Chapter Sixty-Eight: A Child in the Cradle
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Night sibilant, existing in supplication, dancing to the moonchild's whims, beckoned him thither that was the core of his spirit, his heart. Here it converged, melded, blent into his world—a child in the cradle created from the smoke-arms of memories.
He opened his eyes and woke up into the world without colour, sapped of its nature in his mind; but there, right there, on the world's edge she stood, beautiful in the moon that had thrown down its umbilical cord that had gone into her belly, and she had become the progenitor of his world—forever, always.
He rose up, breaths passing from his lips as though they were his first, and stood in a field vast and white, as far as the eyes could see. Her kimono, vivid, rose and fell upon the breaths this world-womb had trapped inside its walls; a brush stroke, layers swept the canvas, spilling red from the underside, a painter's artistry.
He was in awe. In her arms lay his salvation; in her breast, his joy; so he ran into the fields, sure of foot, eager to press himself against her bosom and forget it all. The more he drew near, the more he saw, colour coming from the deep of her breast and womb: red, oh, so red, her joy and love—she bled with his love—arms extended towards him, hands cupped in prayer, a smile appearing on her mouth.
He did not care as the colour floated out from her and splattered on the swaying grass and granted them colour. The fields in his wake turned gaudy, showy with the love that came from his breast, enraptured by the sight of her in his eyes. He had not seen her in so long . . . yet she was not hazy here, no; clear and beautiful in the nexus of his mind, a morning dew that hung from the strings of his cobwebs, forever inert, forever lovely for him, a butterfly that had forgotten its flight in this grave that floated, a gossamer from the fabric of the . . . endlessness of this landscape. Anon, a paradox, this would come to an end with his last breath; and, here, the Lord's mother would stay, eternal, a haunting melody.
Yet that was not in his mind: she was in his mind. A morning dew? A red butterfly? Why did it matter? She was here, and now was what mattered. His feet charted their own course towards the red-streaked combers that rose from her kimono, a tumult of surges that broke from the banks of his dreams' river: she was a mirage that had merged with his hope and become real, so real.
He smiled, dimpling, watching as she went down on her knees to receive him into her arms. When he crashed against her breast, she pressed him into her heart, and a smell of sandalwood invaded his senses completely. It came from her hair, bone and skin, spirit; she was a perfume of sensations, a sublime faerie, and he was ensorcelled.
"Okā-San, where didyu go?" he asked and burrowed his face into her breast. He really could not feel the wetness of love she expelled from her bosom.
"I was right here, awaiting Itachi's return," she spoke in a voice soft, her speech more eloquent than he thought her capable of, her fingers going into his hair. "He has not come? I have been waiting . . . waiting . . . "
He breathed in deep and hard the scent from her body: it was soothing, enchanting, intoxicating, fumes of a mother's love. Then he grasped the flesh of her bosom through the fine fabric and sniffled. He loved her—was that not enough?
"Okā-San," he began, steadying his uncertain breaths, "you don't love me?" His heart had become violent in grief, a child's grief.
She let out a laugh so sweet that he could almost smell her breaths in her sounds. Oh, so sweet, this melody of his memories' love! "I love you, Sasuke," she said, girl-like like he remembered her, and pressed him harder into her breast. His eyes fluttered close, and he listened to the music from her heart that sung for him and him only. She was . . . alive? Of course she was! He frowned. He had become naughty. He had to control his wayward thoughts.
Little boy child, your heart grows wild! she whispered, running her fingers across his rosy cheeks. Then she took out a red pin-wheel from her sleeve, and his heart grew sadder at the sight of it: she made them for Itachi, often. It spun in the windless wind, colours floating from its edges, steeping the world of black and white tints in a hue of red sasanqua.
"Okā-San, I caught one for you!" he exclaimed and produced an Autumn Moth from his pocket.
Fear danced through her expression, and she dropped the pinwheel from her hand, her hand going to her bosom. "Sasuke!" she gasped, frightened. "You know they frighten me. Why do you frighten your mother?" And her eyes grew misty, and she settled her other hand on her bosom, too, weeping, and tears dressed her eyes, shining.
"I—sorry—" Sasuke mumbled, let go of the moth that fluttered in the wind with a strange power, and settled himself on her lap.
"I forgive you!" she said, grief vanishing from her ruddy face in suddenness, and smiled, and the horizon was blushing behind her; it was drunk on the shades from her flesh. Then she sang, and her songs vibrated in the air, in his heart, and on her face the moth located its perch.
