Chapter Sixty-Three: Funerals are for the Living
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O' creeping cold winter wind
You have come from the sky red-rimmed
In your lonely forest, what would the child find?
Dried up rinds and thoughts with no mind.
Seasons grew stale like bread. With autumn, rot was but a sure companion. It went in, like a worm, ate to its fill and left a husk of things behind. It heralded winter, its colder brother, to come and end what it could not end, begin what it could not begin: an end, a True end!
Up in the sky, a red hue, rich like sake and deathly like his Clan's eyes, spread up from the dark protruding peaks. Trees, with garments yellow and red, adorned the lands: it was a time of mourning for the land, and, perhaps, for him, as well. Light drizzle had descended, and the last lights came dim.
Somewhere, charms clinked and metals chinked and rain tinkled against the sturdy roofs and cold stones. A smell, something like rot, flared around him and inside his nostrils. He was left with no choice but to take it all in; and it got hold of his senses the way worms got hold of the gooey insides of fresh things.
It brought back memories from that evening that was like this one: there was little difference between the glimpsing, sliding raindrops, which went into the wood in sluggish trails and rankled there, now beneath the lantern that shook and the flat chime of rain then.
How was he to know what was in the heart of the woman who lay rotten in the grave? That fondness for her was gone, lost in the morphing sounds of metal on metal in that dilapidated temple. His heart, where rain festered, too, beat with an aching finality that he wanted not to know what she had whispered into this cold place of sepulture his child fondly called . . . his mother's grave.
His father was silent, too. He never spoke much when he was alive: he always felt there was a barrier between them that he would never be able to breach, and it was made wider, thicker still by his death. Now, his lonely abode, made of stone and brick, was garnished by Purple Lilies the little child had planted. How they swayed and bounced, almost delighted at their deaths—morbid and silent to his ears, their songs.
If he pieced all of her scattered and fragile fragments together, he would get a dead toy soaking-wet in the winter's rain, who had nothing to tell him now, nothing to tug at his heart and play it the way a delicate woman played a Koto—each string but a memory, each melody, another burden. It was best to leave her there, piece by piece, amongst the stones, forgotten.
His father would speak no more. He could give him a tongue, yet that tongue would say nothing: silence was its eternal punishment; death truly was a harsh aggressor; however, dead men did not speak, did not sigh, did not voice their love, anger, passions . . . he sighed, eyes on the head of the child, who had grown quite a bit now. Just a bit . . .
A colder wind blew in his face, and his ears filled with the whimpers from the little boy. The little one had placed his face in the crook of his neck, his breath warm and moist, tears sticky: he had been whimpering since morning; funerals did that to the living, but a child's heart was so brittle to withstand the sorrows.
He pressed his hand against the back of Sasuke's head, steadying him, his other arm underneath his buttocks. He had wept himself to sleep; now, only a sniffle shook him from his slumber, but his small body was so tired that it could not be roused by the customary words of Man's mourning.
They came and they went, black blurs in his unfocused vision; he did not keep a track of their faces made murky by the swirls from incense. They had burnt much of it here as an offering. He could not understand why. Winter had already driven the scents of their dead skins into his nostrils, but what about the heart of the younger one? Sleep was not always a place of repose for Men, but of endless visitations from mad passions; and they had made a little home in Sasuke's heart, and he knew not the names of these men who would change his life forever . . .
Tanaka stretched his frail, shivering arm to its limit to raise the umbrella above Itachi's head. It was still raining: it was still cold. Voices, wriggling and sticky, went deep into his ears—more worms—but they did not stir his red to come out from its light sleep. The beast had had its fill of men and women and children. It was sated—this evening.
They bowed and left in pairs, young ones tottering behind, leaving marks of their wooden-sandals in the mud. Everything would be washed away come morning, all signs of their presence, and nothing would remain but the new gravestones. It was the best fate for lucky men: the rest rotted away in the forest and made rounder the bellies of hungry crows.
The young girl by his side reached out her hand, like a toddler, to touch Sasuke's hair, but her eyes settled on his face in its stead. He still had not forgiven her for her misdeed—he never would. "Don't touch him," he said very coldly, and the sudden sound that came from his lips startled her. "You would wake him up, and then he would weep. Leave him alone. Go home."
