Chapter Sixty-five: Blood Pools
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"Really, Nii-San?" Sasuke asked, countenance showing excitement in the light's illumination. Then he twisted his rosy mouth a bit, and the shadow upon the curve of his left cheek fluttered against the nature of flame that burnt—uncertain—in the lantern. He appeared confused now. He sat on the mat, and his fingers were quite busy on a string in his hands: he had been practicing the tricks of strings for Shuriken-Jutsu again.
"Yes, Higanbana's flower and leaves never bloom together," Itachi spoke and caressed Sasuke's cheek with the palm of his hand, and his fingertips brushed against the flushed skin in thoughtless motions. "Its blub is also poisonous. I do not want you touching it next time. Plant something else there."
"But—" Sasuke stopped, and his face fell in sadness. Then he put the string aside, and leant his forehead against Itachi's knee; he sat in a chair, his shadow a heavy ghost that visited upon his little sibling.
"Why do you not plant the Lilies there?" Itachi asked and stroked Sasuke's head.
"They won't keep the burrowing animals away," Sasuke mumbled and heaved a long and heavy sigh that expanded his breast.
Wind crossed the forests and came to them, noisy in its arrival. Windows and doors rattled, and the house murmured a creaky song. A storm had expanded above the land, and the manor was caught in the glare of its eye. A pattering sound started, chilling the room—a bit.
"Come and sit here," Itachi spoke and watched as a smile spread across Sasuke's mouth like a streak of red hue. Sasuke climbed Itachi's thigh and leant into his breast.
For a few moments, Sasuke spoke nothing; and wind's murmurs filled the room as though they were sounds from the throats of the dead. Treading lightly, slowly, and silently, sounds enveloped the manor like a breezy veil, and wind became this house's breath.
"Are you going away again?" Sasuke asked, his voice too innocent to hide his anguish, the soft expression upon his face morphing to show his emotions—a young boy's emotions.
"I will come back before the next moon appears, and I shall bring good strings for you," Itachi spoke, a smile in his voice; and his words assuaged Sasuke's fears, and Serizawa saw something shift in Sasuke's gaze, noticed the change from an innocent glimmer to a perceivable sheen of utmost adoration.
The Lord's voice had become richer with the waning and waxing moons; and now, autumn winds' murmurs mingled with the expressive sounds made by his Lord's tongue. In the room, everything undulated between them in a childhood play—smells, sounds, and all.
"It was winter's night, and the crow had come to feast upon the common moths," Serizawa's Lord whispered, and his white hand pushed the wild hair from his child's face, who bled vivid ichor from his eyes.
"W-Winter, Nii-San?" the child asked, and his voice trembled still, riding upon the currents in the confinement of the room—his hands in shackles that clanked together when he moved a little in anxiety. He sat by the Lord's feet, looking up at his face adoringly as though nothing else existed in the world but the signs of him that filled his vision—distant crows that appeared like black and grey mottles in the excited rabble of Devil's Moths.
"Yes, winter," Itachi answered in the softest voice and caressed Sasuke's cheek, clothed in a bright colour the fire emitted, with the back of his fingers. "The crow, Yatagarasu, guided the King . . . in this season.
"It was a cold season and many died to protect the Child King. Spider lilies wilted away in the graveyard. Autumn Moths poisoned them. Their vapours consumed other moths, as well. And in winter's deep, the King alighted on the mountain, all immortal and powerful." And this time, a ghost smile touched the Lord's lips, and he bent forward to press a kiss to the distressed child's brow. The black hair slid down across his white skin as ink upon the scroll to paint his features in a delicate manner.
Sasuke's face crumpled; he took in quick and short breaths; then he wept. His body shuddered with fever. The winds and the fever and the Lord had been so unkind to him. He pressed his forehead to his Lord's, Itachi's, knee, and his shaking fingers gripped his ankle—in adoration, in a silent plea, sounds that came from the deep of his breast.
"Don't go, Nii-San. I can't see you—it frightens me! This room frightens me!" he said through sobs and hitched short breaths: his words wobbled, nearly unintelligible to Itachi's ears.
"Hush, do not weep," Itachi spoke, words rich like flowing black ink that filled the room's canvas some more. He lifted Sasuke's chin with the tip of his cold white fingers—long hairless spider-legs in his child's deep-dreams. "You are a good child . . . my child. You shall stay here, and you shall sleep without a sound."
Sasuke bent his head forward, and his forehead kissed Itachi's knee again as though he made an obeisance to the Lord. Then he went very quiet as though his spirit had grown weary with visions.
Itachi placed his arms on the armrest, his back straight and rigid like his blade. He looked to Serizawa, and his face appeared unfriendly and distant in the dark that permeated this side of the canvas, though his Sharingan slept as soundly as Sasuke in his eyes.
"Lay him down upon the futon," Itachi spoke, and Serizawa obeyed with a silent nod. He laid Sasuke out on the futon and pulled the kakebuton over his body. He slept as quietly as Itachi had asked of him—like an exhausted child.
Itachi did not stay. He rose to his feet, and, without casting another glance upon Sasuke, he walked out of the room, leaving his colours in his child's canvas . . .
Wind blew strong and keen. Storm had come to distort night's colours; yet it did not stay too long: only some of its last breaths remained that touched his face and throat. It was quiet in his office, and moon had risen full in the sky. Beneath it stood dark mountains fringed by peculiar trees that stood amidst deciduous ones, whose colours he could not see without his Sharingan.