It went into her mouth, and she chewed on it with relish, her lips stretching in a smile; and he just sat there, watching. When she was finished, she ran her tongue across her lips slowly, as if to enjoy the taste that persisted there, coating them red, like rouge—like blood! Then she bent down and kissed him on the mouth, and he smiled when he felt the wetness of her rose lips, assured that she loved him, too!
"You never have to forgive me," Mikoto spoke, and her voice was not that of a woman's any longer: it was deep, yet sweet, and its seduction was fierce; its love, fiercer. She gazed up at the moon that became brighter, and the cord in her belly wriggled as though it were alive; and she was at the receiving end of its nourishments, a toy in Moon's hands.
"My son . . . my child," she spoke in the same manner, the rhythm and inflection of her voice sublime, perfect. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and wiped away the shade, and her translucent skin fell away with the motions of her hand to reveal a winter's skin so white that the hair that framed the throat was just like ink!
The moonlight sluiced down his mother and she grew whiter, and her breast lost the softness and became hard. The scene held Sasuke rapt, and he stared, unblinking. His mother had become so beautiful, so perfect, and there was no one like her in the whole world; and the thought brought truest joy to his heart that he smiled, cheeks glowing with the brightest red of love.
"Nii—Nii-Sama—Okā-San!" he exclaimed, breathless, heart helpless, spirit restless—O', how he loved her; and she, him! Her richer eye-lashes, rimming the quiet martyrs in her eyes, cradled the morning dew that fell away when she blinked; and she was lost—his mother was lost in this mother, this love!
"My son . . . my child," she spoke, and a devil's murmurings became the tongue of his mother, permeated it like winter's rot, till she became the Devil, for the Devil's love was supreme; his kiss, a festering dream that was this child's first breath! She picked up the pin-wheel and un-folded and folded the paper differently. It was an origami of a crane now, and he clapped in happiness: his mother knew how to make him happy!
Then she traced his cheek with the back of her fingers, a touch so tender that his heart fluttered, enraptured by his mother's? Lord's? love. Blood rose to his skin, and happiness suffused his face with shades deeper. He had never felt this happy, eyes agleam with the fire's fervour, a crucifixion of Sons in his gaze.
Little Boy child, filled with love, beguiled, she whispered and leant her head down, her longer throat's protrusion vibrating with her speech; and then she pressed her lips, which stung like winter's moths, to his right cheek, left cheek, brow, and then his mouth; and his heart—ruptured at the joy he felt, a love that martyrized him upon the cross of his dreams.
Quaking his heart, in love; shaking his spirit, in love; vibrating his soul, in love; everything united in oneness with the Lord! Then his mother, his Lord, rose to her feet and cradled him in her arms, speaking in tone dulcet: "my son . . . my child. You are the greatest gift Kami and she gave to me, and I will love you . . . always."
And she strode with a slow, perfect gait to the valley's edge, her garments fine, embroidered with moths, that trailed behind her in deep layers. The devils fluttered, wings stitched into her kimono, and then they rose with wicked wings to fly out and spray the world behind him into night.
And from the night, his last mother gave chase to this mother, running through the fields where the devils festered in frenzy, her garments drenched red in the last rays of autumn's sun when she had conceived him; but this mother did not stop; languidly she moved and dark feathers grew out from her pores in luxuriant plumes.
Many came out that they cushioned his cheek, and he was not afraid. She pulled the arm, over-taken by the new growth, from the long sleeve and pressed the calloused hand to his back; and tender was its touch even in this state. The kimono fell away to her waist from one side, and he regarded, from over her shoulder, the rich plumage that covered the smooth bend of her back. He was fascinated, and he watched his last mother's chase through the rich red fields in desperation till the flurry of plumes obscured her vision and she fell down on the ground, weeping—yet he could not hear her . . .
The moths enveloped her fully, and, beneath them, she wriggled in fright. He closed his eyes, for his last mother made him afraid, and pressed his brow against this new mother's shoulder, who loved him with touches tender, songs sweeter, kisses lighter. She was his world; her heart, his domain; and she stopped at the end, looked at him with silent eyes that dripped with fondness.
"What do you see?" she asked, her long-nailed fingers lifting his chin, her mouth smiling beautifully; behind her back, wings unfurling like black shades, instruments of Devil's flight.
