Chapter Sixty-Seven: A Lonely Lover
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Permanent thy night, let the moon come
In the kingdom of thy gaze, the child swum
His night, this night, was inlaid with shades strange: there was a deep purple along the horizon's arch, a smoke of the darkest shade that filled its extremities, like slips of fish in the main. A tumult of silence in the ebb of tides, shattered in the room by the child's wails.
He clung to his breast, wailing, sounds thrumming through his body like a horrific tune. At last, unable to withstand it any longer, he sat up, drew the child into his arms, and patted his head and back, softly . . . yet he would not stop weeping. He caught "can't see", "Nii-San", and "hurts" between great sobs that broke his voice that hiccupped in and out in the most terrible manner. The noises lanced through his heart in the dark room where the fire in the hearth had gone cold.
He sat like this for so long, with the child that trembled and wept in hysterics in his arms, face buried into his breast as though he searched his mother's teat for comfort, hands grasping his nightshirt in powerful fists. Moments passed by and the dark diluted into a lighter shade round the white globe in the sky. Then moonlight came and roamed in his room through the night, and by that time, the child had exhausted himself completely.
He had not spoken a word of comfort to mollify the child's distress: he never listened to him in that state; so he always let him unleash a tempest of sobs and shaky words that made a tremble shake his body like the newest sapling of Lily, which stayed uncertain in autumn's breeze and he stayed uncertain in emotion's storm—zephyr from the night, so full of autumn's love that flowed into his spirit.
The child wrapped his plump arms around his neck and wept with excessive severity, as though he had located a new strength in his lungs and vocal cords. The babe was in pain . . . and he did not know what to do. There was no medicine, no Kinjutsu to lessen the ache that flared in his unseeing eyes, from the truth and illusions he had sowed into the soil of his dreams.
He had grown weary of these nightly episodes: they drained him, made him feel helpless, caused him great grief. His compeer had gone and drowned himself in death's waters, but he was left behind to pacify a child's burden, which was greater than a man's. His hand reached up, fingers tangling in the child's clammy and matted hair, and he noticed that he had developed a fever again: his skin burnt like fire under his fingers that carried winter's bits at their tips.
"Sasuke?" he asked softly, his voice lingering between the sobs that came weaker from the child's lips; his small lungs could only work for so long—he had no energy to draw great breaths and put them to good use. There was no answer, just a repeat of half-spoken words Itachi could not even understand anymore; so he laid him down upon his lap, and immediately, Sasuke pressed his palms into his eyes and grimaced and emitted a string of terror-filled screams that were broken now, his heels digging into Itachi's thigh, back bowing as he jumped, eyes expelling little spurts of red burdens that floated as vivid strings down his pretty cheeks; he could not tell the blush apart from the red, lenified by translucent tears that . . . flowed, endlessly.
He beheld the child writhing and weeping in pain for some more moments that weighed heavier and heavier on his spirit, which rallied against his coming decision, and he did not have it in him any longer to watch him in this state that made his heart ache so much; so he, with a heart heavy, picked up a cup of water from the low-table, wounded his finger with the nail of his thumb, and dropped a single drop of his intoxicating blood into the water. The poisons still persisted in his blood and spirit (all for the better); and he gifted this corruption to the babe's spirit, in a vain attempt to ease his own suffering and that of the child's.
The drop spread and faded quickly in his gaze. Then he placed his hand under Sasuke's nape and helped him drink it; and, oh, he drank it with such relish, smacking his lips together as though it was honeyed milk, quieting down like a Lily when it grew motionless in the wake of passing breeze. It had left its breaths on his lips that smiled in love . . .
He viewed his child's calming countenance and breaths; then he kissed his head and placed his hand over his eyes; and Sasuke, in that sweet repose, was content. The pained expression slowly melted away, and a smile, a lovely smile, adorned the red bow of the child's lips that he could not help himself from kissing his brow again.
"See? If you close your eyes, it's also dark," he said in a boy's softer voice, happier than the child, and told Sasuke a story he loved to hear, often: "in the lands to the west, Indra inherited the Sage's legacy. It was the place where the God-Tree sprouted, and a flower bloomed that possessed the first Sharingan. You remember that I showed you a scroll about this, don't you?" He smiled, and the child smiled, too, in sleep, his lips radiant and soft like roses, a shade deeper than Higanbana.