Vague mist crossed the landscape and embroiled the forests in a quiet haze—a place sepulchered in silence. He did not speak to his own Lord, his heart, and it could not but look at his empyrean substance that had been beggared by the child's, his darling's, present state—all it could hear were its own mundane vibrations and sounds, which it sent through his veins to enrich the body.
He heard sounds on the wooden floor and smelt the smell that came from her reeking body, and his heart, his listening instrument, heard a little of his fury. He did not stir nor did he speak when the knock came upon the door. A silence followed the two knocks, which were too loud in this place; and then the door opened and she came into the room, her steps timid.
He did not say anything whilst he sat in the cool of the night that came from the open window. His arms rested on the chair's armrest, and his eyes remained transfixed to the faint hues in the night. She had never seen him without his scrolls, without his cool eyes, sitting calmly in unnatural quietness that made her fear him more.
"I-Itachi-Sama?" she said, her voice barely keeping up with her tongue. Still he did not stir, as though he had sunk down betwixt the ocean's walls of silence. She clutched the scroll tighter and pressed it to her breast and made her way towards him. Her feet trembled as if mud had clogged them; but she calmed her breaths and heart and approached him, the hum of her heartbeats vibrating in her veins and the air about her.
The whole room had become a heart, and its sounds struck her with a hard rhythm. When her gaze fell upon him, she noticed that his face appeared like a white bone in the moonlight. She stopped, and her body soaked in the sounds of heart and wind and forests.
"Itachi-Sama?" she spoke his name again, but the honorific rolled off her tongue as a distorted sound. She was . . . terrified of him: he was a ghost sitting in the chair. At last, his gaze left the darkness in the forest and settled upon her, though he did not speak—nor did his eyes.
"I have a request," she began timidly, and her face and voice exhibited nervousness; she saw a slight glint of something in his eyes before it disappeared, but she lacked the years to define it, "I want the Anbu post—the one that's empty after the medic's death. I—"
"I am aware which post you speak of," Itachi spoke, and his voice soaked through her skin and chilled her heart. "Why do you want it?"
His question surprised her, and she saw that same glint appear and disappear in his eyes; and she felt as though she was a dangling bit of flesh at the vein's end that branched from the venous web of his heart. Her body could sense a strange . . . pulse of threat emanate from him.
However, she willed courage into her breast and took in a deep breath. Then she looked him in the eye and spoke: "I want to learn more—d-distance myself from Sasuke. We don't get along. It'd give us both a bit of space."
Itachi did not say anything for a moment—two moments—and his eyes watched her in a manner that they possessed the power to cut open her breast to see what was inside. She lowered her eyes immediately—curse the Sharingan! Then she listened to the faint murmurings and ululations in the air.
"Place it on the table, Sakura, and come and stand before me in the moonlight," Itachi spoke, and this time, his voice had come out stronger, deeper.
Sakura nodded. She took a few steps to place the scroll on the table, and then she went back to stand at the same spot. Moonlight bathed her in white's colour, and she saw, fear coming from her breast, that his Sharingan had risen against the light. His eyes crawled across her body in search of . . . something.
"Have you seen Danzō in these past few days?" Itachi asked, and the walls of her world rattled at his voice.
"No, I've not," Sakura replied and kept her gaze low; she had no wiah to gaze into the dark of his vision's red.
"Why do you avert my eyes?" Itachi asked, and the sinister ring, which was sweet, in his voice compelled her to look at him. She did not say anything, and he kept looking at her, a faint smile rising to touch his lips' surface, a playful fish. He had realised that she avoided Danzō's name, and it made her soul ache in terror.
"Remove your garments," Itachi commanded, and that unnatural sweetness disappeared from his voice, like the smile from his lips.
Sakura stood stunned, rooted to the spot like a terrified animal. The expression upon her countenance changed to show utmost shock. "I-Itachi-Sama—wha—what are—"
"All of them," he cut across her, "every last article, and show me your form—now." And the world darkened about her, and everything went dim but the red in his face.
Sakura did not know what to do; the darkness, the red, the vibrations . . . everything beat her spirit into submission. She did not have it in her to deny his command. Itachi had sensed that Root had branded her with their mark. It was no use hiding anything.
Hesitantly, with fingers trembling, she stripped off her shirt, skirt, and shorts and cast them aside. Then she tore down her undergarments and threw them on the heap by her feet. She wanted to reach her hands up to her breasts (hide them from his gaze), but she fisted them by her side.
When wind hit her body, patches of pink colour appeared on her sweat-soaked, freckled skin. The thick curls between her legs glistened in the light. She had dark pink and red freckles that ran down between her breasts, quite small for a woman, and down the length of her arms.
"Knead your chakra and release the seal," Itachi spoke again, and his voice rang in her ears like a temple's heavy bell.
Sakura did as she was told: she uncurled her fists, raised her hands, made the Tiger-Seal. Chakra poured out from the seal and coiled round her naked limbs, a snake. She lowered her hands at her sides and watched him observe her through the scorching eyes of his clan.
Suddenly, Sakura was facing the wall, hands on the smooth wood that emitted a natural scent of Leaf. She heard a voice, which came from the deep, that told her to part her thighs, and she did. A seep of moisture came from her core, and something small wormed in—little and black.
She leant her head back, and her lips parted, and she felt two fingers invade her mouth; and she bit down on them, tasted red. Then she gulped and saw a world turned upside down: black rain floated about her and fell on the strange, rippling roof and went in, and sharp things like beaks burrowed out and collided with the stone ground in loud splatters—hail, black-hail, that smelt of moths and something else.
Black ink climbed up her back, to reach her right shoulder, and fell down and shrouded her breast; then the black branched so much, mapping every inch of her breast like invading, superficial veins that turned to hair that clustered in the most luxuriant manner on her skin.