And he looked down and saw nothing but moths and lilies in his heart's garth, his last mother forgotten. "Moths-n-Lilies," he answered and smiled when his mother smiled, for she liked the answer—he knew, for she kissed him again, smelling sweeter than sandalwood.
"Good boy child," she spoke, lips moving against the skin of his brow, "my child." And he smiled, and then he wept when the dream went away amidst the murder of crows. Her scent lingered in his nose, a memory, a faint trace of sandalwood in a sea of moths.
Karin heard whimpers from Itachi's room, and she rushed inside. His futon was empty, and the room was dark. She looked around and found Sasuke sitting in the corner, head leaning against the wall.
"Okā-San—O-Okā-San—" he wept and trembled, eyes revealing Sharingans in distress.
"S-Sasuke?" she said, sat down, and crawled to him, afraid that he might hurt himself in this state; but he was dreaming of his mother, eyes wide open . . .
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Out in the forest inlaid with dews, she traversed the foliage. It was early morning, and night's tricks still affected her vision: fog floated along the grass as easily as droplets of rain. It was cold, but she had pumped enough chakra into her legs to fight and win this battle.
She stopped by a Purple Lily upon which a moth so rare crawled. She bent down and trapped it between her hands, a kind prison. Its wings trembled against the layer of sweat on her palms. She heard rustling behind her and turned around: it was Reo. He had been an apt pupil since his assignment in her Medic-team, and he learnt things fast, faster than she had from Tsunade.
And when he would reach his goal, she would leave her post for him . . . the thought filled her with grief; but she changed her expression as he approached her, his face almost child-like in the new lights—he was only four-and-ten-years of age, after all.
"You're catching moths again, Sakura-San? I thought they bored you?" Reo asked, running his hand through his hair, streaked with sunlight.
"No, I—" she stopped and pulled her hands apart and watched as the moth climbed the air-currents to rise up. It was almost black. "It's a rare one—never seen it before."
"It's just a moth," he said, smiling.
"It's the Sumi Moth—" she said and leant her head back to stare up at the pliant branch it had settled on to escape the sudden harshness of wind, "—it changed its colour not that long ago."
"I . . . don't understand?" he asked, trickiness apparent in the deep-black of his eyes.
Sakura breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with winter's traces. "Not all pink moths remain pink. Once every autumn, one moth survives the mating season with the Purple Moths. It's born with the ability to change colours.
"It's pink when autumn starts, red when winter begins, and black when it reaches its peak —sometimes, it changes colour at its end. I don't understand why it's turned black so soon. Strange . . . "
Reo smiled, clamping his lips; he appeared on the verge of laughter. She frowned. "You might want to take notes, Reo-Kun," she huffed and folded her arms. Her students were very non-serious to learn of poisons.
"I'm not playin' 'round with the Autumn Moths," he said, looking almost shocked, "They're crazy poisonous these days. I've heard that one sat on a medic's arm, and he kicked the Sage's bucket in seconds—poor bastard."
"Don't be silly—yes, its poison can kill you fast, but it's almost impossible to get the potent one. I can never tell which one's the right one after their mating. That poison's only present in its glands. The sting from the spurs happens very rarely," she said and knelt down by a cluster of Purple Lilies; their mouths were closed in slumber; they only opened when kissed by the moonlight. "He should've worn gloves. Exposing your skin to the spurs on the Moth's legs can cause fever and bleeding. Death from its spurs is a story made up by medics who run away from learning about poisons—medics like you."
"Sweet Kami—it can happen?!" He looked up and down the area, trying to locate a moth with purple wings and fake black eyes that changed colour in danger, often.
"No one's ever died from being stung by an Autumn Moth—quit fooling around and help me look!" she said, placing her hands on her thighs.
"Do I have to? It's not even night!" he protested and huffed out a sigh. It floated in the air like a distorted cloud of smoke.
"It's early morning, and the Sumi moth's here—the Devil's Moth likes to mate with it. It might be around here . . . " she said, voice fading in morning's melodies, but she could not see the moth anywhere.
"I can't see one anywhere," he said, sat down, and moved the Lilies about: they usually hid under the closed petals of Lilies in the morning.
"Never mind, I found one—get the black one and bring it to my office," she said whilst she trapped a Purple Moth in a jar. Its wings furled and unfurled slowly as it became aware of its prison. It was sleepy, intoxicated on poisons that filled its systems, armed to the teeth to kill the pink ones during mating . . . when it sensed danger, make-believe eyes upon its wings turned red: it had armed its spurs with poison now!
