Chapter Seventy-One: The Wicked Child
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Through the moon-tipped grass, serpents yawning, hither they come, nurtured by night's descent. Winter's ghost roughed his cheeks—Spring's lament; and lamented she had, courted and murdered upon white. And boughs froze in place, almost in fear, with settled dew stone-cold solid. In the glinting of pearls, moon cooed and frustrated night. Still wanton and sweet—like love!
Was it coming at last, Winter's song—all sewn up unto the sweetness of his throat? Lying deep, flesh, bone, and blood, heated to a rapturous tune that had manifested in the now-rotten, but once-winter, womb of his widowed mother: Winter fire—spirit. Touched by youth's musk, he had grown—all beautiful and sublime. Still not like the Lily of Autumn; but who would not change a Moth for a Lily? Silly woman! She had wept and bled in love for him, from eyes wanting and juncture burdened and wet; and through lids apart, she saw his face: such love in the face of Lord—such lament in the eyes of the little Devil! O', child, wicked wicked child; you grow distant; you grow wild!
How things lay forgotten, like people, in the deep of the earth. How things lay forgotten in the deep of his mind. Such a wondrous Winter—such a wicked man! Germinating outside the ripe refuge for so long—in the hall, his presence was mild. Cheeks the whitest shade of white; lips touched by the airs of spring, but only just: just a playful kiss by a giddy maiden before she ran away, white sleeves streaming like paper-scrolls in wind. The shade was still not mature, not deep, not like love!
On the ceiling, in the grey of shadow's presence, eight fingers adorned with innumerable prickly hairs crafted threads delicate; and like memories, they invited death upon their structures—stuck unto the gossamer it had made, moths died a pitiful death; but tonight was a different night, and death came on purple wings singing. Its wings, sinister instruments, beat and beat like his heart, unrelenting.
The spider with legs hairy lunged and bit the outer-skin bloated with poison, in uncontrolled hunger. Winter did not bring the juicy ones to his phantasmal abode, not this time. Just one bite and it wilted and died in the trick of threads, a home and a grave; and from the faintest glimmers of cobwebs, a delicate colour spread to him and spilt upon one side of his face, which bore all details of this sudden demise. So white, like a scroll which invited touch, his face was created to endure shadow's colours.
As if he felt the last twitches of a mother's fingers on his cheek, he gazed for a moment at the web that hung between the hall and the moon still dim in infancy; and this time, his whole face exhibited a play of shadows—for children's eyes: the spider floated away into the forest, an empty husk; and freed of the less-than-mighty strings, fragile as though the spider had turned moon's songs into threads with love burning in its fingers, it flew to him in hunger; his chakra was the most delicious thing it would ever feast upon, over-flowing with its love, seduction!
On his lips it found its refuge and laid its tiny feet there with a resolve firm and kissed the breaths that came from him, breaths with life's flowing; and in this month of autumn, this life was especially ripe, glutted with energy he would never be able to put forth in any other month!
"The young commander is distracted by moths," spoke a voice that boomed loud and distinct in the hall that was empty.
Almost surprised, he turned his head sharply, and at this rude dismissal, the moth flew away with a broken heart; and it pulled the shadow with it, but not before it took a piece of his love, too.
He immediately prostrated before the Daimyō, and then he sat up straight. "Forgive me, I did not hear you come," he spoke, and though his voice was soft as wings, its resonance was felt for several moments.
The Daimyō smiled, but his smile was a little unperceivable without his clan's hard focus and red scrutiny. It was dark, but the fire from the tall bronze candle stand set alight the yellow silk in the lord's vestments; it seemed as though the tailor had threaded Chrysanthemums into his beautiful robes, kikus sunning. He noticed that the lord had chosen not to wear his eboshi—traditions were not always followed—and that revealed the shaven front of the head, anointed generously with oil that it shone with . . . a peculiar effect in the light's warmth.