He did not look at her, and she bowed her head in a silent apology, her eyes stinging. "I'm sorry, Itachi-San. I was—" she stopped, voice unsure, heart whispering through her veins. Her voice hung in the hazy suspensions of winter's melody, unseen and unheard by his heart that grew deadly in the grasp of winter's forlorn hands; the child felt the beginnings of its maturation and let out an audible whimper he had not released in hours.
"Come, Izumi," her mother spoke and pulled her away, and all she could do was watch his whitest face in the greyest mist of winter and say nothing. Words wriggled in her breast, but she did not possess an older tongue to reveal her passions. She walked away, and he asked Tanaka to leave, too. He protested that Sasuke would catch a cold without the umbrella, but Itachi told him that the tree leaning above their head was still lush—it stopped most of the rain from reaching them.
The older man mumbled some more, but he bowed before the future heir and left in silence. His sandals squelched in the mud, and after some moments, he could hear nothing of his presence. He was alone at last, left at wind's mercy and his own thoughts that were without a mind this time.
Wind whispered through the dry leaves, but his thoughts had become quiet men in the forest of graves; and he had etched their names with his sword, ended destinies without his words. All had ended and begun with him. There was nothing more to say here; he did not even say a word of farewell: the dead never listened.
Itachi turned and walked away, Sasuke still sleeping in his arms. The child's eyes still hurt, but Itachi had tied a piece of cloth around his eyes to lessen the pain—the ache of loss. The young eyes had blossomed to become a burden that was bound to a slow progress towards dark's limbs. Itachi would uphold his father's request: it would be a final favour for a dead man. He had severed the threads, and he felt that that was a just course for his life.
Now, he walked against wind, smelling and listening to his dead kin's temptations, but he remained firm and walked away from the graves that were numerous teeth in the mist; but when he approached his home, Sasuke's embrace tightened around his neck, and his nails bit into his flesh and left red lines in their wake as though he was admonishing him for treading towards a cursed abode.
Itachi stopped and caressed Sasuke's head; Sasuke spoke nothing for a few moments when wind's voice was strongest; then he whispered, like in a dream: "I don't wanto go h-home . . . " after that, he fell silent again, his breaths steady against Itachi's ear.
"Where do you want to go?" Itachi asked and patted Sasuke's head, and then his back; but Sasuke said nothing. He was quiet again, and all Itachi could hear were the soft sounds of his breaths. He realised that Sasuke did not want to say anything to him, so he started walking to the lake.
It was getting dark, and the sky had lost the garish garment it wore as an invitation; he had chosen to forget it all for tonight. From amidst the mist came Nomura, who was of dignified bearing but reeked of incense tonight; Itachi avoided his eyes as he passed by him, his garments light and magnificent in the white light. Itachi heard him stop by the deity statue but did not stop himself. He kept walking further and further away from the bounds of the quiet village, eastbound towards the lake.
He saw people come out of their homes to light the lanterns, and for a moment, light fell out of the gaps and yellow-dusted wreaths of mist floated in the air about him. Cold soaked through the exposed skin—his fingers had almost gone numb. It hurt to walk without an aim towards the forest, which was a place of dark and silence at night.
Trees stood close together, wrapped tightly in airy and grey cloaks. They absorbed and muffled the stray sounds that came from the village and the lake. It was quiet tonight, so quiet, as though vengeful specters had followed him from the graveyard to hound the sounds that came from the forest, to drive them away into deep burrows in fear.
Dry leaves crunched beneath his feet. The foliage was thick here—rain had failed to leave its mark on this ground. As he approached the silver floating into the dark and leafy mouth of the forest, voices of wind and trees and lake returned—with caution. Soft, like a mother's lips, were their caresses that he felt that his long journey had come to an end.
There he stood at the edge of the pebbled-shore, where moonlight peeked over the pinnacled peaks and lay down, silent, upon the lake's dark visage. He then sighed at last, the tremble in his lips betraying the control he practiced; Sasuke was too small, a babe in his arms, sleeping.
Sasuke had not let out a whimper all this time. His tears had stopped, and the chakra that flowed from Itachi's fingers into the small body made sure that he was not cold. He turned away from the dark and silver splendor and sat down by a tree; then he placed the child in his lap, who burrowed his face into his belly the way a little cub would in search of his mother's teat. Lilies covered the ground here, and a rabble of moths surrounded them, mad dervishes.