"Why do you need that one?" he asked, turning around to come into the tree's shadows. They spoke in grief—autumn had sapped them of their lustre and energy.
She did not say anything for a span of a few seconds. Then she drew in a loud breath and shoved the jar into her pocket. "I need to know why it can survive this evil moth's poison," she said, her voice dipping low. "Is it only because it's—it's—"
"It's—what?" Reo asked, unable to hear her small voice over the sounds the forest made whilst it woke from its habitual slumber.
"It can't lay eggs—not ever. It's born that way," she said, and he could see a bitterness invade her smile that changed her whole expression. "The ripe and common ones—they always die—" And she was looking at him in a manner that eluded him.
"Bring it to my office," she said and made to start towards the boughs that twisted low, like a net, between the leaning trees, shadows skipping across her cheeks in haste.
"Wait, Sakura-San!" he called out suddenly, and she stopped and turned around. "I came here to give you this."
"What's this?" she asked as he pulled out a scroll from his pocket.
"It's a letter from Itachi-Sama," Reo said and saw her eyes change again, mantled by a curious wariness that was hard to miss. "He told me to give you this. It says that you're using two posts—you can't do that. Your original appointment was with Sasuke-Sama. You gotta get approval from 'im and Tsunade-Sama to become an Anbu."
Her heart stopped and started. Could it be—could she really . . . ? She took the scroll from his hand and left the forest's cradle for Tsunade's office. It was now or never . . .
"But—"
"That's my final word," she cut across her, angry, cheeks red. It did not seem as though she wanted to listen to her pleas. She breathed in deeply, focusing her senses upon her mentor's countenance that had not changed one bit: her nostrils were flared, lips pursed, fingers clenched; she was not in the mood to talk, but she had to try.
"If I do this, Tsunade-Sama," she began, controlling the passions in her voice and eyes, "I can—I can get away from here. I need this. Please—"
"No," Tsunade answered, turning her face away to gaze at the red beyond the window—autumn, of which the sky had grown weary, "No, Sakura—I don't trust Itachi. He hasn't said a thing to me about this. I don't know why he's offering you this post—I don't know what's in his mind.
"He—He's a treacherous boy. Don't trust him. Stay away from him. You want to get away from here? I'll get you a post in another village, but not Anbu—not this."
"But in Anbu, I—" Sakura stopped when Tsunade slapped her hand down on the table. Sake rippled in the bottle and glasses clinked and two wooden-pens fell down on the floor. She spoke no more, bowing her head in obedience.
"This is my final word. Don't argue with me," Tsunade spoke at last, her voice harsher than before. "You don't know what goes on in Anbu. It's not the side of Konoha you want to know. He didn't even let his own brother become an Anbu Shinobi.
"If he had, Kai's post would've been Sasuke's, but he did everything in his power to thwart Sasuke's path—everything! Sasuke's resentment is just. It's fair. He's been sent to a post he doesn't deserve—it's a mockery of his talents. You don't want to know what—what goes on in Anbu. It's better for you not to know." Then she placed her hand against her cheek and picked up the sage bottle to pour herself another glass. She appeared anxious, her bosom pink with sweat.
Sakura clenched her teeth together, fighting the tears, and nodded. Shadows pooled around her sandals. Night was coming, another lonely night; and without Naruto, she did not know how to satisfy her yearnings.
"Did you kill the prisoner and put the blame on Hinata's shoulders?" Tsunade asked, and her words, though soft, struck Sakura's heart like a spirit-crushing blow. Sweat-drops quivered on Sakura's skin, a map of sensations, but she did not hesitate to lie this time; she shook her head and raised her gaze to look upon her mentor who stood with her back to her.
"Leave," Tsunade spoke and raised the glass to her lips to take a little sip, a small pleasure for her heart . . .
The walk to Naruto's home was lonely. Sakura was distraught. She knew Sasuke would sign this scroll with haste. He wanted her gone, and this thought made her stop by the gate. Wind's garments unfurled and smells escaped the layers in bursts; it smelt seductive this Autumn's perfume.
She did not make much of the smell that enticed her heart and made her way to the door. It was a heavy double-door. Wind chimes hung at the frame, clinking in the wind. The silver bells collided and chinked, gleaming bright; evening was approaching, but sunlight, broken by storm's torn veils, came down in distorted beams to touch her cheeks. She felt nothing there. It was a light without spring's warmth—she was spring's flower, and in that season she lived.