This man was Shiba Yoshimune of the Shiba clan, and he was the Daimyō of this land. He sat on the raised platform, looking down upon the boy whom he had seen grow through the seasons that assaulted Konoha each year, but the Spring; winters were especially harsh to the lands that favoured the love of Spring and warmth of Summer, in which flowers bloomed fragrant and fruits succulent; and he carried a beautiful sword and a folding fan at his waist, symbols of stature. Had the lord sent the page away? He did not even notice, so love-struck by his creature-companion in soul, who had flown away and taken his wings. So the journey back home would be flightless?
Yoshimune kept quiet, listening, smelling, seeing the creations of Nature in this hour of night. White flashes broke over the empty shores of this room in waves. Another storm was coming—a mighty one—and it made a feeling of such restlessness invade the peace of the boy's heart, utterly.
"I smell the earth," Yoshimune spoke and took in a breath. "The storms have been unkind lately." Then he was quiet, his eyes surveying the shadow-lattice's stamps upon the artificial-white of the wooden-floor.
Several moments passed by in this unneeded silence from men and noise from unnatural mouths outside, and Itachi was forced to cast his gaze upon the floor, almost helpless to compel this man to speak!
"What brings the young Uchiha heir here when the night is cold and harsh?" he asked, at last, and his smile was like a groove in his hard face the delightful interplay of dim light and light dark crafted.
Itachi pulled up his gaze to look upon the man who would be an anchor for him, should he ever chose to be; and Nature's scents wafted in, settled over the room, enriched his senses. He breathed in once, just once, and his mind was ready to work at this . . . problem, again!
"I seek your permission to speak with honesty," Itachi spoke and steeled his neck more than he steeled his spine.
The Daimyō, an unrepentant ruler, observed his face with a countenance that foretold his skepticism; however, much to Itachi's delight, Yoshimune's curiosity overwhelmed his reservations too soon to matter; and he had been loyal to him, murdering his foes in their beds at his command—he deserved this much, or at least, he hoped he did . . .
"Honesty?" Yoshimune repeated, his tone brimming with a curious change, his smiling lips smiling deeper. Oh, he had become much too curious, and this change made Itachi almost happy . . . almost.
Itachi did not speak; no, he waited, for he could not start the conversation without this lord's permission. He saw a twinkle in Yoshimune's eyes; it was like the last blinking light of a lost firefly before morn; then it vanished, and he gave a slight nod of his head like some thought had passed in his mind.
Itachi gave a low bow of acknowledgment and sat so straight and settled his whitest hands upon his thighs, his eyes iron, his face flower. And that disposition, a delicious blent, made the lord's heart . . . soft to him and his tongue. The youth's wickedness was tongue-less; his charm, word-less. And he was charmed already as though he had bedded the young heir in the lush chambers of his free-will. Such was his want. Oh, but the scandal would ruin him! His fantasy was surely elaborate!
"I have come here to speak of the Hokage," Itachi spoke, his voice harder than iron, softer than flower. "She has made questionable decisions that push Konoha towards peril with each passing day."
Yoshimune did not speak, his heart roused by the man in him, his gaze enflamed by the man before him. The storm had found a place in his spirit, a restless storm, and it would not leave here without his ruination; and he was so innocent, so lovely, so boy-like that the lord's heart could not bear to turn him away—even when his mind's doubts sought to puncture the unmissable sentiment with repeated interruptions.
"She has taken . . . decisions . . . rash decisions that have placed Leaf in danger's path," Itachi paused, his words vibrating and haunting about the lord, like faeries cold and deadly, "she had the lady of the Okami Clan assassinated in spite of my reservations.
"As a consequence of this murder, Bandit Clans have gathered in great numbers round the village. Danzō's up to no good, and she does nothing to prevent this. I fear that he may have been directing the young girl's decisions with her consent to spark a war against Cloud . . . without your knowledge."
Yoshimune emitted a pleasant laugh that went back and forth across the hall like a flexible object. Its tinkling sound made an unpleasant sensation well up in Itachi's throat, but it was not potent enough to manifest upon his face, which stayed the same just as Winter stayed the same.
"Danzō has many words to spare for you and your mischievous little brother. Sasuke, was it?" Yoshimune spoke, and though Itachi had expected this, the sound of his voice was still louder than the foreign sounds in the gurgling skies for his ears. "Tatsuoki has made many unpleasant claims . . . murders of Fū and Toruné. Unpleasant business, young heir."