Itachi removed the cloth, which was tied around Sasuke's eyes, and placed his hand on his head; he breathed in deeply and fisted Itachi's haori into his tiny hand, thinking that it was Mikoto's breast: death had not parted him from his mother—yet. Itachi emitted a deep breath that lingered before his face. Sasuke often slept through stormy nights by pressing his face into Mikoto's breast: he lay between his parents, but Mikoto was more attuned to her child's needs.
Would I have to be like Okā-San? he thought as his gaze lingered on Sasuke's plump cheek; however, what did it mean to be like Mikoto? She was but a toy in his memory—its pieces were chipping away into the dark in his mind, and he did not have the love to re-collect them again. Let her vanish, he thought; let her disappear, he wished; let her scatter, he mused. How true these words would be when he would bloom into a colder man: even he was too young for this Truth.
At last, Sasuke stirred in his lap, and his eyes transfixed upon his, his expression too subtle for a boy so, so little. Itachi cupped a hand against Sasuke's warm, soft cheek, a mother's gesture—he was changing into Mikoto already! "Sasuke," he spoke in a voice moulded by the budding mother in him, "I brought you to the lake. Look how pretty the lilies look. See?" Itachi pointed to the lake where fireflies blinked about the purple silhouettes that danced, like faeries, before the curtain of mist and peaks—what a show for the eyes?
Sasuke's eyes followed the movement of his hand. He got up; his face changed a bit; pink mounted to the round cheeks. He ran off towards the lake, whose face was covered with smooth combers racing to the shore; wind whispered kindly now. Itachi got to his feet, a little anxious. "Sasuke, don't go far," he spoke now in the voice of a brother and followed him.
Sasuke smiled when he picked him up into his arms again and walked upon the water; the little one had imprisoned a moth between his cupped hands, in his innocent forgetfulness. He pulled his hands apart, and it flew out and landed on Itachi's cheek and stayed there for a moment; then it floated away in the wind. Mist overspread the peaks, the earth, and his memories, and embroiled him in deep obscurity—all he could remember now were the fireflies that glowed by Sasuke's cheeks as he stood on the pebbled-shore, a quiet cluster of Higanbanas by his feet, as if going far away from him . . .
Now, his shadow was next to Sasuke's on the wet stones, black men sprouting and spilling out from the crevices. Sasuke had grown too big for Itachi to carry him into his arms. Itachi had more of his father in him now, much of him. His whispers that day had suffused Itachi's spirit with a different colour.
He watched, eyes steeped in indifference, as Sasuke poured water onto the gravestones. He did not understand the child: rain had done its duty. Was this necessary? It was not as though Sasuke would listen if he said anything, so he married and courted silence and kept the words to himself. He pretended not to hear anything when Sasuke grumbled a complaint under his breath; Sasuke wanted to be left alone in peace, but Itachi had little patience for his promises of vengeance to the dead—his privacy be damned!
Sasuke bowed his head to the stones, dirtying his face, but it did not seem that he cared enough for appearances in these moments. Fog was getting thicker and a rotten smell from flora stabbed Itachi's nose as the wind grew cold and colder. Sky was so dark, and moon had gone behind the thinnest clouds that hovered over the graveyard. His patience had reached its limit.
"You have said your farewells. Come," Itachi spoke, and his words felt colder than the fog as it touched Sasuke's cheeks.
Sasuke rose to his feet and looked at him, his countenance hard, though his wild nature was kept at bay in the wake of Itachi's punishments. The lantern Sasuke held in his hand barely gave off enough light to illuminate Itachi's face that appeared whiter than the whitest masks he had seen on Kabuki actors; and the sight of it frightened his heart.
A tremble crossed Itachi lips, at the sight of a brown smudge that graced Sasuke's pale forehead, yet it developed into nothing more than a hazy smile. "You are still no older than a child," Itachi spoke and wiped away the smudge from Sasuke's forehead. A shadow of a frown appeared in Sasuke's brow: he did not like Itachi's remark.
"Must you always grow angry at the foot of their graves?" Itachi asked, and this time, his tone was less patient, less soft.
Sasuke considered him for a moment, and red almost mantled his eyes before the barrier of tricks halted its fierce path. "Funerals aren't for the dead—they're for the living," Sasuke rasped, anger bubbling up in his throat now, light limning the subtle contortions of his features. "It's not as if you would understand." Then he walked away with the light, leaving his brother in the dark, eyes that glowed red.