Sakura sucked in a long breath, clenched her fingers, rapped on the door. For some moments, she heard nothing; then, a moment later, the door opened and Kushina stood in the door-frame, her face hard and tense. She did not like that Sakura had shown up on her doorstep, uninvited.
"Good evening, Kushina-Sama. I—I want to speak to Naruto. How is he? I haven't seen him in days. I need to know if he's—if he's all right. Please . . . " she said and pushed pink hair from her green eyes.
In the grim greyness that filled the entrance, Kushina's eyes darkened. The expression on her countenance remained the same. She moved her hand up and adjusted her shawl that was made from the finest silk Sakura had ever seen. She was still as pretty as ever, her faerie-like face framed between the red hairs delicately. Shadows moved along her throat that possessed a girl-like pink hue—full of youth's vigour still. Her Uzumaki blood spoke without a word through her flesh, and Sakura envied her . . .
"He is sleeping," Kushina spoke and held the door. "Do not come here again without sending a missive. It is rude." Then she closed the door in her face . . .
Kushina turned away from the door and went back to Naruto's room. Minato sat by his futon, stroking his hair. In the wind, the house creaked; she would ask the servants to fix it in the morning. It was a minor problem. When she stepped into the room, Minato looked over his shoulder. He looked so handsome in the lantern's light that her heart fluttered in love. She smiled, sat delicately by his side, leant in to press a kiss to his lips. A smile swept across his face, and the skin around his blue eyes softened.
"Who was it?" he asked, eyes upon Kushina's hand as she clasped his hand in her own. Then she brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, her eyes shining in the light that he could not help but lengthen his smile.
"No one," she spoke and leant into his shoulder, caressing his fingers in fondness—still so in love like Young'uns.
Moments passed, and they sat looking at Naruto who slept peacefully through the night, not knowing how he filled their hearts with relief, with love. He was the greatest gift they had given each other.
"He has asked of him . . . in moments of consciousness," Minato spoke and bent forward and adjusted the kakebuton on Naruto. He sighed in his sleep, smiling. His fever had finally thawed.
"He used to come here and play. The abduction changed everything—" Kushina stopped on a sigh and tangled her fingers with his.
"I do not know why Fugaku did this. He was to earn a seat in the council in exchange for the Mangekyō. It was meant to be an act of good faith from the Uchiha—the only good thing Danzō ever suggested. I do not know why—why he would ruin himself this way. He ruined us all," he spoke, and his breaths were heavy with grief.
The smile went away from Kushina's face, and in its place, a weaker one blossomed; she never could bear to see Minato in distress. "Leave it be—do not think of it anymore. I do not want you to wound your heart this way," she spoke and kissed his cheek and wrapped her arm around his in a manner as if they were young lovers still.
He did not speak for several long minutes, listening to her humming a song in tones soft. She had told him in the past that she learnt it from her mother. It was a song of life eternal in the lands ripe with fruits beyond Konoha's borders. He had been there and seen chakra-breaths rise into the night—he thought it to be an eerie sight, a grave of the Uchiha.
"Has the seal matured?" Minato asked when he saw Naruto's brow frown in a dream. The lantern's light had dimmed, and a thick shadow lay across his son's body now. It made him feel . . . uneasy.
"Yes, it matures quickly in autumn. You should not worry, my love," Kushina spoke, and a smile was most pronounced in her voice; but it was as though he did not hear it: his mind had gone back to the past again.
"Danzō's influence made me a Hokage—his vote was what it took to grant me the seat. Hiruzen had shown his consent. Do you—" he stopped and looked down at her, and she lifted her head to meet his blue eyes steeped in past doubts, darker oceans of failures, "—do you think that had you made the new base-seal he asked of you, Naruto could have been spared?"
And he was looking at her as though he was lost again, and it tore at her heart to see him this way. "Minato . . . I could not have. My family was never skilled in making them. You know this. Do not grieve anymore. He is fine now. I do not want you to go on grieving. We could not have done anything," she spoke, her voice weak, and pressed her brow against his shoulder, her body trembling.
"Forgive me," he spoke and passed his hand down her back. It was night, and the storm had grown wild . . .
. . . so wild that silence had soaked through the ground that chewed on it with obscene relish, and now, earth sighed in contentment that its belly was full of love. There its children grew, awaiting the moon to break open the sky and announce the end of its gestation period, for it had to birth a new life: children borne of Autumn's love, which this earth had shared in a delirious ritual of eternal mating.
