward and clenched her fingers, making tight fists of them. Her face had gone white and colour had nearly drained from her cheeks that he could see the red freckles very clearly now—they were like a map of innumerable pin-pricks that crossed the expanse of her nose to reach the other cheek.
She was not surprised when he smiled. "Are you so angry with him that you'd do something so silly?" she asked and noticed no change in the impish, naughty, child-like expression on his face that meant nothing but trouble!
"Is this wise? I don't know, Sasuke. This might create more trouble than we need," Jūgo spoke and folded his tree-trunk sized arms across his mighty breast. He tilted his head a bit, lost in thought. The pleasant weather provided a smooth flow of Natural Energy, which cooled off his wilder side—always.
"They have a buyer," Sasuke said, and a throaty chuckle poured from his lips. "Without telling them of Meru's death, they won't reveal it. Someone's paying them—someone other than Root. I need to know who, and I need to know it soon." Then the sweet expression melted away, and a sinister anger rushed to his face and went into his eyes to turn them red and dangerous that she was struck speechless.
"You think Meru was just a middle man?" Jūgo asked, his countenance too curious for an expressionless and calm man like him.
Wind flowed in unhindered through the open window and pushed the enchanting smell in their direction. Its essence was brunt on the fire and turned into something noxious but sweet. She did not like this—any of this . . .
"Someone will show up—soon. Tell me when he does. Don't come here again. Send in the message with a bird if you have to," he said, bent forward in the chair, and held his face in his hands. "Get me that seal from one of the tunnels by the hideout. It's right behind the deity-statue. It shouldn't be hard to find."
When no one said a word, Sasuke spoke again, his voice muffled through the hands: "Leave—both of you."
Sasuke heard them leave through the heavy door. Then, as always, a natural quiet filled the room and his ears, but wind whispered things to them and rain made melodies, like a divine instrument in able hands. The fire almost felt pleasant now. His fever had thawed and so had his spirits. His mind got lost in the past, and he heard nothing for several long minutes till the soft sounds of sandals disturbed his peace.
"I thought I told you to leave? Don't bother me without a reason," Sasuke said, anger in his voice, and looked up. He nearly shrunk back when he saw his brother who stood in the fire's light, his face inscrutable. Itachi was in his Anbu clothes as always: Sasuke hardly saw him without them these days. Anger vanished quite a bit from Sasuke's eyes and face—a little of it remained behind as a customary show of his defiance. He really could not control all of it, so it trickled—all pretty and soft red in his eyes.
"What do you want?" Sasuke asked, sensing that anger retreat from his face to sizzle anew in the core of his heart, like hot iron.
Itachi did not speak a word for a few fleeting moments, his bearing kingly to Sasuke's eyes, his presence commanding that stuck that hot iron like a heavy hammer in the hand of a seasoned blacksmith. "Come," he spoke, and Sasuke heard it as a soft breath that had come from his lips.
Then Itachi turned away, and even though Sasuke had no desire to follow him, he did—like a child that knew only to chase after him by Nature's and his own heart's designs. Outside, purple had enveloped everything, and gone was that red hue in the sky. He looked up, and his gaze crossed the black expanse overhead; he noticed the sparse grey shapes that decorated and made heavy circles round the full moon. A drizzle still fell, but its presence was softer than the chinking sounds that came from Mikoto's handmade charms.
Itachi did not stop, and quietly Sasuke followed him to his own room. Had Itachi really decided to take him out of the prison—end his punishment? Sasuke wanted to smile, but knowing his brother's games, he was not that foolish. When he stepped into his own chamber, he noticed that Yuu had left food here by the futon. He had left a chair by the hearth, too . . . for Itachi . . .
Sasuke did not look at his older sibling and sat down, quietly and slowly, in the chair. His bent his head, eyes upon the flames; he wanted to hide his gaze from his sibling. He thought Itachi would leave, but he did not. He closed the door and stood by Sasuke's side—too close for comfort that he began to fear him again.
Moments passed in silence; coals popped in the hearth. He could even not hear the charm's melodies anymore. At last, he felt Itachi's hand on his head. It was a gentle touch, but it made gooseflesh appear on his skin. He wanted him gone . . .
Itachi did not say anything for so long. He stroked his head. Had Sasuke been little, he would have known that a story was soon to follow these gestures; but this now was no different, too. Sasuke knew Itachi had another story to tell—another lie to spill. In the past, such tales soothed his heart, but now they hurt him. Itachi was a good story-teller—he always was.