The bones inside the fingers broke; flesh melted away; and fingers were no longer two, but one; and that one thing's surface turned smoother and thicker, like a beak, and went deep inside her to peck at her flesh—back and forth, back and forth, over and over again; and she swallowed the sticky bile that was loosened from the tip. She suckled it lovingly as it filled up her mouth and throat.
The voiceless crow pulled his beak out, and she drew in a laboured breath, a white string stretching taught from the lips. Ghostly black hair floated upwards into the wind, and they smelt strange as though they had been dunked in the perfumes of winter's rot and whisked before her face.
Then the beak parted the pink fleshes of her thighs to locate her slit: it brushed against the swollen, mucus-coated lips and invaded her damp crevice, plunged in deep and deeper with a quick and hard rhythm; and her cunt pulled it in deep and deeper, squeezed it like a crazed grip, and, as a flood of craving washed down her thighs, she felt no shame. She stood with her back to the crow, trembling feet planted apart, heat coiling in her thighs that quaked with tension.
"Your tricks will be the death of you . . . no matter how much you want this," a distant voice filled her ear with a cold whisper; but she swallowed the wave of lust that throttled her senses; and when the beak struck her core, a deep, visible arch formed in her neck and back; sweat splashed everywhere, and she pushed her buttocks back repeatedly (against the crow) in vulgar motions and took all of the beak into her cunt, her body shuddering in a frenzy to reach the shores of this torturous pleasure's release; then she squeezed, squeezed hard, squeezed harder, till she felt the beak tremble and thicken inside her, felt the fluid spring from the tip to fill up her womb.
Sakura screamed—the sound spread through the ocean as silent ripples; and as the waters from woman and beast's conjoining flowed down her thighs, she was spent. The beak had touched her depths and bent her spirit into gratitude—heavens' mockery.
She slid down to the ground, her eyes opening to see a scene that filled her with terror. An ink-ocean expanded before her as far as her eyes could see—an endless black. A whispering forest of withering trees straggled north behind her. She rose up under the full moon and saw a mass of bone-white bodies whitening in its light.
Her heart and the courage it vaunted of, faded away—beat by beat, drop by drop, pulse by pulse. Veins appeared in the withered ground, thirsty. Then, as though the crow-sky had heard its pleas, rain descended. Veins expanded and grew thicker with water and turned to black mud, which bubbled and birthed little hatchings, which cawed and cawed, till the waves surged forward to crash onto them, destroying them to little jagged pieces.
The waters became silent, pristine, and there upon the rippling surface sat Mikoto. She pulled at the collar of her rich red kimono, and it slid down her lovely skin to gather at her waist. She showed Sakura her white breasts. Then she lifted up a babe from inside the water and pressed its face to her breast. The little one parted its mouth in hunger and suckled on the teat, its cheeks pink as sake, mouth red as roses.
Black hair framed her face, but it changed. Bones shifted underneath the skin and the contours hardened. They no longer appeared as soft as those of a woman. She had turned into a man—into Itachi: his breast became well-defined and hair flowed across white and the babe cried in his arms in hunger again. Then Fugaku appeared in her vision; he, too, held a little child in his arms, and he, too, turned into—him!
The air had become stale, heavy—so heavy. The Itachi that wore a woman's kimono looked at her; and through the long, rich lashes that shaded his eyes, she saw the familiar gleam of red. Then his lips were smiling in an unnatural manner that was so unbecoming of him; his face still possessed a hazy touch of Mikoto's fine features, and Sakura did not think she had ever seen anything so beautiful, so perfect, so ugly—in her entire life.
Itachi's shoulders shuddered, and he emitted a strange sound; his voice's terrifying seduction passed into a laughter that went wild along the shore. "I do not laugh in this manner. You think strange things of me," the other one spoke, his face sober as he gazed down upon the darling babe who would not stop weeping.
"There there, child," the softer one whispered from lips pretty and red, "we shall punish her for causing you much distress."
Sakura's heart and world rattled, and she stumbled on an uncertain earth. She fell down onto her knees, and mud clung to her naked skin. "No . . ." she breathed in a faintest whisper, and her tear-filled eyes fixed upon the babe, realisation stabbing through her heart in a single motion, "S-Sasuke . . ."
Their heads snapped towards her, and the babe's cries sung terrible echoes; and rude wind slapped against her face as though the world had gone angry. Mist rose from the deep and sepulchered the world. They disappeared behind the veil, and the eye could look upon her in all its red glory.
Drip-drop drip-drop drip-drop—black trickled loose from the crow-sky. Feathers burrowed out of the surface like Purple Lilies, and a long, long beak pierced the far end of the sky, like a toppled mountain. Sharingan whirled in its eye as it looked upon her as though she was a little insect in this world. In the crow's eye, her mind was lost in visions!
Ink spread beneath the ocean, a ripening disease, and little blobs formed on the surface that had become a sludge. They coalesced and made a larger blob and surges threw it on the shore in a splatter of black gore. Sakura stumbled back and spasms travelled in her muscles at the scene before her—she had never been so afraid in her entire life.
Then, out of the blob, black liquid spread out and changed into fine hair-strands; and a white frame rose out from the sludge, which slid down the limbs to reveal—Itachi! He smiled and the smile widened and widened till his beautiful face could contain it no more. His mouth ripped open at nature's seams, and he reached up, grabbed hold of his face, and pulled the skin back.