"The Bijū-daemons were attracted to that place, and they often gathered there, bewitched, and many hosts died there, too . . . " and whilst he spoke, moonlight took a flight and spread its flurrying garment across this room—for many years it had graced his room's walls in silence that he did not think he had ever known it to leave him be.
Now, the child's head lay in his lap, and he, in the flower of his youth, was no less content in the pleasure-abounding deep of his dreams. His Genjutsu-casting eye was open, and Itachi peered into the changing shade of his eye with much curiosity. His lips moved and he continued the tale Sasuke loved to hear in his childhood: " . . . there, earth's breaths rose from the fields and he created the means to harness them. It was in his blood . . . this power.
"He sowed the fields with his blood and reaped the reward at autumn's peak, its equinox. During the great battle, earth answered him with chakra breaths, and he turned the tides, drove his foes out, and created our Clan there . . ."
Sasuke emitted a soft breath as though he could hear his stories in his sleep; and at this natural gesture, chakra particles rose about him. They dripped from the earth, as though sky held the pull this time, and floated in the air like many shiny fingerlings.
Then Itachi looked down again, and this time, he plunged into the ether endless, trapped in the small world, of the little one's eyes. When his feet touched the rippling waters in Sasuke's Sharingan, memories rose, nourished by what his eyes saw, what his heart felt, what his spirit knew—a mind's world was a toy, and Man was its architect, yet he was the architect of Sasuke's dreams, maker of ephialtes that haunted him, always.
There, in the shallow water, his child's bones, flesh, blood trembled. His crows had murdered him last time; so he knelt down and picked him up . . . bone by bone, flesh by flesh, blood by blood, till he had the means to make him whole again in the way he wanted.
A red cord came from his belly, hooked into the remains he had fished out from the water, which was more clear now, and formed a fluttering membrane round the bleeding bits: little fingers, tiny toes, and itsy-bitsy eyes, heart, and lungs—he was in pretty pieces, flowing from the older one's fingers like womb's water; veins sprung from the membrane and burrowed into the fleshes that were in ruin. The world surrounding him during this blessed conception was in autumn!
He sat like this for so, so long, living through the moments that passed as slowly as seasons in this world; and he watched as defined bits melted away into molten flesh, a less-defined form, and merged to become a single clump that put out vibrations to let him know that it was alive and germinating—right there in his arms. The cord took from him his spirit and burgeoned roots that poured it into the thing that was the root of his hallowed, perfervid love . . .
The clump, as nights turned into day and back again, grew out limbs and fine features formed on its tiny face. Then it kicked in the water where it was immortal, restless to come out, and when summer's balmy wind simmered on Itachi's back, his pained breaths went into the air's grave. The membrane trembled in his hands and a terrible, terrible ache spread inside his belly that possessed . . . nothing to hold a child—Nature had taken his right to birth this child. It was a sorrowful fate that left him vacant there, but he had accepted it (long ago).
The caul ruptured; and a viscous mixture of water and blood went down his arms that trembled with an unseen exertion, his breaths coming fast and heavy, sweat pouring from his body in clear streams, skin blushing on the cheeks. Then a sudden calm impregnated his system, as if something had come to pass, and he expelled a solid and long breath of relief.
He ripped away the caul's remains, and all that was left in his arms now was a dead babe without breaths. A soft rain descended and washed away the signs of birth from the babe's body that was still like a stone, quiet like a toy; so, compelled by unending adoration, he bent his head down and touched the little petal mouth with his lips and bestowed the sleeping body with his breath! The warm sigh, from Lord's lips, percolated through its body and soul, and in a moment, he saw trembles travelling through the tiny fingers; then, like a little toy, the babe opened his eyes and beheld the white face of his mother, his brother, his father . . . he did not know what this thing was, which held him in its arms, and he became so afraid.
He wanted to speak, but he did not have the tongue, so he emitted a sputtering cry in little coughs, his lungs working with full force to voice his displeasure: he was hungry. Answering his pleas, the big thing rose and ripped away a part of its garment to reveal a flat-teat. His eyes saw a white pearl dancing upon the pebbled tip; and his tongue peeked out by Nature's design and his mouth closed around the nipple and his eyes closed in contentment as milk filled his mouth in spurts—it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, the most delicious thing a Man would ever taste as a new mortal. Oh, so sweet, so lovely that he relished it with all the love his little heart allowed, filling his belly with all the love his mother gave. . . he could still taste the sweetness of mother's milk on his tongue, here in his mind, after all this time. What a strange place . . . ?