Fog had become dense and involved his home in obscurity. The air was smooth and unfeeling, and the lantern, in the quiet garden, glowed a dull yellow; in the shimmering fog, distorted outlines of dew-laden trees appeared. A crow, with eyes red, had found a perch on the wet roof; it was staring down at him, eyes too human, and he resented his wicked brother even more at that moment. Fog dispersed by his feet as he approached the door and mumbled, "damned bird!" under his breath.
The crow had such a keen sight that it saw what he had spoken in anger and began cawing in indignation. Sasuke paid it no mind and shut the door behind himself—a bit sharply. He did not want to face Itachi at this hour, so he made his way to his own room, lantern in hand, step by creaking step: the wood often got a bit creaky after the rains.
When Sasuke opened his chamber's door, in his usual agitated fashion, he found a girl, of adolescent age, sitting on the futon—his futon. He could barely discern her features in the light the lantern gave off. She bowed to him and spoke, in a voice young, "Sasuke-Sama, I'm Kiku—it's a pleasure to meet you!"
Sasuke's frown disappeared for a moment, only to return after three beats. His anger rose, but he beat it down with vengeance. He put down the lantern on the wooden floor and watched as the light skipped towards her garments to caress the fine edges made from silk—they had made sure she looked her best before he unwrapped her for mating.
"Out," Sasuke said, voice rough in his throat. When she did not stir, he looked to her with gathered energy in his wrathful eyes. The pink powder, which dusted her round cheeks, nearly lost its colour at the sight of him: he looked so full of anger that she wanted to fly out from his room now.
She rose to her feet, made a quick bow, and raced out from the chamber, her long sleeves fluttering after her like wings. He did not turn to gaze at her back and closed the door; then he bent down and put out the lantern, as if to deliberately spread darkness everywhere.
Sasuke was exhausted. This was not how he had imagined this to turn out. Everything was a mess—everything; and his brother was at the heart of this evil chaos. With a deep sigh, he sat down on his futon, expecting more punishment at his brother's hands.
A puff of wind, and a tremble in his skin, announced Itachi's arrival. Red raced to fill Sasuke's vision, as though in wait to prepare him for an assault on his senses and pride. Sasuke saw Itachi through the door, all immaculate and regal in bearing, as he approached his chamber's door; then he stopped to talk to the distressed girl.
She said something Sasuke could not hear. Itachi merely nodded towards another door (which led to a guestroom), and she left in silence after she dipped a little curtsy; however, much to his horror, Itachi did not leave. Itachi's dark eyes, now red, looked right at him through the barrier of the wooden door that offered him no security.
For a moment, Sasuke's heart forgot to beat—his lungs forgot their natural mechanism. Red glimmered and went out in his eyes with fear, like a lantern's flame, but he firmed his chin to quell it from spilling over his face, as a show of his present state of mind.
Itachi said nothing, made no motion towards him: it was as though he was admonishing Sasuke to behave himself before he lost his patience again; however, somewhere in Itachi's coldest heart, his kin's whispers had dealt a blow and softened it for just this night.
Red faded and became a darker shade in his brother's eyes, and to Sasuke's immense relief, he went away without hounding him this time. Sasuke's breathing returned, and the sound of his heart retired to the obscurity of a steady routine. He reached up and wiped sweat from his face—and then he waited . . .
Itachi's chamber was warm—Tanaka's grandson was diligent and dutiful. He did as he was told and asked no questions. He was thinking of sending Tanaka away for good: he was an old man who deserved his rest, after all. He had spent three generations with his family, and it was time to let go.
A deep sigh came from Itachi's breast. He had no intention to linger before Sasuke's door in that manner, but the little one was truly testing his patience. He had upheld his end of the bargain, so now it was the child's turn to uphold his. A frown crossed his brow, but he did not let it stay there, like a shadow it sped from the fire's light.
He had allowed Sasuke this act of disobedience tonight: if the younger one was being obdurate, the older one would have to be patient; he was his father; he would also have to endure . . . how much had his own father endured? He did not think much of it and settled down by the low table. The servant had left tea there.
He had taken his fair share of that purple concoction today, before he took Sasuke to the graveyard, so his heart's shadow was brimming full with the taste of forbidden slips into terrible mental states. He had thought night to be the right time for such temptations, but consuming it within the confines of his own home felt . . . liberating in all the wrong ways.