She saw a beak emerge from his mouth, and a head of an eyeless bird appeared as he ripped away his fleshy-visage, a beautiful edifice, and cast it aside. Screams were strangled in her throat, and she turned back to run, but stopped—stopped at the foot of mass upon mass of white-clay-like bodies, dappled red in blood; their faces frozen in strange contortions; eyes fixed upon the man behind her.
Her heartbeats sped through her aching veins, and she ran as fast as she could, her feet crushing the cold clay beneath as she went. The clay crunched and emitted gooey insides and rotten smells that choked her throat close, preventing the vapours from descending any further. She coughed but did not stop and ran deep into the forest.
The forest did not welcome her. Dry roots grew out, cradling countless Purple Lilies that popped up from the soil, laughing like joyous children. Her foot caught in the roots and she hit the ground, weeping now. "Let me out!" she screamed and heard her voice echo for several moments.
"I am not holding you hostage. You can leave whenever you desire," he spoke from the sky, air, earth, and his voice came to her as a whisper amidst the giddy laughter from children's growing throats. The Purple Lilies laughed—nodded, swayed, danced! Happy—happy boy children!
When Sakura heard the crunch of feet on the leaves, she slithered behind a tree. Her heart thundered like drums—she was surprised he had not heard it beat. Everything about her was nothing more than silence as her heartbeats overwhelmed the sounds and dulled her senses.
Sakura peeked from behind the tree, not making any sound. The strange creature, with head of crow and warped body of man, went away. She inhaled a broken breath, and let out a quick, sudden one when she found him standing before her, lips clothed in a comely smile.
He approached her and began to shake free of his white skin. That triggered her defenses to high alert. This time, she did not run. Anger and fear etched her face, and she made a rock-hard first and hit his breast with all her might. His face changed into that prisoner's she had killed. Then black ink sprayed out with the blow and splashed her face and the tree behind her.
Sakura fell back against the tree, her breaths calming, the convulsions in her limbs going away; but she heard a wriggling sound and snapped her head up, her eyes flashing fear. The trembling returned in her body with full force. The droplets had merged together again; and hair leaked out from the holes in the old bark and descended before her like a curtain, and his long white arms tore free from the sludge. She saw a bit of his face in the black mass, but a crow's head tore out of his mouth before it could attain its perfect shape; and before she could react, he swallowed up her head—she screamed and hot, rancid-smelling liquid coursed down her legs like rain.
Sakura slumped down to the floor and screwed up her eyes. Moments passed by and breeze went across her shivering body. She opened her eyes, ever so slowly, and her vision focused upon him: he had not moved an inch from his chair—Genjutsu?
"You have created a vulgar mess," Itachi spoke, his face white as the dead clay-men in his illusion. Beside him stood Serizawa—his head was bowed, and his hands were clasped obediently behind his back.
"Clean this up," he instructed Serizawa, a frown disturbing his smooth brow. Then he rose up and left the foul-smelling room . . .
When Itachi stepped outside, wind rolled above his head, a palpable presence. Her memories had told him so much, and as wind's smell wormed into his nostrils, a mist covered his world in a soft caressing: he walked with his dearest friend, looking at his countenance.
"Danzō didn't say anything else?" Itachi asked in a boy's voice.
Shisui shook his head; his silence was heavy upon Itachi's heart. "We were driven out of the Village because the Elders' Council realised that the Mangekyō can control the daemons," Shisui said and turned his face towards the shadows to look at the dark and what it hid—sometimes, men tailed him, and they had to be given a swift death to avoid any trouble.
"But Otō-Sama already knows this," Itachi said and took long steps as he briskly walked alongside Shisui towards the end of their village, graveyard bound.
They walked through the bridal bed of dews and saw rows of gravestones rise in the darkness. "It isn't that simple," Shisui broke off and stopped before a quiet cluster of graves, "the Uchiha elders are right—it's about the lands. Danzō's made an alliance with the Elite Squad. This won't end well . . ." He went silent and bent forward to move the leaning, drying tree branches out of his way.
"The coup isn't the answer," Itachi said in a tone that expressed his discontent.
Shisui looked at Itachi and patted his head. "You're still young—you'll learn," he spoke, smiling.
A glowing lantern swayed above their heads. Little insets had crowded it, bewitched by the artificial light, thinking it to be a moon in their reach. "Do you think Minato-San can help us?" Itachi asked and saw surprise come into Shisui's face.
"I don't know—" he stopped, hand on the wet stone, "—he made the seal for the host. It was under his care, too. All that disgrace—I don't think he's in a position to help anyone."
"Danzō thinks a clan made it go berserk," Itachi said with impatience and stepped forward to stand in the softening yellow light. "You don't think he could be talking about—"
"He didn't say anything about us, Itachi," Shisui cut him off in a heavy and harsh voice, and then he looked apologetic. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."
"What are you doing?" Itachi asked as Shisui squeezed through the gaps between the rough branches to go in the back.
"It's this!" Shisui told him, and wondrous visions that had ordered from the deep ended in his eyes; he was a boy no longer. He knelt by the sacred stones and moved the lush branches; and there it was, another tunnel!
Itachi heard steps behind his back, and he rose to his feet. Wind moved through his hair, and he turned a little to look behind him: it was Nomura . . .
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Air stirred into song and combers wider and wider spread—quiet as the flowers by her feet. Camellia, white ones, unbidden grew. Silently, leaves drifted across the coarse earth.
With a lily in hand, a smile on the lips, she stood in the cool light, her hair black at the temples. Sun and dew mantled her cheeks with a shade meek the red ones possessed—spatters so vivid in the haze of shallow waters by the trees.