The cord had fallen away, and he had become the Bride of Time, with Sasuke in his arms, whilst he walked to the shores of the babe's endless dreams. Sasuke had sprung to birth again from his Lord's womb, belly full of mother's milk, breast calm, eyes watching his mother's eyes; and this time, his lips moved and a heavy voice, which Sasuke assumed to be his mother's, poured from his lips: "you chased the moths that floated to the Purple Lilies. Is that not true?" his mother said, and Sasuke took in a deep, deep breath, emitted a profound exhalation, and stuck his small pink fingers into his mouth. His mother smiled at the innocent gesture.
"Sakura did nothing with the pellets, you sweet child," his mother spoke again whilst he suckled on his fingers, enjoying the lingering taste of milk that coated his lips. His mother's smile had deepened; and he had never seen a thing as beautiful as his mother: he loved her beauty and her milk and he saw his whole world in her eyes. With this realisation, he took the fingers out of his mouth with a pop and emitted cooing sounds that said that he loved her with all his heart, all the purity it could afford him.
There were teeth in his mother's smile and she bent down and kissed his lips and her black hair slid like silk against her white throat that fascinated him so; so, to satisfy his curiosity, he reached out a plump and uncertain hand, grabbed hold of the strands, and took them into his mouth. The black things did not have any particular taste . . . but they, unlike her rich milk, possessed a strange texture. This would do! he thought happily, cooing again.
She let out a deep and short sound of amusement and the bulging projection at her throat moved in rhythm with her breath. What was that protruding thing? he thought, nearly beside himself with excitement! His mother was beautiful and peculiar; but he had no time to think and investigate, for he felt sleepy. Soon, the world shrank to a single point in his eyes, and he saw his mother's, his beautiful mother's, face fade slowly like smoke in his vision, her smile lovely in the light that danced across her lips like faeries—a smile that was vernal on her winter-face. He let out a weak sound of protest, for he wanted to know his mother more, but her milk sloshed in his belly, and for the time being, he was content . . . so he slept before he could hear Danzō speak in glimpses of Minato's house, before he could hear Suigetsu (was he Suigetsu?) tell him to run away, before he went hurtling into the fields of Lilies, with an agitated heart. Everything vanished in his mind; his mother's words were strong, and he loved her, and he believed her, always. And what were lies to a babe? Just words of love!
The child cooed now, in a deep sleep, his lips smiling in innocence, radiating his features that were the most profound exhibition of beauty that he would ever see; and he had loved him then, and he had loved him now, and he had loved him always, in the ocean that filled his world with thoughts, wishes, passions. Outside this world, everything moved in autumn, yet in here, it was spring for his heart.
Then he heard a knock in the world outside, and he looked on his right and left the child sleeping on the shore of memories that were . . . new for him now, again, then. He retreated, and the bright world went into the dark and merged with it and became night in his room. Sasuke was sleeping, and Itachi moved his hand and closed his Genjutsu-casting eye.
"Come in, Karin," Itachi spoke, and took a lock of Sasuke's hair between his fingers and observed it.
Karin came into the room, her feet hesitant. She closed the door behind her and stood by the tall set of drawers in obedience. The room was plunged in a deep grey shade, but there was light that radiated about Itachi and Sasuke, from the hearth. The door to the garden was open, and moonlight floated into the room in clear shafts and illuminated Itachi's and Sasuke's figures: the older one was dressed in his Anbu uniform.
"Sit down," he spoke, still busy with Sasuke's hair, and Karin obeyed. She took three trembling steps and sat down on the cushion. It was warm here in a comforting manner.
"He never cuts his hairs in the right manner," Itachi spoke in a tone as though he was speaking to himself. "Look, how rough they have become. Uneven, unkempt, unruly . . . " Then he pressed Sasuke's wild hair down with one hand. Karin did not know what to make of it, so she said nothing. The man was very strange . . .
"Where is Suigetsu?" he asked and looked out to the garden that was dark in the night, his fingers resting against Sasuke's temple.
"H-He—" she stopped and cleared her throat, "—he's waiting with Jūgo where you asked him to."
At this, Itachi looked at her, and her heart stopped at the sight of intensity contained in his eyes. She could not sense what it was, but his eyes, and the passion contained in them, terrified her spirit.