"Fū's unfortunate murder remains a mystery, though I fear his frequent Night Flower Village visitations may have been the cause. No evidence against Sasuke was found. I do not know why he keeps insisting upon this without a reason, without a cause," Itachi spoke and watched as the Daimyō bent forward just a little to lend his ears to Itachi's tricky tongue. The lack of light made prominent the deep furrows in his brow. Nature was never kind to the ones without youth, and waxing candles made Nature appear even less kind. He appeared to be a frail man in a kingly garb—he was no ruler: this bearing was a fool's trick!
"And Toruné?" he asked, pulling out the fan tucked in his belt, opening it with an easy flick of his wrist. "Two murders, young heir. It is hardly fair to accuse Danzō so soon. Perhaps your brother is disobedient, after all." And when he smiled this time, beneath the greying layer, his smile was . . . cruel, framed in a face mapped by wayward lines—now animated by his facial muscles in unnatural ways that Itachi did not like, nor enjoy.
Lights crashed into the room and splattered across the floor in a colour that was singular and sharp and bright; and the heir's jealous heart was loath to grant this lord the satisfaction of murdering his child, being the master of his child's soul—his child, his only child. He ought to be the one to decide his child's fate; and what was this lord to his heart? Yet another man to be forgotten and kept in the graveyard of memories.
"If the boy is found guilty, I will put him to death myself—right here—in front of you, my lord," he spoke with such sincerity that the lord's heart was moved, and then it was moved to despair and frustration by the smile on the heir's face, a smile that disturbed the pristine nature of a flower as it stood shuddering in wind. It was like a single out-of-order petal that made the flower lovelier still.
"I appreciate your loyalty. I wish more men shared it with you," Yoshimune spoke in a voice as though he was in love, a softness that echoed a time of his youth and all its much-coveted frivolities—now lost to this constant fever that wrestled and lay defeated in an old man's body. "Terrible business, of course. Your accusations paint Tsunade in a foul light. Do you possess any evidence?"
And a parasite borne of treachery stitched itself to Itachi's spirit, and when the process was complete, a heresy committed by the once-divine hands, he could not help but feel a single shudder rock his core with divine tremors that were . . . delightful. His mother's womb had spoilt his spirit, a milk left out in the open for too long—its sanctuary was myth. And his soul had come alight, dancing like an apparatus undone and re-created by the Devil's hands. This was easy—this was divine—this was sweet!
"No, I do not," Itachi spoke, "but I intend to look into the matter. I humbly request your discretion. Your life may be in danger."
"Danger? The young heir makes frightening claims," Yoshimune spoke with a polite laughter that tinkled like bells in his throat, though the vibrating sound had little effect on the room's atmosphere.
"These are fears . . . for now. I will not rest till I am not satisfied that my suspicions are just suspicions," he spoke and assuaged the red devils in his eyes, albeit they burnt just beneath the layers that presented an easy breach for their beguiling influence.
"A matter of silence . . . " Yoshimune whispered, eyes looking up, heart enjoying the thrill of danger—in this age that was all it took to set it going at a pace he liked.
"You may leave," Yoshimune spoke and stood up and so did Itachi, "I will call upon you if need be, but you ought to be sincere about that Toruné business. If you come through, we shall see . . . " Then he observed the heir bow and his heart took a single leap in anger and he left the heir and his growing-shadow all alone: his Moth had come back to visit again!
Itachi walked towards the main-door, through the wings of this young moon's light spreading. They produced a sacred effect when they struck hanging-screens mounted on walls just below the roof, with motifs of Kirin dancing and snow dotting the still-lush gardens and fragrant flowers that were nourished by Spring past its prime—its cradle was rich and divine in the absoluteness of dried-up paint. Strange, what one could create in paintings.
"You play a game of hide and seek," spoke a rich voice from behind, and Itachi was forced to stop immediately. He turned around, slowly, and from the devious shadow's figure that had hidden from his human-eyes appeared a man brushed by dove-wings of night. Plumes brushed across his luxuriant garments, red Kikus burning like mighty fires right upon his heart.