Itachi put the cup to his lips, took a few sips, and set it back down. It was chamomile tea, and he usually took it before he retired for the night. The servant had sweetened it well, just the way he enjoyed it! At that precise moment, he heard a strong whirring sound in the air—it seemed to originate from everywhere! His senses took a long flight and reached a place in the sky he usually reached with the poison from moths.
Surprising his curious state was. Itachi did not know what to make of it. The venom rarely clawed back up to tie his senses in an unsolvable tangle. His condition was the same: quickness of beats; a rise in pain and pleasure; expelling of sweat; dangerous flight of vision; an exquisite burning in his loins, which demanded the softer touch from a temptress; colours, so much and so many of them—everything was the same; however, the confines were not. He had to bank these passions with a closed door.
He had just decided upon this decision, with great conviction, when he heard a rustle of the silly girl's expensive apparel, and her heavy scent (made from Kami knew which flowers) was right at her heels. She mumbled something he could not understand.
"Leave," Itachi barely managed between controlled breaths—his body was in a state of pain, and that dreadful arousal was beginning to blossom between his thighs, with immaculate ferociousness; and this girl was too . . . naïve to bear his burdens if he got hold of her tonight; she would surely regret creating those innocent desires, which involved him and a futon and a lot of lovely sighing. His Sharingan, to his relief, always rose to say what his tongue could not, and at the sight of that red in that dark face (obscured by shadows), she left his room—utterly crestfallen.
He did not know when he rose to his shaky feet, but he did not get very far: a black ocean expanded in his vision, and he felt no pain when his face met the wooden floor . . .
Itachi woke up to morning whose lights and sounds came dim through the paper-screen and gaps around the sliding door and window. He could hear a faint melody from the throat of a little hawk, also. He lay prone beneath the kakebuton, a habit he had never developed. Night was gone, took away all the quiet and all the dull noise, and so were his burdens; he had only experienced the afterglow of the moth's poison that had made a final, desperate attempt to run through his system. He made peace with that. His gaze travelled across the room to meet Rao's eyes—he was truly surprised that she had managed to drag him to the futon, in her age, all by herself!
He took a bath in the onsen and changed his Anbu attire, which smelt of sweat and a sweet odour that he had exuded as an aftereffect of the concoction, for a fresher one. Rao had opened the sliding door to the garden. Clouds rolled out, and the sheen of foliage was dazzling.
"You smelt like a moth last night," Rao spoke, and a smile tugged at the corner of her aged mouth.
Itachi looked out upon the sun-soaked garden—the breeze blew soft against his face. The horizon had just discarded the red hue of freshness: it was still early morning.
"You should not have burdened yourself," Itachi spoke and dipped a brush into a pot of black ink; he had to finish this letter last night—this matter had truly become a nuisance.
Rao gathered her face into a more pronounced smile, and from his perch, the skin around her lips gave the impression of a rough texture of an old tree. "I only combed your hair and pressed a damp cloth to your hot skin. You mumbled strange things, little darling," she spoke and took a mouthful of her morning tea.
Itachi completed the letter on the scroll and dipped the brush back into the inkpot. He did not answer her, and though her confession was most strange, he chose not to think much of it. As he rolled up the scroll, he watched as the little hawk sang in the garden again, only to fly away towards the hillocks clothed in trees that still wore autumn colours. This was the fourth trip it had made in the past hour. Sasuke . . .
He could not help but frown at the child's persistence to keep playing games. He placed the scroll aside, mind bent on Sasuke, and picked up the cup. An irritated expression was most pronounced, in the light, upon his countenance now. Little cardamom seeds floated on the hot liquid's surface: he drank this tea often to cool the fires in his veins.
"You are not stern with him, yet you grow angry when he does not obey. Make up your mind, child," Rao spoke, still smiling pleasantly. "He did not even look at the girl you forced upon him. Why make him carry the burden he does not want?"
"I do not wish to bend the branch so much that it may break," Itachi spoke and placed the cup back down on the table. "He will obey. You need not worry. How long do you suppose a boy his age would resist a willing, pretty girl in his chamber? Let nature take its course. You worry yourself without a reason."
Rao pressed her fingers to her lips and let out a muffled laugh. Her grandson amused her often, so devious to win this sibling rivalry. She watched as he noticed the return of the bird again, a frown in his brow; so he got up and left the chamber without a word.