"And suddenly he has grown so obedient," he spoke in a way as if this was a question, and a smile blossomed on his lips showing a hue that resembled . . . the sweeter shade of spring's bride, which was spread, on the corpse-white of his beautiful face. He was a terrifying man.
She did not say anything, her eyes on Sasuke's face, and she noticed that he looked calmer, tamer than before, in sleep. Did Itachi . . . do something to him? She wanted to ask, words hanging like strung corpses from her tongue, but she did not possess the bravery and courage to challenge the older one in the night of his domain.
"I want you to do something," he spoke, and she sat upright with a half-bounce, and moved a little to pull out a little slip of paper from under the lantern, which was not lit. "It is a daemonic-essence Fuin-Jutsu seal. A base-seal."
Itachi turned a little to her, holding the slip between his fingers as delicately as he held his blades, and prompted her to take it from him. She bent forward, still too hesitant to go anywhere near him despite Sasuke's presence (but he was asleep, and she was a lonely lover whilst he slept, all innocent to her worries), and snatched it from his fingers with a jerky movement. The symbol shocked her, and she spoke before she could stop her mouth: "But this—this is h-high—"
"High treason?" Itachi interrupted her speech softly, his features cool. "I am aware. I want you make a replica of it, with Sasuke's chakra as the root. The Uchiha chakra is at its peak in these nights when the moon is full and high. The seal will mature quickly—like the one on your forehead." His eyes shrank and turned red.
"It will protect his mind from intrusions . . . even if I am the aggressor," he spoke, and this shocked her even more, and unlike his trained expression, her countenance betrayed her too soon, and he smiled at the honesty of her features.
"Are your surprised by my honesty?" he asked, and the chill in his voice went straight through the core of her fear that released waves of tiny trembles in her limbs. "Do you believe this to be so easy? You can tell the child what I told you, word for word, yet it will not change a thing . . . for you.
"O', you are a naïve girl. You assume that things would proceed on with ease, but life is uncertain. You can put yours in the tightest fist of your hand, but what of others? You can only put so much inside your fist . . . " and then he said nothing, but when his words ended on a whisper, her spirit was a place that had taken all of her fear into its substance; and now it mirrored the fears that resided in her mortal frame since her conception.
"Get it done," he commanded and carefully settled Sasuke's head on the futon and left the room with a horrific aura about him; and when she could sense his presence in the house no longer, she let out a little moan of anguish . . .
Night was still young and dark, like his heart, and was still mysterious and direful, like his spirit, and was still beautiful and perfect, like he was. She looked at him, his application-scroll in her hand, and she did not know how to answer him. He was quiet and threatening—a combination that was his manner of conduct.
"The Daimyō's councilman would come soon, and you want a leave now—why?" Tsunade asked, looking at Itachi's eyes that set off vibrations in her heart. She had really begun to resent him; but she resented Danzō more. Oh, how hard life could be sometimes . . .
"It is a personal matter, and I have not taken a leave in so long. It is only fair," Itachi spoke in a voice that did not hide his authoritative demeanour all that well. Kami, she really abhorred his bearing that blurred the lines between threatening, cunning, and passionate in diabolical ways.
"Fair," she repeated in annoyance, and an angry smile diffused into blotchy colours across her cheeks. She did not look to him, for he always looked predatory in the night's darkness, and took out the wooden-pen from the ink bottle; then she scribbled a few lines that accepted his request. When she was done, she put the pen back into the bottle and let the ink dry on the scroll. The silence in the room made her uneasy . . .
"You won't be able to shield Sasuke forever," she began and reached for the sake cup to calm her nerves. "The councilman won't back down without an inquiry. I wanted you to know that—"
"Who created the tunnels around the village?" he waylaid her, quite suddenly, and surprise was apparent on her face in the full-moon's light. She took a hasty sip, a hue concentrating across her cheeks in a clearer red shade.
"They were built in the war-time, after Tobirama-Sama's era—right about the time Root was created," she spoke, took two noisy sips, and put the cup down. "Why do you ask?" And he smiled at her question.
"No particular reason," he almost whispered, his eyes on the scroll. "The ink has dried." She looked down at his comment and licked her lips to savour the taste of sake, a thoughtless action.
She rolled up the scroll and held it out to him. He took it from her hand, a question apparent on his lips. "Did Sakura learn Sensing to keep a track of Yamato's pellets?" he asked and took the scroll from her hand.