It was night and a softer storm chose to sing to this earth tonight, but it was wild the way it compelled the earth to release its odours. She walked amongst earth's children, trees dressed in rain and fog, her feet moving towards the secret abode of the Moths. The Devil's Moth she had caught in the morning could attract no pink moth to its domain. She killed it, but found its poison of no use: it was not the True Devil's Moth she sought—it died for nothing . . .
Her heart was in a dark place, listening, and when she came upon the clearing, passion's heat uncoiled in her belly and something moved there, as though she was carrying a child. Her hands grasped her belly, and she watched, spellbound by the Lilies—perky boy children—that grew out from the ground and opened their petals to receive kisses from moon upon their mouths, kisses trapped in pearly missives of rain.
She walked slowly, staring up at the sky as the moon cast delicate veils about her, which floated with an airy grace in the air that was not shy to carry them through the night. One kiss upon the lips of Lilies, and they danced with wild joy, swaying back and forth, back and forth, children learning to run on the ground in abandonment.
The moon had thrown down many umbilical cords, and though invisible, they tethered to her children, for she was their mother now, their real mother: the one who birthed them was but a momentary refuge for these boys; they awaited the moon-mother's kisses, delighted by her lips' playful misses. Children in the cradle of love, their joys knew no bounds.
She closed her eyes, rain cool on her hot flesh; then, one by one, she removed her garments till she stood bare in the rain that trapped the moonlight in droplets, which slid down her skin, that traced her body's contours; and she courted with rain, courted with cold, courted with lust . . .
She lay down amongst the few Lilies that brushed against her skin, delighting her flesh as they played in their own little world, blind to her world. Raindrops collided against her skin and burst into watery flowers upon her pores: she, too, was birthing her children, her flowers. Sheer scrims of dark lay before the forest, and behind them, it shivered in excitement of winter's first signs.
She turned her head to one Lily that grew by her cheek: its petals unfurled, and it smiled, blest by moon's kiss; and she, in love, kissed it, too, but it refused to smile for her, and that made her heart ache in love, lust. And it moved inside her again and poked at her belly from the inside that she sat up with a contorted countenance.
Yet, when her eyes looked to the forest, she stopped breathing: there he stood, on the edge of the unwooded domain, trees continuing like a crooked forest of hands behind him; so oblivious to her want, always, moon limning his flesh with white. He stood barefooted, bare from the waist up. "S-Sasuke!" she gasped and rose to her feet in haste, joy in heart, and staggered to him, but he did not turn away from her.
Full of surprise, she pressed herself into him, flesh singing out at the contact she so desired. His skin was so cold, yet hers was alight with a primal plea, and it burnt that she wanted to cast away this mortal coil and mate with the spirit that lay sheltered inside this wild autumn-child of blood and bone.
"Sasuke—you—" she stopped, breathless, and took his face in her hands that shook, "—you've come for me? All this way—just for me? I-I love you—I—love—love—just this once, S-Sasuke—just this once—" And she wept, her heart speaking out in joy, her mouth hard on his; and she kissed him over and over again, suckling on his lips, but he was a stone. His eyes were downcast, hidden by his tar-like lashes that wore rain on them without blinking. His expression had not changed: he appeared lost, cold to her confessions like always, and it wounded her.
"Sasuke, say something—say something to me, damn you!" she shouted this time and bit her lower lip, and her eyes stung with the invasion of helplessness; but he was still silent, and she did not know what to do. She pressed herself against his breast and felt his heart's vibrations entice her spirit and beheld a thick shadow that stood behind him: it was growing, and silence was its manner of speaking.
Her heart could not bear his silence, his cold demeanour; so she sat down on her knees in a prayer, freed him, and drew him into her mouth. It was cold and flaccid, drenched in rain, against her tongue, and he was still gazing down; however, now it seemed as though he was looking straight into her eyes whilst she pleasured him, and that thought made her slit quiver with an excitement of coming fulfillment.
She closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering, when she sensed it stir and grow between her lips. She felt his muscles shiver beneath her palms. They grew . . . firmer, harder and shivered in heat. His cock, as if resonating with the rest of him, grew harder and escalated into her throat. He was shaking off this make-believe disguise for her—now; and she looked up, with him trapped delicately between her lips, and saw nothing but haze about his face. Hidden from her eyes, his metamorphosis was happening, and unbidden his flesh changed through her lust in a dream—a wish from her heart, and he had come alive, at last!