Sasuke was feeding Kirin, unhappy that it had brought back nothing of value from the forest, when Itachi snatched it from his hand. Startled that his senses had dulled much that he did not even hear his brother come inside, he stepped away from the window. In the light, Itachi's face had an expression he could not place. His eyes went with the motion of Itachi's hand. Kirin's sharp beak had pierced Itachi's forefinger, and it dripped with blood, though he had not let go.
Anger snared Sasuke's spirit and became apparent on his face—Itachi was behaving like a bully now. "Are you taking away my bird because I didn't mate with that tart? You're behaving like a child," Sasuke said heavily, and his face split into a cold smile. His words had no effect on Itachi's demeanour, whose long fingers clamped the small throat of the bird—Sasuke's heart caught in his throat, but the anger did not go away. There was only an overload of that emotion as it landed into his eyes like an arrow that had found its mark.
"Either you learn to live without it, or it accepts to fly without you. I suggest you make your peace with one or the other," Itachi spoke, expression strange, tone empty. "If I catch you sending it out again to fetch little things that cause me nothing but distress, I will twist its neck and that will be the end of it."
"You—" Sasuke breathed out but spoke no more as the expression changed so subtly upon his brother's face into something sinister.
Itachi turned around and walked away from him, but he stopped at the door and spoke: "I find it most amusing how you have become quite choosy all of sudden—when it was not so till last night. The dead truly whisper strange things to you." Then he left in silence, but his words had wounded Sasuke's heart beyond measure . . .
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Hinata was a little afraid to approach the Head's manor: Itachi truly frightened her. She had been vigilant enough to stay away whilst he was still in the Uchiha Village, but the Chūnin Application scroll in her hand needed a new signature from Sasuke. She would not be able to progress without his approval . . . and he had sent another letter in the morning, so it was all right.
So she had waited, like a patient girl, by the lake, eyes upon the shapeless flux of clear water. She watched as a white flower, camellia, floated upon the tide on the ebb, churning softly outwards to meet with the outer body of the lake. The flower caught the lip of a vortex and was sucked down—she could see it no more.
Breeze rushed in towards her, and her loose kimono filled. It was no use standing around now: Itachi had left. She clutched the scroll tightly to her breast and made her way to the manor, with a brisk walk. The pathway to the road was slick, and wild plants had invaded the crevices in the stones.
The manor was quiet when she stopped by the gate. She looked over her shoulder, and her heart did a quick thump-thump when she noticed a crow watching her with a thoughtful demeanour—it sat way up in the tree. Its eyes burnt raw: it was Itachi's! Reason flew from her mind, and she gave a quick bow before it. "I-I'm here for my scroll—I'll leave in a minute!" Hinata confessed, flustered. She did not know whether it heard her or not . . .
Hinata spun away from the tree, fully anxious, and made her way through the gate. An aged servant sat by the well; he was drawing water. He smiled when he saw her and narrowed his eyes to get a better look at her: his sight failed him in his old age. He told her that Sasuke was in the back-garden and that she was not to bother him as Itachi had forbidden it. She assured him that she would not.
So she went round, looking at the trees that circled the manor like a wreath. There he stood by the tree, gazing down at slips of fish in the clear water by his feet. A lantern glowed red beside him. He turned a bit when he heard her come near on the sodden grass.
Sasuke exhibited a season of rude health, with his too-white face and weak eyes, but the sight of him always tied her girlish heart in tangles. A streak of rain iced his hair that framed his fine face. His expression suggested little of what went in his heart: he imitated his brother well!
Hinata stopped in her steps, red suffusing her cheeks. When he did not say anything, she thought it wise to speak: "I-I came for this." She showed him the scroll.
"Is that all?" Sasuke asked, his voice so soft to her ears, and took the scroll from her hand. She lowered her head and said nothing.
Sasuke dug out a wooden pen from his pocket; its tip was wet with ink. It was as though he had been expecting her. He unrolled the scroll, signed the corner, and rolled it back up; and this time, he smiled a little.
"Did you come alone?" Sasuke asked and held out the scroll for her. She took it from his hand and nodded.