"No," she said deeply, and an angry young beauty shone through in the silver light by the grace of Kami—and her talents. He did not say anything, but answered with a silent smile and left the room and her heart, vibrating with a new intensity . . .
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When morning rose, Izumi decided that she would stay with Rao for tonight. She did not want to see him—for now. She was quite tender between the legs, and albeit that tight channel ached for him to fill her up, she was more thoughtful and reasonable than her genitals . . .
She was a lonely lover who did not understand him: he smelt strange, but sweet; he behaved coldly, but sweetly; his manner was the harshest, but sweetest. At least, that was what she believed when they were joined together during mating.
She had gone to his house with Rao's missives, and he had coaxed her (without words!), with his impassioned eyes, to lay with him—several times a day. After the fifth (?) time, Izumi did not think she had it in her to feed her want anymore; so she told him that she had to leave, and to her immense surprise, he said nothing to stop her. What sort of man was he?
She was a half-Uchiha—her mother was of noble birth—from her father's side, and she could sense his chakra roaring in his body during the act. Last time, he had laid her prone on the futon, parted her thighs a bit with a lazy movement of his hands, which were a bit hotter than usual, and penetrated her from behind. He had not bothered to remove a thing from her body—just the undergarment she wore. The want of a deep conjoining made him impatient, she assumed.
Her lower body rocked with his strokes, and she felt . . . so pleased at their union that the thoughts of love always left her mind with the trembles he excited in her. A smile appeared and retreated about her lips, and her vision focused on the vein that swelled purple in his wrist.
She did not make much of it, mewling as her release was imminent; and when she experienced signs of his impending ejaculation, she did not sense his chakra, at all. And that . . . filled her with sadness again. He had told her that this pleasure was a temporary food for the body, not for the spirit; and she did not know how to compel him to rethink this matter.
He swayed between controlled cool, harsh, and hot passions by turns, and she did not understand how to conquer him and make him hers. She grimaced, sitting by Rao side in the library: it was smaller than the one in Itachi's house, but his house was bigger than this one, after all.
The coals pop-pop-popped in the hearth, but her focused thoughts went to him again: He was so beautiful, and the weight of his body on hers was lovely; his presence inside her body, lovelier; he smelt like the sweetest of perfumes when he mated with her, released sweat that possessed a concentrated smell of . . . something that was enticing; his eyes cradled microscopic mottles of a sublime shade from dusk, almost purple; and where his long throat merged organically with the shoulder, his skin shook in the subtlest of ways, tiny veins springing up with the hues that possessed his eyes like Devil's spirits . . .
She closed her eyes and remembered him some more: why did he not love her? A frown invaded her brow and stayed there this time. Sasuke . . . he was recovering and her beloved was pulling away from her. She felt helpless, very helpless . . .
"Itachi-Sama doesn't want an heir?" she asked, not caring of etiquettes this time.
Rao closed the book and looked at her and her temper. She smiled. "Itachi expects Sasuke, his son, to recover," Rao spoke and picked up another book from the cabinet. "He does not want anyone else to have his legacy, but he will change—he has to." Then she said nothing, and Izumi grew even sadder than before . . .
Outside, wind rose with the dipping sun. This would be a colder night. The horizon had turned a soft red, and mountains appeared taller and menacing in the dark that came from their midst: the valley of Lilies must have been enveloped in a make-believe night.
"Young Elders are growing restless about that Toruné business—probably Kiryū, and you are leaving?" Nomura asked, and he spoke as firmly and deeply as always, his countenance set in an expression that caused Itachi to feel . . . minor irritation.
"A personal matter. You need not worry yourself," Itachi answered, and his gaze went back to the horizon again that was vivid like a Tayū's kimono now—deep red and beautiful.
"You have grown insouciant in conduct—a welcoming change," he spoke, and a smile went across his sober face. "I will watch over Sasuke whilst you are gone." He stood up, and his garments unfurled like the smooth movements of crystal clear waves.
"Sasuke is protected. You should worry about your—"
"Oh, hush, you rude boy. Time has taught you to train your tongue, yet it has taught you no manners," Nomura cut across him, and his mouth moved harshly as though he desired to scold him more, but he softened his face. "I am fond of Sasuke. Such a poor boy—left to survive at your whims. You never let him live."