And when she looked at him now, with him shivering inside her organ where prayers to the Kami were created, she saw the older one, Itachi, looking down at her with garish accruements of threats in his eyes. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he held her there. Then he pulled out just a little, slowly and deliciously, and pushed back between her lips; his flesh hot, demanding release—now.
She wanted to pull away, but her mouth was filled with his organ. Then he moved against her mouth, urging her to take all of him in, and stroked the damp hairs, glistening with unmapped droplets, away from her cheeks as though he wanted to get a good look at her face. There was no smile on his lips, just a cold command, and she was an instrument for his (her) perverse pleasures.
He chose his own rhythm during this act of irrumation, and she took him in repeatedly, working into his rhythm, and felt her own heat scorch the excited flesh down to her core that she pressed her free hand between her legs to appease her need there.
At last, she felt him expel strings of release, and he pulled out, still hard and ready for more intrusions into her organ, and dragged translucent threads that stretched taut between her lips and the tip of his ripe flesh. His taste filled her mouth and covered her lips, and she fell back, almost exhausted.
She balanced herself on her elbows, back covered with mud and rotten leaves that dragged her back towards the ground and impeded her motions, and half-rose when he knelt before her, his knees positioned on either side of her heaving breast, his cock flush with her lips. Tentatively, she raised her head and wrapped her lips around his needing-crown, which still showed signs of his contentment, and he pushed into her mouth and then her throat, his thrust slow, deep.
Her fingernails scratched across the hipbone that was exposed above the waist-belt of his trousers, soaked through with rain. The cold fingers of his right hand splayed across her shoulder, and the colder fingers of his left hand twisted in her hair, right behind her ear.
He stilled, gaze tracing over her face covered in rain's pearls, and his hand tightened this time. He eased his hips back a few inches and rocked forward again, sliding between her lips. He did not move, his pulsing organ's weight heavy upon her tongue and inside her throat, filling her mouth.
The pull of his hand sharpened in her hair as he thrust again, a roiling pain rippling along her scalp, and his thrust was harsher this time. His grip slackened in pleasure, and she pulled the lips from him to drag in a quick breath, but he guided her lips back to his ripe organ and pushed forward, and she swallowed him again without protest.
His tug on her hair was gentle now, his strokes slower, deeper. Stray black hairs spilt along his rain-soaked white arms, his face an empty canvas, his eyes containers of passion. The sight of him heated her blood, and when his release sprung from his cock, hot and viscous, she desired of him to complete her in a ritual of mating.
She swallowed down his fluids that tasted bitter and bent her head forward and nipped at the taut flesh, leaving a vivid bruise on the white garment nature had given him as his garb, that sailed down as smoothly as a wave from the peak of his hipbone. Then she parted her thighs wide, unabashed, and watched as he flattened his hand on her ribcage, pushed her back to the muddy ground, loomed over her.
His cock, solid and hard, glided between her lips, back and forth, back and forth, till her slit shivered in need, and her back arched, hips rose to take him in; and he slid into her, and her shudders intensified whilst she sucked him into the heat of her cunt, repeatedly; and she kissed him, not in love but in lust, down his throat to his rushing pulse.
The material of his trousers rasped across her thighs and created a burning sensation. His strokes, at first smooth and slow, then hard and harsh that short, hissing gasps, almost frantic, tumbled from her lips. He moved faster now, and she picked up his rhythm, meeting each stroke of his, her neck arching, her hips surging. The sensations set her flesh ablaze.
At last, her flesh, a brimful of primal urges, came apart, and she spilt across his trousers, her breast rising up to press against his, legs winding about his hips to feel the burden of his organ throbbing in violent pulsations just against the knot of her pleasures. Her shudders subsided into slow tremors, and she felt a film of rain between their breasts, eyes roaming his shoulders and rain-curled strands inked across the skin that blushed—just a little.
He backed away, hand tight around his cock, and released thick streaks that landed across her lips and face; and she saw a wicked smile dance upon his lips; so enamoured, enthralled to the fury of the devils in his eyes and to the beauty of his eerie countenance bathed in the moon, that she kissed him, and he kissed her back. He was Tsukuyomi in her arms, moonlight against her lips and flesh, a living-loam of illusions.