Itachi's fingers were akin to smooth legs of a spider in a child's dream—long and cold and deadly. Itachi brushed away the messy hair that lay over Sasuke's cheek, and then he lifted Sasuke's chin that he was left with no choice to look up at him; and still his older brother's countenance had nothing to show, and still he feared what lay in his heart. What stories festered in there? He wanted to know—he did not want to know. What a child he was—his mind no less confused than he.
His gaze raked Sasuke's face, and he said nothing for a span of some torturous heartbeats. "Look what you have done to yourself, you poor child," Itachi spoke after drawing a long breath, his voice soft, too soft in a way that it sounded almost artificial.
"I always tell you to listen, to obey, to follow, but you do as you please," he spoke in a languid, unhurried manner, as though secretly enjoying Sasuke's silence and defeat, a show of it apparent in the absence of his eyes' gaudy garments. "What a mess, you child. What a mess. Everyone is talking about what you have done. Everyone . . . your innocent mistake is a secret no more.
"You may hide it from me, yet what will you do about this clan's tongues? If only you had listened, obeyed, behaved . . . but you so adore your games."
Sasuke's lashes began to tremble, and sweat formed copiously on his brow and flowed into his eyes to make hazy Itachi's form that it truly felt as though he had been blind-folded for a game, with a soft garment, so that he could see and not see things at the same time. He could only see his brother's lips, not his eyes. A thick shadow streaked across the upper-half of his face, obscuring it completely from Sasuke's vision; the lower half was the right white in the light. He wore a mask—always; so Itachi could see him, but the shadows were in on this game and sided with his brother, and this unfair game made Sasuke fear him even more—they were playing hide and seek, and he could not see his eyes; he could not! What a cruel game—what a wicked older brother.
Storm spoke and wind answered, but its answer was weak, like his silence. Itachi took in another breath, his gaze poking into Sasuke's eyes like sinister mortal instruments. "A child's heart does what it wants, yet it is the father who is left to bear the burden. The child cares not. Is it not true, you sweet child?" Itachi asked, and his voice whispered sweetly as though he spoke to Sasuke from a place he could not even see . . .
Sasuke said nothing, his brother's eyes pinned to the wall of his vision in a manner as if they were pointy objects that had found their marks at last—wriggling memories from his past. Wind's faint melody made it to his ears, yet his brother's words were heavy enough to thwart their fragile paths—soft enough to float upon the air. "You will listen now. You will obey. You will do as I say." Itachi bent his head down and widened his eyes; his hair spilt around his whitest face like the blackest ink on the canvas; and his face hardened so much and became dark and ghostly in the shadows.
"You will give this line an heir. You will take up this responsibility. You will relieve me of this duty. Do you understand?" Itachi asked, and it was another harsh command, wrapped up in the honeyed-tone of his voice. Sasuke was shocked, and he did not have it in him to hide that shock.
"What? I—you can't do this! You—" Sasuke stopped; his words stopped; his tongue stopped; and he felt that the shurikens in Itachi's eyes had etched his heart with the painful taste of his present state: defeat, nothing but defeat.
"Hush," Itachi hissed this time, and the colour in his eyes became sharper still, like the swords he wielded to cut his foes down, but Sasuke's own red did not flare up to battle him; red shivered in the burrow of his heart, afraid of him—so afraid. "Look at the mess you have made, and you lash at me still?" Sasuke flinched at the sound of his voice, all his nerves jumping, signals gathering to pool at the small patch of skin on his jaw, which Itachi had nearly wounded with his nail when he hardened his grip.
Sasuke lowered his eyes; he wanted to hide; he wanted to leave. Itachi had ruined everything—he had ruined it all; but courage he possessed not to battle him—not now. "Look at me when I speak with you," Itachi commanded, his words sweet no longer, cutting and hissing like a Snake's, and Sasuke was forced to meet his dominating gaze when he had no desire to. "Do not hide your eyes from me. For when you hide your eyes, you play games with me, and I . . . enjoy your games no longer.
"You will do this—without protest, without any show of your wild nature. Do not force me to direct my anger towards your companions, who have been obedient participants in your games. It will compel me to create a mess for you, and a foul loss will fall upon your head, not mine."
Red just flowed out of Itachi's eyes, like malice from the abyss, throttling Sasuke's senses that he lost the awareness of the world about him: was this Genjutsu? He did not know. At last, Itachi's severe grip on Sasuke's jaw slackened, and he returned his hand to Sasuke's head to stroke him with the greatest affection again.
Itachi spoke no more, his hand busy in a manner as though he was quieting down a weeping child. Then he bent down, pressed a kiss to Sasuke's head after a deep inhalation, and left the room; and the silence he had left behind this time was the most menacing one Sasuke had ever experienced; and he was a child no longer who feared the storm, but a man who did not have the luxury to press his head against his brother's bosom to forget that fear . . .
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