The lily quivered in her hand, its colour drained of splendor and sheen by the new winds, such unkind winds. She looked down, lashes brushing against the cheeks. She passed her hand over her belly: there it germinated, his seed, his child. (She could feel it coiling in her womb, a male chakra that was so like his.)
A smile appeared on her lips: ah, thy sweet lips and the darkened shade of thy flesh in the evening sky. She stepped from the shade of trees and into sun. Her kimono flowed in layers of fine silk and golden threads glimmered through the folds, their colour like the white underside of a powerful wave.
Mist obscured her vision; a Sharingan she possessed not. The eye was an apotheosis of a warrior, a man. Men's visions morphed, set alight by the songs from the lips of the dead that filled their eyes with passion's colour. What a strange song—lovely colours that mocked the dead with a gaudy show!
Few women possessed this power: there had not been a woman with the red eyes in their clan for a few generations. Her smile faded in thought, eyes drifting to scale the lake that sent wind's breaths in her direction. Its slumber was deep this season. Come winter, its slumber would be deeper and sweeter like death.
An odour of moths came floating on wind from beyond the shores. It pierced her nostrils and overcame her senses, temporarily. They had mated with the pink ones in a frenzy, expelled their poisons, and flown away in Nature's mirage to the lush meadow where Lilies upgrew, brimming the valley with a purple mist.
She put her hand over her nose and mouth and turned from the lake—it was drunk on the smells of devil's moths of autumn's equinox. The ones with wings pink would writhe in passion, and they would die in passion. Few laid eggs that would birth the purple ones—just the purple ones! They had to mate with the other moths that possessed dull shades to birth pink ones like them.
Her eyes caught sight of one lonely pink moth writhing in the grass, covered in dew that glimmered in sparse light. Its belly had much of the purple poison; its wings lacked the strength to carry it beyond the shores to the other side. In agony and love it twisted, wings wounded after flights of fancy; it had wantoned amidst the Lilies.
Left it here that cold rabble to die a slow death mapped with illusions. It jumped, restless; and here would be its grave, silence, without a lid this earth never gave. Shibito-bana, with mottles purple on delicate red, it beckoned its tiny soul, but the sensation had over-weighted its form.
It withered and writhed till the air's garment writhed in answer. The slumbering bit of clumps in her womb, a hushed flesh, trembled in agony. Deeper and deeper her flesh shook; and the cold met her bosom, and she felt a want. Her trembling hand clutched at her belly, and she saw the white garment turn red at her thighs.
Red gushed forth and fell on the shaking Camellia and became its garb—he died in silence in her belly; she leant her head back, face warping in pain, and gave forth a scream so loud, yet it had met its death inside her without a whimper . . . and the gloomy shore turned red by her feet into a blood-pool that beckoned her in the afterlife, and her unformed babe's cries rose with an upward thrill that rattled her—forever!
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A hump of dark mountains stood in the distance; beyond the mist, beyond the lake, beyond the forest, they were mighty. She had half a desire to turn to another vision, but she did not. They had looked lovely in the morning, tall and perpendicular, enveloped by mist under primrose's streaks in the autumn sky.
Now, their shadows shed a grey gloom over the lake, and the effect was always frightening. She sat in the doorframe, her feet dangling above the ground that was enveloped in dews. A rush of wind came in from the outer gloom, and she inhaled deeply to savour the smell of blooming Purple Lilies. It was their time—their season of joy!
A dread fell upon her, and her frame shuddered in the cold. The missive flapped under the lantern, a white one she had placed on it, and created crack-crackle-crack sounds that were loud in the dead of the night. The lantern cast a light on the garden, limning the stones of the old well.
Whistles came from its mouth—it was dry. It always went dry in autumn and winter. Servants went out on foot to gather water from a stream in their family's graveyard. They had to quench their thirst from the stone-valley of the dead.
Her mind went back to the letter and the Purple Lilies hidden between its folds: he had not answered her pleas . . . left her alone. Her lips shuddered with a sudden throb deep in her breast, and she, too, felt a want in her flesh. The knot had tightened by desire's hands, and she felt empty without him now.
Into the winds her breaths went, full of pleas that vanished into the forest. She had waited and she had waited, but he had not come. Days turned into nights, and nights turned into days again, but still he did not come; and her flesh hurt in his absence, and her heart wept without his presence.
The missive crackled, and she thought of the older one—and she hated him so! Hated him with all her heart and soul! He had taken Sasuke from her, and he had taken her joy. Cruel, so cruel, her heart yearned with the melodies it could not speak of. Cold, so cold, his grasp over the younger one. She hated him—all of him!
Placing her hand over her bosom, she listened to her heart: the crow's perfection was artifice; his beauty, tricks; his heart, a stone-cold grave; his gaze, a blood-pool in her dreams—and in dreams he haunted her, and in waking he taunted her. He frightened her, and her heart in despair dreamt what she could not have, and in the agony of the chase, she had broken it . . .
She opened her eyes and looked at the dark low-hung sky that was overtaken by a shade grey: a storm—another dreadful storm. The thoughts crept away into the forest with the shadows, with light at their heels. Her soul felt lighter with the touch of wind that smelt of moths this time. When would this season end?
She heard creaks on the floor and panic came across her face. Quickly, and with vigilance, she turned to the floor-bed and hid the letter underneath the makura. She turned around just as quickly, and in thoughtlessness, knocked the lantern onto the floor.
"O-néh-San?" a girl's voice came from the door. A breath later, she opened the door and peered at the dull light radiating in waves towards the corners. It was dark and shadows sat squeezed behind furniture, hiding in wait; a lamp's painting lay abandoned on the floor-bed: it depicted a scene of autumn with Lilies in the flush of eternal youth; she could almost see the fabled Rinnegan, the immortal eye, gleaming in their midst!