He looked strange, ill. His collar was open at his throat, and she could see sweat gather at the flesh where his neck curved into his shoulder, despite the cold air. Was he feverish? She wanted to ask, but he was quick to break into her thoughts: "I think the culprit who killed the prisoner is in our team—he followed you."
"How do you—" Hinata tried to say, but she was immediately cut short.
"Try your Byakugan on your body, and see if you can locate a little wood pellet," Sasuke said, and she watched a wild expression melt into something more subtle in his eyes. She did not know what he was talking about, but she did as he asked of her; and lo and behold, she saw one sticking to the fabric over her breast, underneath the wrinkle in her kimono.
Hinata picked it up between her thumb and forefinger. It was so small! Sasuke took it from her and looked at it, his smile widening in a terrifying manner. "Did you bump into Sakura this morning?" he asked, eyes transfixed upon the little thing as though it held the answers to his worries.
"Yes, but—" Hinata stopped. She did not know what had come over him, but he appeared happy in a crazed sort of way.
Sasuke shoved the pellet into his pocket and whistled. Within a few moments, a white hawk, a bit larger than Kirin, flew down from the tree branches above him, to land on his arm. His eyes glowed red for a moment, and the bird, mesmerised by the sight of them, stretched its neck taut.
"Take it—it won't peck at you," Sasuke said, an urgency coming into his voice. "Let it fly when you see my brother coming."
Colour drained from Hinata's face. What was he asking her to do? "Sasuke-Sama, I—" she tried to protest, heart going berserk in terrifying leaps.
"Don't be frightened. I'm doing this for your father's honour," he assured, and she took the bird from him, with trembling hands. "You can leave after you set it free . . . "
There was a flickering of Sasuke's image before he vanished. Hinata petted the head of the bird in her hand—it was too quiet, as though it had been put under an illusion . . . with her Byakugan, she focused all of her vision on the verges of the Uchiha village, looking out for Itachi's chakra, which was as cold as it was ferocious!
Sasuke's heart was a beast, impatient to be let out of its mortal cage. He had never been so anxious, but it had to be done—it had to be done! Wind greeted him with a cold embrace when he reached the Naka-shrine. He passed through the torii gate, his heart heavy, and listened to the chinks and clinks of the charms his mother had left there; whispers of the dead lingered beyond the grave—his brother was always deaf to their sounds!
He stepped into the hall, which was filled with a quiet noise in the absence of men. Shadows lay, like slack garments, upon the wood, and he had to fall back on the surety of his vision to make his way to the stone. The dead-eye in the stone responded to his pulsing one, and the stone moved to let him through.
It was dark here, and the stairs were submerged in shadow's pool that did not part as he descended down the steps—barefooted. A shiver raced up from the underside of his foot, stabbing his excited senses, when he made it to the secret room at last. The stone-work beneath his feet was bathed in autumn's cold—winter would make the stones colder still.
His Dōjutsu could read the glowing letters etched into the wood-work that was booby-trapped. He hauled out a phial of blood from his pocket and pulled out the stopper with his teeth. It only had a few drops of blood—enough to soak the tip of his forefinger. He did just that and touched the Uchiha symbol that glowed with his brother's chakra. The mechanism moved, and the heavy sliding-door came loose.
Sasuke slid it open and gazed upon the Kinjutsu scrolls that filled the cabinet. He looked for the tailed-beast's symbol he needed and smiled when he noticed that his eyes could read all the symbols his brother was blind to—blind to his clan's sorrows and deaf to their pleas!
There was just one scroll he needed. He took it out, unrolled it, made few quick hand-seals to summon a blank one. He did not have time to read—a song was swelling towards him, and his breaths came out quick and short in reaction. When all of the words filled the blank scroll, he sent it away, and put the other one exactly where he had found it.
Then he closed the sliding door and watched as the mechanism worked all on its own to protect the scrolls from any intruder. He wiped away the blood with his long black-sleeve and rushed out from the shrine. Outside, upon his return from his Clan's shrine, wind's embrace was even colder this time . . .
Hinata had set it free as Sasuke had asked, but Itachi's chakra was still suffocating the life out of her. She walked slowly on the pathway that led out of the village from the back of the manor. Wind's voice was unkind as the night approached fast, tainting the sky in purple, like lilies. She bent her head, walking against the wind in a manner as though she was a boat, on rough waters, about to heel over under storm's wind.