Nomura's gazed probed his face, and it was cooler than he remembered. When Itachi said nothing, he continued: "you hide your worries behind this mask—so well that it betrays you. You would not have seen that you were in the wrong had it not been for the boy. His absence terrifies you. Otherwise, you are as cold as winter to the boy you claimed to love so much."
"I was never in the wrong," Itachi spoke and stood up, meeting Nomura's gaze with as much severity as he could manage, but Nomura had more to spare. He smiled, a meaningful smile that lacked forgiveness, and matched Itachi's cooled wrath.
"You will cause his death . . . always a slave to another's cause. O', you pitiful little boy," and with that, he left the sitting room. Itachi really resented this man . . .
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Night came faster than he had hoped, but Karin's progress with the seal surprised him, in a pleasant manner. "You made it so soon—how?" Itachi asked, and she smiled weakly: she had lost quite a bit of her girl-ish enthusiasm since yesterday.
"It's something that shouldn't concern you," she said, faking a brave voice—a child's imitation of an adult.
"Oh, a secret between children?" he spoke, amusement filling his voice. He did not press her anymore on the matter and gestured her to take her leave.
He sat in silence by his sleeping brother's side and watched as the seal matured and faded away in his red vision. Hours went by, and he could not see it rippling like the slimy remains of a caul upon Sasuke's face anymore. He looked at the sky and the moon that beckoned his thoughts to come forth: the essence was placed under Minato's care—this was not a secret—but he never knew that Danzō's influence made Minato a Hokage and Hiashi, his advisor. This matter was strange . . . what did Danzō accomplish with the Byakugans and the payment? Did Minato have something to do with the Tulip Squad as Sasuke was interested in the Mist affair?
He looked down at Sasuke and stroked his hair. "You wild, disobedient child. What games have you been playing?" he asked, but Sasuke did not answer. He had not probed his mind too deeply: memories were fragile, delicate, connected like crisscrossing webs in the mind; one wrong pull would have shattered Sasuke's mind, body, spirit; and he did not have the heart to commit such an unforgivable Sin.
"I will ask Tanaka to cut your hair . . . the right way," he spoke, bent down, pressed a kiss to his brow, and then he left his room and Sasuke inside the comforting glow from the fireplace. He did not want to leave, but he had to. He had no choice . . .
He went to Sasuke's room one last time to check upon Kirin: it was sleeping in its prison, too. When he stepped outside, a cold wind and Kai greeted him. He had the same unassuming expression printed on his face, though he had more than questions on his person this time—a missive with a Higanbana symbol.
Itachi took it from his hand, but the contents displeased him, greatly. He burnt the letter with a pronounced frown on his face. It took him a good moment to control his temper. He turned to Kai when Serizawa came into his vision from the left. It was time to leave.
"I have instructed Tanaka and Yuu to watch over Sasuke. I advise you to do the same. Do not disappoint me like last time," Itachi spoke, and lingering traces of colour gathered into a blush on Kai's cheeks. "Let Nomura come by if he wishes. He is a bothersome man."
Kai nodded. "Where are you going—when will you return?" he asked, with great concern, and a cold expression caused the colour to fly from Itachi's face; his questions did not please him.
"You ask many questions," Itachi spoke, and his countenance showed a customary, deep-seated indifference that always wounded Kai's pride and heart. He did not speak anymore, and left with Serizawa in silence. The night was cold, like Itachi, always . . .
When the night deepened in the cradle of dark's arms, enticed by its vulgar flesh, a man stole into Sasuke's room. He had made sure that Sasuke was alone. Like a spectre who had come to haunt the child's dreams, he came to liberate the older one of his burdens.
The spectre sat down and opened the Genjutsu-eye, but the child, even in his dreams, was wary. He knew that this touch was foreign (this was not his mother with a protruding thing at her throat!); so he fidgeted and struggled, but his sleep was too deep to grant him liberation into the land of consciousness; and that prompted the man to press his knee into his ribs in an attempt to still him. He had to see the thoughts of this wicked, wicked boy!
Yet the child, always naughty, did not let him; so he pressed harder and went into the dark of Sasuke's mind, his Sharingan guiding him to steal the child's precious memories, that was closed to him. Then he heard a crack—a loud one! The shadow backed away. The red lantern, which was lit now, had toppled over beside the wild child's face.