"You're still awake?" she asked and slid shut the door. A small wailing sound went round the house right after this gesture, but she paid it no mind. She walked to her sister, her feet creaking on the floor, and her face slowly came into the light: her long dark hair was in a ponytail that emphasized her slender neck that had a pink hue at this hour.
"I-I couldn't sleep—you should go to sleep, Hanabi. Otō-Sama's worried about your health," she mumbled, grasped the lantern, and placed it in an upright position. The gleam, rising, revealed Hinata's white face, framed between the black hair. Her face was blank and expressionless.
Hanabi let out a short breath and looked out towards the sky. "You . . ." Hanabi's voice trailed off as though she did not want to speak, ". . . you haven't taken the Shira Bikuni's teachings to the temple in a long time. You don't go there anymore . . ."
Hinata turned her face away. Night's shades were deep in the sky and Kamis' hands pudder'd in the dark, in her breast for the younger Uchiha's memories, her tongue fast-bound whilst they searched. She heard the wood creak, and then it creaked some more as her sister sat down beside her. She did not look at her.
The wind came strong, but Hanabi's eyes were on Hinata. She watched as her long black hair streamed back in waves. Strands clove to the cool sweat on her cheeks like dried-up ink. There was no blush on her cheeks, just a lifeless colour of tsubaki stolen by winter, a spectacle for a murder of crows.
Hanabi did not speak, and Hinata remained silent. They sat like this for what felt like endless moments in the lull before the storm. In the light, Hinata's countenance was sober and gloomy. Then from the forest came strange noises, and she could not hear the creaks of her house above them at all.
Hanabi leant her head against Hinata's shoulder and stole her hand in hers; but her sister was quiet; so she raised Hinata's hand to her lips and kissed it. This brought a faint smile to Hinata's lips, but she said nothing more in answer.
"What's the matter, O-néh-San?" she asked, combing Hinata's hair away from her cheeks.
"Nothing, I'm—" she stopped and breathed in loudly and turned to her.
"Is it about the Chūnin post?" Hanabi asked and squeezed Hinata's hand. "Tsunade-Sama said that Sasuke gets to decide. It isn't that mean Itachi's decision to make! You shouldn't worry." She smiled.
Hinata looked skyward and watched the stars fade away behind the clouds. The flame in the lantern flickered and made bright the chakra particles dancing in the air. They came out of flora and earth, Nature's exhalations, and glimpsed in the light like stars at arm's length.
"Look, O-néh-San!" Hanabi exclaimed and sprang to her feet. "Forest Ghosts—they've come early!" She turned around and looked down at Hinata; her whole face seemed to smile.
Hinata stepped down onto the cool grass and felt few of them collide with her cheeks. They left a strange tingling sensation in her skin, like a sudden rush of blood. They knocked against one another and vanished away, but many more kept coming! It was as though she stood in a lake of fireflies.
"I'll go with you," Hanabi spoke, trying to catch a few in her fists. She was not successful. "Okā-San taught in the temple, too. She believed in the blood-pool—"
"Is it necessary? She's gone!" Hinata cut her off in a sharp whisper, her tone bitter, and turned away towards the forest. Hanabi had gone silent.
"O-néh-San . . ." her whisper died away in the wind; a bewildered expression crossed her face.
"She's gone. I—" Hinata stopped. She could not speak. "She left." She left me—it—it's all her fault—all her fault! she wanted to say, but she did not.
The wind had wandered away into forest, and for her, her father's house had become silent in the storm that awaited a sound to fill up its halls. This place was a grave for her now . . .
Hanabi drew near and placed her hand on her shoulder—she had a gleam in her eyes. "She loved you," she paused and pressed her lips together to stop her tears from coming. "I love you! You're not alone!"
Hinata turned her face to her, her eyes filled with an emotion Hanabi could not fathom. "You're with a child—" she said in a quiet voice, her expression cool, "you need rest. Go to sleep."
Hanabi drew her hand back, her cheeks damp with tears. She hesitated for a moment, but turned away from Hinata. After taking a few steps, she stopped, a wounded expression on her face, and said, "I gathered the tsubaki for you. You . . . you look lovely when you take them to the temple. Okā-San always liked it . . . " Then she walked away, her feet crunching and creaking on the leaves and wood, a trail of sounds.
Hinata closed her eyes, listening; and from the dark, a treble broke and crashed into her breast, unleashing her passions. Lightning flashed and wind and rain came and whipped her raw. She took one step, then two, then three, and before she knew her destination, she was running barefooted into the forest—mad!
Her white kimono grew damp, flesh gleaming, skin rippling—feet snow-cold. Her hair clung to her body, twisted round and heavy at the ends, dripping; and from between the creaking boughs moonlight shone aslant; but she ran till the light became colder, till her heart roused in its lair, till her breast let loose screams of despair that poured forth from her lips in passion.
In the night she ran; against the rain she ran; into the wind she ran—a lonely girl that sought her mother's bosom! Young blood roared through her veins, and her heart grew tired of her anguish, her love, in this hopeless search as she ran through the forest of gravestones. Quick breaths came from her lips, and she crashed against a tree and stopped. Then she slumped down on the muddy ground, out of breaths and strength, her eyes upon the grave of her mother—outlined against the dark amidst the forest ghosts that whirled in the wild winds like a tempest.