He slid his hand across her belly, and it started growing with his seed. Darkness came forth, and he faded, like the moon, behind its layers; and she watched it grow and grow to bursting. Her eyes widened when she felt the crushing contractions in her belly, and she started screaming in pain, writhing in the forest that swallowed her fears as easily as she had swallowed him—only moments before.
And now the forest courted with her differently, its schemes evil. His child moved in her belly, eager to come out. Sasuke stood in silence by the dark, the shadow still fresh behind his back—a child in the cradle of dark.
"S-Sasuke—help me!" she choked out, screams ripping apart the fine shrouds of fog made in Nature's hands. He did not answer, his gaze bent upon the Lilies the Moths had obnubilated in the purest act of love. She rose up when she felt it ripping free of its womb. Water and blood broke and sailed down her thighs, her vision heaving from pain.
She could not tell where the path to Konoha was, and it was coming, a child from her womb that was still vacant. Its mouth squeezed out of her cunt, and the black curd around it quaked with her unsteady motions . . . then it cawed in distress and slid down her thighs, with a shivering caul clinging to its side. Itachi had mocked her love in her dreams—he had mocked her!
She looked at the still-born boy-child, horror-struck, shaking and whimpering, and ran into the woods whilst it wept in her wake, hungry for milk . . .
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She sat in silence, writing another missive. The man had eluded her informant's grasp. He would be angry with her again . . . a lovely frown disturbed the sublime beauty of her face for a moment, but then it vanished behind the mask of indifference. She never wore her heart upon her face—that was not what she was taught to exhibit: mind before heart!
She put the brush aside and turned up the flame in the lantern. Darkness shrank back around the low table at the sudden invasion of light. It was night, and the smells autumn had trapped between the folds of its garments had sunk out. It smelt especially sweet and rotten at this time of the night, right after the rains.
Light from the lantern struck the opulent decorations, made of silver, brass, and gold, and gleamed. Sounds from laughing girls and boys floated into her room, and she frowned again: she wanted some quiet tonight; so she, smiling, completed the last words in the song she wrote and plucked the strings of the Flowery-Koto. She was taught to play it before her customers from a very young age, but now she played it for him only . . . just for him, always for him.
And at that moment when she had begun to create a beautiful melody, a girl came into her room, and she stopped, hands hovering over the strings that shone bright. "What is it? Leave me be—I do not want to speak of anything," she spoke, her lips glowing with a sharper red colour the berries could not hide.
"Forgive me, Hanakoto-Sama—" she stopped and clasped the missive tighter in her grasp, "—it's a missive from Itachi-Sama." A wee-girl of eleven, she was a bit delicate.
Anger diluted into a subtler emotion on Hanakoto's face, which the girl was too young to read, and she motioned her to give her Itachi's missive. The girl, ungainly in her movements, picked her way across the room, in a manner as though she was walking across a carpet of nettles, and gave Hanakoto the missive.
She unrolled the scroll, and this time, anguish and anger were painted upon her face in a way that the girl could read, too. "He gives me nothing in return, yet asks for so much," she spoke and threw the scroll into the hearth. It curled into black threads almost instantly.
"Didn't he pay us last time?" she asked, and, quite innocently, placed the tip of her little finger to her pink lips. When she looked down at Hanakoto for answer, her glare surprised her.
"Get out—leave!" she snapped, and the girl jumped at the harshness of her tone. Colour drained from her round cheeks. She bowed and rushed out of the room, her garments streaming in her wake.
When the last of her footfall sounded in her chambers, Hanakoto sighed. She placed her hand on her bosom, took in a steady breath, and positioned her hands on the strings again; and this time, she sang and played a song:
In a cradle, a cherished child
In the moonlight, this spirit remains exiled
For too long this night has lived without you,
With your dreams, I endure my night, its hue
In your place, the moon spoke
Harsh its touch, soft its stroke
Solus in autumn's spring, forlorn my spirit and eyes
Come before me now, abandon this guise
My breaths I have lain in your path
Your heart I buried in my garth
To find you is my wish
In your gaze swam my spirit's fish
My heart does not let me forget your word
In winter, I fear, I shall hide my spirit's bird
I wish not to draw a breath
My nights go undreamt
Why have you grown so distant to me?
Recreant my heart, come hear its plea
Unfriended my spirit, it yearns
Aggrieved and angered, it sways in turns
The festering spreads and it grieves
Left it you have amongst autumn's leaves . . .
. . . and the string broke; and possessed and animated, her eyes dressed themselves in a garment she was always meant to hide . . .
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