Tokugawa Ieyasu, a man Itachi was not expecting to see in the frozen bowls of this night. Ieyasu moved towards him, his gait so smooth as though he was floating on a lake's sighing water. He stopped just two steps short of him, his face white and unreadable, his eyes hard and unbearable. Smooth black hair framed his high cheeks, made to appear much too white by this child-like moon, that had been hardened much by his nature.
Three and nine years of age, Ieyasu was still young, appointed as the head of his clan after much bloodshed. In his face calm and storm blent sharply. He possessed a disarming countenance that was decorated by a delicate pair of eyes, his mother's parting gift, starred with a marked glint of forbearance and chaos—a devious duality—and thick lashes that afforded them the skill of mystery; his features, smooth, pointed, and sharp, habitually serene till visited upon by an arrogant mark of cleverness Itachi had no wish to witness now.
Ieyasu spoke not a word, and Itachi, out of habit, bent his head to bow. "My lord," Itachi whispered and stood straight and looked the man before him in the eyes that were crafted from the stone-heart of the deepest cold winter could muster.
He said nothing in return and began walking to the garden from where moon's remnants emerged like faeries to crucify themselves upon walls, without a single sign of martyrdom; and though Itachi had no desire to accompany him, he did for he was obedient ever since he opened his heart to this country's greatest Will! His steps made faint sounds, but Ieyasu was quiet like the shadow whose refuge he took earlier to surprise him.
Outside, moon hanged high above them in slumbering delight, quiet and pristine in this cold, cold night. By the door, dim-light bearing lanterns hung, their lights shyer than the moon's. It was bolder tonight, innocent and young, shining upon Lilies smiling by the stream that went along cooing in sleep, creating black strokes of trees on stocky walls.
Ieyasu gazed up at the moon, and then he looked down and gazed at him, a question just beginning to blossom in his eyes; and Itachi felt that he should speak. "I came by to—"
"Oh, hush—" Ieyasu cut across him, his voice like steel, frigid and deep, "—you little snake. Always the opportunist. You thought you could come here and make a mess of things in my absence?" His eyes wandered slightly to the right and returned back to Itachi, with a cold fire in their depths.
"You—leave!" he commanded without looking at the man whom he had no desire to name, and when Serizawa did not leave, a smile almost invaded the expressionlessness upon his countenance. "He wishes to be disobedient like his master!"
"Serizawa," Itachi spoke, turning his head a little to show him a shadow of his disapproving eye—his second-sight had not risen. Serizawa, a shadow, did not protest. He bowed and left and all shadows remained behind, save his.
Mist's coils lingered about them and upon the garden clothed in bright verdure, ghostly winter mirages; and sparkling droplets from the storm whose breeze whispered the farewells fell upon their garments and exposed skin. It was cold—so, so cold.
"Your brother writes lovely missives to me, and I grant his wishes for I enjoy his company. I have granted one such wish that exists in my pocket. He is endearing, unlike you—takes after his father, does he not?" Ieyasu spoke, his features cast in the dimmest shadow Itachi's body threw upon him. Ieyasu was just as tall as he was. Perhaps slightly taller! "Where is Meru? I sent you missives to bring him to me, but you said nothing. When did you turn so arrogant?"
"He is safe," Itachi spoke and drew in a breath that was soft and without sound. It did not even disturb the air about them—the air winter's seduction made heavy.
"Oh? Am I to hang upon your every word without seeing a thing—take a leap of faith? Is that why you are here—to charm the senile old fool that pines for you and speak to him of the terrible things I have made you do?" he spoke and a ghost of mischievous disdain trembled in his smile—Itachi kept looking, his face and lips in a state of calm. "You are bold the way you gaze upon me. Perhaps I should pluck out your pretty eyes. Then what would become of the little boy like you? Nothing good."
Itachi lowered his eyes and settled them upon the breast of the man in front. He did not know what oceans raged inside the violent cradle of Ieyasu's heart—Itachi's eyes were not swords tonight, swords not sharp enough to cleave the turbulent surface of swelling waves. The man nurtured bifurcated impulses that festered unchecked in his spirit-womb: volatile and dangerous, he was not a foe Itachi wished to battle.