Silence amongst the trees. In the storm's angry eye, it was silence, too. Her heart became the only noise from her flesh. Crows had come out of her nightmares to peck and poke and devour the dark flesh in hunger; and it had wailed as a babe without a mother's embrace and its sounds rattled her bones and she was an instrument in its symphony. It hurt so much . . . to just think of him and to not want him to be by her side, pressed against her in a ritual that made her flesh sing, sing, sing!
What despair to sit at the foot of her grave and think of him, but she was always quiet in her memories, quiet in all her years that she had forgotten her lips, her eyes, her embrace. But for thee I create not the heaven from my flesh. She shuddered and throbbed, and waters of anger and want rose from the leaden deep; and she wept, fingers clenching in the mud to uproot the Lilies in thoughtless motions borne of sorrow.
And it bled between her thighs, a stabbed animal clad in white. She reached between her legs, and her fingers came away red—blood of ripe maidens. The damp of the night went into her bones, yet a primal sensation had risen from the core for her pleasures. "It's all your fault—all your fault!" Hinata said with mad conviction, her eyes raw, fixed to the gravestone. "I-I won't do it anymore—not for you! Never for you!"
Eager, her hand slipped back between her dimpled thighs, and her finger went deep inside to unfurl her flesh's cravings. Her eyes fluttered and saw chakra particles become apparent like a revelation, bright in the dark; and in their midst she thought of him, her, and cast forth, into the winds, her dread, sighing . . .
# # # # # #
Nomura stood in his ceremonial clothes. Fog floated over the mounds in curling waves at his feet. His beautiful attire flowed in the breeze that blew inwards to the graves in whispers. He was tall, his figure commanding and graceful. Behind him, high up in the night's sky, was the waning luminary, and it made gleam his accoutrements, upon which he had invested care and regard.
He stood quiet, a smile in his eyes, as he looked at the boy, now a man, who stood in front of him, silent like his father's grave but full of treachery that he had never enjoyed. For some moments, he lent his ears to Nature's steady tongues, which he had known like the changing tongues of Men.
"A mystery that you are the one to find another sign of Leaf's treachery," Nomura spoke, his mouth smiling. "You always surprise me, young Itachi."
Itachi did not speak, his countenance a white mask like always. Signs of night dropped heavily along his right cheek, but he appeared unfazed by the dark that dwelt in his breast like a crafty companion of years.
Nomura's gaze wandered to the right, and his smile grew. "Some of the names have faded away. Their families weep for them . . . they do not want the dead to remain without a name," he spoke and leant forward to gaze upon an old gravestone with carvings that had faded away after many storms. "You would agree that these are . . . sentiments of the living. Some of them want to forget, and some want to do nothing but let the dead live on." He reached down and felt the carvings with his hand as though he was lost in thoughts from the past.
"Madness," Nomura spoke softly, straightened his back, stood tall and dignified. Fog obscured the graves and climbed the gravestones, but Itachi stood tall in the midst of nature's tricks, a hideous shadow of dread that floated behind him; and in all outward semblance, he possessed the ghostly visage of his father that mocked Nomura even after his death.
"You look much like your father, yet you scarcely possess the benign nature he had," he spoke, eyes fixed with an expression of deep thought on Itachi. "What a shame, for he was a man loved by all . . . his people. You could have been a man like he, yet you chose to become something else—truly a tragedy that you are but an image of him, nothing more."
With a sudden movement, as if disturbed by a menacing thought, Nomura's eyes searched for a gravestone amidst the trees and fog. His Sharingan appeared to guide him to his destination: a grave by the tree. The hard earth broke the sounds of his steps as he walked to the gravestone jutting out of the ground, with a few bright flowers nodding along the stone-grave.
Nomura settled himself down on the ground and rested his back against the tree. Then he spoke again, his voice rising above wind's murmurings, "my darling sister lies quiet in her stone-crib," he paused, and his breath came thick. "She does not speak. I cannot forgive the man who ended her life."
And still Itachi said nothing. His eyes fixed on the moon that was half-hidden behind the clouds. Storms came and went—autumn was a dreadful season. The path that led to this graveyard from the Uchiha Village had worn away, but he had little desire in his heart to mend it . . .
"I heard dreadful screams as I passed by your house," Nomura spoke calmly, and his voice broke on the stillness that surrounded the graves. "You cause that boy so much pain. You haunt him. You have always been cruel and cold to the boy, and one day, your nature will be the death of him.
"Then you will weep tears of blood in abundance—as I have, but your Mangekyō will not morph into something you would desire . . . a compensation for your terrible loss. Remember my words."
Then, struck by a nameless emotion in the heart, Itachi walked away, shadows succouring him back home, sounds of charms beckoning him from a grave behind him; and as he walked further away from his father's grave, he was benighted in the night . . .
"Remember my words, child," a voice spoke, and he opened his eyes to a gloomy room. She sat by him on the matted floor, a tea-cup in her aged hands. Rao did not have a smile on her lips tonight.
Itachi did not say a word. He looked down at the scroll that lay open on the low table. There was a brush in the ink-bottle, but he had not taken it out: the scroll was blank. He picked up the tea-cup from the table and took a sip. It was sweetened in a way he liked.
Rao reached out and brushed away the wrinkles on his haori, which was of the purest white. Then she brushed away the long black hair that lay over his shoulder; her shining eyes gazed at him from her face that filled with love—and more love; but he did not look back at her, his eyes focused on the dark near him.
"You should place more barriers on the door," Rao spoke and placed the cup down on the table; the tea had gone cold in her hands. "People will talk. I do not want anyone to cause you more distress."