Trees' shadows grew thick about her, and she felt so tiny, walking amidst the heavy sense of isolation this place created: there was no one around but the large sacred stones that stood guard where the village ended. Wind shushed and hushed her thoughts, which ran without an aim in her mind—she just wanted to leave the village in one piece!
She bent her head when the distance between them grew shorter, his chakra leeching off her spirit. She expected him to pass by her, but she was mistaken. "Why are you here?" Itachi asked, and his voice sounded as sinister to her ears as it had all those moons past.
Hinata was left with no choice but to halt her steps and bow. "I—I was here to get my application signed, I-Itachi-Sama," she said, her voice barely lending any tone to her words.
Itachi gazed up at the sky as though he was lost in thought. His coal-black hair whipped about his face in the wind. From where she stood, he looked no different from Sasuke, as he stood before the valley that stretched behind his back and merged into the forest.
"Did you let the bird loose?" he asked, and his voice pierced her heart like a lethal sword. Then his eyes met hers, and the daemonic fire in them made her know fear. He could slit her throat here, and no one would know of her fate.
"N-No, Itachi-Sama, I—"
"Do not lie to me," Itachi spoke quickly, his voice shaper than the wind, softer than the lake's waters. "Did Sasuke ask of you to do this?"
"Itachi-Sama, I—" Hinata stopped, tears scalding her throat and burning her cheeks. She did not know what to do. She did not have the heart to tell on Sasuke: he had done so much for her; however, she lacked the courage to fight this wicked one.
"Now, why would the wild child ask of you to do this little thing?" he asked and stepped a little closer, his eyes burning fiercely in the evening's last light; and all Hinata could do was weep . . .
"Look at me when I speak to you," Itachi spoke, and everything went silent at his command: wind stopped and so had the night that could not finish enveloping the hues in the sky. When her eyes met his, he plumbed the shallow depths of her mind's water, going in deep to pin down the elusive fish that tried to slip away from the aim of his swords. In that small moment, he caught everything—everything!
A deep breath returned the air to Hinata's lungs, but she sank down onto her knees, her nerves on fire, smoking hot after his assault. She lifted her head to gaze upon the slight tremble in his lips, hidden by the mixture of wind and mist as it went across his face. His eyes—she had never seen them so red, so deadly; and red tears went down her cheeks in apology. She had nothing more to say to him. He had stripped her naked. She was done . . .
"How dare you . . . do this when I told you to leave him be?" Itachi spoke, and in the darkness where he stood, it felt as though a statue carved out of solid malice was speaking to her.
Hinata had no words to speak: she was frightened beyond measure. Sun had gone down; trees trembled to the wind; but the never-changing aspect of his countenance defied reason. The last light descended to illuminate his face, and she wished it had not, for his face was crafted—to perfection—from stone and decorated with the intricate pattern of his Mangekyō, and there was nothing else to soften its surface . . .
"You are dismissed from your post—permanently," Itachi spoke, without any emotion in his voice. "Get out of my sight." Then he left the girl, who was buried under the weight of many shadows now, weeping by the tree.
Itachi had a lingering suspicion as to what Sasuke had done, but it was wise to retrace his steps, regardless; so he went to the shrine and felt as though the stagnant air had been disturbed by the child's quick movements. What concerned him, however, was the wound in his forefinger: it was made with a small senbon. He had noticed the wound in the morning but did not make much of it.
He went home, knowing that Sasuke must have gone to his room to feign innocence. Tanaka told him about the girl, but he did not say anything to him. He was an old man who did not deserve his ire. The kitchen was empty, but he knew where Tanaka kept the sugar. He sniffed at the container made out of clay, and it smelt of berries.
Anger sparked his Sharingan to appear as a soundless specter in his eyes. Wordlessly, he went to Sasuke's room, who looked at him from the shadows as though he had done nothing at all, his face child-like and pure and sweet. Itachi did not scold him; he just grabbed him by the arm, dragged him down to the prison-room, and locked him up again. He would make sure that Karin would feel remorse for her games . . .
When Itachi went away, a smile came to Sasuke's face, all sluggish like a worm to bite at the freshness of youth in his lips. His brother would soon know how difficult it would be to throw Hinata out, without Tsunade's consent. Still smiling, like a child who had won a game, he sat down and summoned the scroll. It appeared by his feet, and when he unrolled it, the words made him laugh: so the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan was needed to control the Demon-Fox, after all!
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