"Fuck!" he hissed, his hands going to his head to fist his hair in bunches, his eyes darting about the room. Had the crow seen this sin? He trembled at the thought of this exhibitionism that he was dancing in the crow's gaze, and, as a consequence, a delicious aura enveloped his loins like the velvet mouth he dreamt of.
"Fuck!" he hissed again, for in his struggle, he had broken two of the child's ribs; and an expression of ache was contorting the boy's countenance with haste now. What a naughty child—he never listened! He grabbed the child's neck, in half a mind to crack his throat in two and end him—here . . . now!
But then he saw the way the lantern lay by the boy's cheek, all sweaty in the light, and the scrim fell from before the empire of his heart and his hand retreated. In his heart, he had built a home borne from lust's gaze, from love's haze. He could not dream beneath sleep's callous hands, so he submerged his hands into this night . . . that stirred the waters of his river to come forth, all gushing, from the crown.
Winter's moon had appeared in the spectre's gaze, and he saw him in the younger one's countenance, in the dark's trick that enticed his flesh so much—that it became unbearable. He did not want to speak the crow's name, but his hunger compelled him to betray his honour, ruin it in ways only he knew.
"I-Itachi-Sama—" he stopped, clamping his lips together to seal his heart's words that shamed him. His trembling fingers brushed across the wet seam of the younger one's lips, and he saw the brow strain and the set of lips lengthen in cool indifference that was so like the older one's visage . . . that he was fooled! His heart elated beyond measure, sung beyond the undulations of this air.
A pusillanimous heart, a lonely lover, he had ruined it in sleep, and he ruined it in waking. It bent his body against his reason, and his breaths went in gasps from his lips, stirring the younger one in sleep, hot like puffs of steam from a tempered blade. Then, right there upon the bow of the child's lips, he brushed an unchaste kiss. Creak-creak-crickety-creak, the house spoke, too, as if in admonishment, and the sounds penetrated his limbs in the most horrific manner. Oh, the sweetness of rose that stood like dews upon this child's lips was noisome: it repelled his senses that he backed away with a violent jerk, wiping his mouth clean of the filth that pervaded his senses fully.
Then he sprang to his feet and moved back and the mantle of illusion slipped away to reveal . . . Sasuke. He had made a mistake. His eyes, blooming like an intoxicated sky, released anger and expelled wish that was wound about his heated loins, and he fled out from the room with a heart broken . . .
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EN: The terms daemon and devil possess their own themes in my story, which take quite a few aspects from the "original" words, rather than what became of them in the later centuries (but they can allude to biblical themes at times—if the context allows for it); hence, be careful in this regard and don't take everything (like one really naïve and short-sighted and irresponsible guest-reviewer, who believed "nuns" to be restricted to Christianity only; they aren't) too literally, and don't automatically assume everything to be biblical in nature.
Here's a brief Etymology of the two very important words that spring up repeatedly in the story:
Demon: Daemon's an alternative spelling of demon, but it represents something else entirely, which technically didn't originate from theological mythos. Etymologically, the original word's taken from Latin and Greek (my word document doesn't recognize the Greek spelling, sadly) that means "divinity", "tutelary", and "genius"; however, in the usual East sense, it's from Latin daemonium, Greek diminutive, used in Septuagint and Vulgate in its Jewish sense of "god of the heathen" and "unclean spirit".
Devil: The term Devil isn't biblical in origin, either. The modern term devil's derived from the Anglo-Saxon deofol, which is rooted in Latin diabolus, which in turn has its roots in the Greek word (which my word document can't seem to recognize—again): it means "slanderer", "liar", or "a false accuser", along with its other minor variations that include "to slander", and "to throw across". This became the main foundation for the Christian Devil's "sense" that's talked of in the bible and popular media: "The Father of Lies".
There are some interesting phrases in this regard, as well. For instance, the phrase "foreign devil" appears to be a misunderstanding of Chinese yang-kiwei, ocean ghost, a name given to the Dutch sailors, whose fair hair and pale faces appeared ghostly to the Chinese. Similarly, "what the devil . . . " directly comes from French que dioble, which is a reference to a pagan deity that was believed to be a woman!
England converted to Christianity in 597, but Anglo-Saxon has many compounds, such as deofol craft for "witchcraft" or "devil worship", deofol seocnesse for "devil sickness" or "possession by the devil", and deofilisc, "devilish," all of which seem to be literal.