He breathed in deeply, his eyes wandering the room: it was dark, and shadows filled the scroll-cabinets and stood menacing behind the partition screen; a steady, bright light, yellow in shade, spread out from the lantern on the table, but it was not enough to illuminate his surroundings.
At length he spoke, his voice heavy in a manner that lacked softness, "it will make the room oppressive for him. He might grow ill, and I do not want that for him when he is weak. It is fine the way it is—I care not."
"Itachi, child, you—"
"It is fine," he cut across her in a tone of finality, his eyes hard as he looked at her, and she fell silent; and he looked away again into the dark, a side of his white face cast in shadows.
The hearth in his room had gone grave-cold, yet he had not bothered to kindle it again. Her toes and hands were cold. In the light, his form was erect, and his face filled with quiet storms she did not know how to assuage; and though his countenance was cool, he had a temper tonight, and she had not seen this side of him in so long.
In the damp and moisture of autumn nights, when he was but a babe, she used to take him into her lap and put him to sleep by the hot sunken-fireplace. The pot would whistle above the low flames that possessed a solidity of heat; and his lashes would flutter in distress as he would become aware of the sounds in his sleep.
And she took his little hand and pressed it in love, and put her lips to his little red ones that smiled in a dream. Then a lullaby of mountain-nuns poured from her lips that broke on the languor of air like music; and she would lift him into her breast and feel his breaths on her lips, in her ear.
Now, a firm expression was on his lips, and his language breathed of his heart. She did not know how to make him happy; so she placed her hand over his and felt a chill in his flesh, but she did not let go.
"Kiku—" she stopped and bent her head, "—she is no more."
Rao raised her eyes and saw a little surprise pass over his face. Then calm returned to his countenance, and he appeared in control again. He placed the cup down by the scroll, looked back at her again. "When?" he asked, his voice cooler now.
"Last evening," she spoke and her eyes dropped beneath his strange gaze. "They want to bury her in our family graveyard—arrange a funeral for the poor girl."
Itachi turned his face into the dark, as if to hide it from her. Then he half-turned to her and spoke, his voice deep-toned in its inflections, "she did not give birth to Sasuke's son. She is not family. Sasuke will never agree to this. He holds that place dear—a sacred abode of the dead in his eyes.
"He will hound me for this . . . foolish girl." He quietly half-placed his hand on his brow.
"They will create a fuss," Rao spoke and clasped her hands on her bosom as if in prayer, her countenance radiant with love and sorrow. "You must let them have a small place. I do not want more of this for you. It breaks my heart."
Yet he looked to her, and his face was set in grim calm she saw very often these days—and nights. "Let them," he spoke, his expression unchanging. "They lied about many things and she reaped the reward in their place. I had warned them of this, but they were greedy.
"I will not have them corner me through this. Tell them to leave their home for the other village without a whisper and bury her in the Clan's graveyard—or there will be consequences for killing their daughter."
"But the other girls—they might . . ." Rao's voice trailed off at the look in his eyes—yes, he had a terrible temper tonight!
"Do you want Sasuke to remain childless—without a companion?" Itachi asked, his brow frowning in cool anger only he could exhibit, with careless ease. "I do not want that for him. I want to see him happy—with a family of his own. He does not deserve their ire, and I will not allow them to exhibit it any longer."
"What will you tell the Clan, child?" Rao asked, her expression that of bewilderment in the light, her grey hair gleaming cold at the deeply-grooved brow. "This never would have happened had you not forced the girl upon him. I warned you, but you did not listen.
"You should have gone near Izumi, fulfilled your duty—but you did not. And Sasuke might never wake from this—this state. What will you do if he does not? You must give this clan an heir. You must. It is your duty!" She breathed heavily and beheld a wrathful gleam in his eyes that turned red—in fury.
Itachi's fingers twitched on his thighs, and a light, quick breath came from his lips that showed a red hue. "How could you speak of such a cruel, hurtful thing?" Itachi whispered; light dimmed, and his face appeared hazy in her gaze. The shadow went across his cheeks like water, but he chose not to look at her.
"Itachi, my child, you must!" Rao spoke, persistent, and laid back all the hair on his neck.
He sat in silence for a few moments, his breathing a little deep; and she gazed at the dreamy fury that melted into a deep shade in his eyes. At last, he spoke, and his voice was like a quiet stillness to her ears: "You should return to your house. It is cold her. You might grow ill. I am not around, and Sasuke is in no state to look after you. The servants can be neglectful.
"Take Izumi with you. I will call upon her when Sasuke recovers. I do not wish to see her for now." Then he was so quiet, eyes slumbering again; but a cold, cold expression had changed his countenance, made it sinister and unpleasant.
Rao's eyes brightened into a smile and thick tears flowed faster down her cheeks. She leant up close and kissed his neck and lips, her hand soft on his cheek. She did not say another word and left the room and him in the dark . . .
# # # # # #
EN: 'Shira Bikuni (the white nun)' is another name for 'Yao Bikuni'. They used to spread teachings concerning the "Blood Pool Hell" in the Jizō-hall. Refer to the End-Notes in the second chapter, She Loves Me; She loves me Not, for additional information.
For the Blood Pool Hell, you'll have to scour the internet for some information. I've come across some material, but it isn't that adequate as the concept of afterlife in Japan's folklore tradition is fairly complex; however, you'll have no difficulty in finding some themes (presented in a very simplified fashion).
Yatagarasu, the giant eight-lengths crow, was sent by the heavenly deities to guide the future first emperor, Jimmu Tenno, on his way from Kumano to Yamato.
Higanbana is species of spider lily that grows in Japan. It has quite a few names.