"I want Meru in my care before this moon turns full. I do not care where you are hiding him. Bring him to me," he spoke, his breaths white, falling across Itachi's face adorned with moon-struck droplets travelling down his contours, with no sense of direction.
"This thing you ask of me—it is not easy," Itachi spoke, and this time, he chose to meet Ieyasu's eyes with a fire that matched the birthright from his father, without the colour's intense presence. "The Hokage has created troubles. Danzō's men keep watch on the village in great numbers. They will get a whiff of this. It is only a matter of time."
"Ah, licking the Kages' sandals all day long has made a frightened whelp out of you," he spoke, and shadows of clouds obscured the moon glowing on his face. "I did not whisper in this old fool's ears of your glory for nothing.
"Why are you not forthcoming, Itachi? You were such an obedient boy before you took the great seat and became important—obedient in your office, obedient in my bed. Now, you are just an obscenely pretty, conniving wench."
Flashes leapt from an angry belly and a hard-placed light appeared over Itachi's face with ineffable sweetness. His visible face had gone colder, whiter, harder. He did not speak: he had no word dancing on the tongue's tip. This man had come with claws sharp to cut off his wings.
In the divine shower of weightless rain from sky's brink, Ieyasu was visual noise, and Itachi did not know how to muffle its loud timbre for his eyes' respite. There was a steady impulse to meet this force with one of his own making, yet he did not have it in him to conjure the imagery recorded by the Sharingan without his approval: the eyes had a mind of their own, and their machination was like a walk into the den of somnambulists that stood delirious amidst the swirling opioid fumes—it was all dream and dream-like in the reds and depths of his clan's eyes.
One and seven years of age, he was just as lovely in the dawn of youth's season; he was just as obedient in the dawn of his lord's reason. An obsession blossomed into a full flower in the pits of his heart; and every word, every gesture was a divine part. They spoke—he acted; they asked—he reacted. A toy in their hands—a seed in these lands. He was blest—blest! When the land yearned, his spirit turned, turned, turned!
The Will turned him loose upon her foes, and he obeyed with head bent, sword in hand and heart, fire in breath and breast. He was a cruel soldier with the most cruel eyes; this was not the gift his father had granted him through the benign act of creation. His mother wept in love, yet her tears never touched and thawed his heart: winter's yearning sowed a Devil in her womb. And when Ieyasu asked of him to satisfy a personal yearning, he did not deny him—he could not—for he was his lord, and his will was this land's will. Ieyasu touched him in tender and perverse ways, kissed his throat and flesh the way a woman would, acts he did not enjoy; yet he stayed silent and obedient till Ieyasu grew bored of him one night before he had lived through one and nine winters: he never called upon him again.
Yet this seed had grown and matured whilst eating Winter's winds and waters. His heart was harder and colder; his spirit, less prone to heed the sensations that made it soft. Years sowed a corse of tenderness in his heart, and none existed to rouse it from eternity . . . but his child that planted a kiss of life upon the lips and made tremble the dead apparatus for holy pleasures that danced serene and pure in his eyes. Ah, what fleeting flashes of fancy—they seldom stayed?
"An obsession with the Will—a love for the land—vices I adored. Why do you withhold the vices from me now?" Ieyasu spoke again, voice dripping with past's yearning, taking advantage of his subordinate's silence. "Shall I take you to bed again? You do not seem to have any other use." And he tapped the fan that he held in his hand against Itachi's cheek, lightly, his expression placid, his smile sweetened by scorn.
"Look at you. Still so pretty—almost like a woman—like a well-paid harlot," Ieyasu sighed out in soft mockery, looking at Itachi up and down, assessing him with a sluggish gaze. "You bring that man to me. I do not know why you are so forgetful of my generosity to grant you this power in Konoha. Without me, you are nothing—you would be nothing.
"Do not play games with me, or I shall make a woman out of you, and then you can moan like a whore in my chambers—something I would enjoy rather than seeing this stone-cold face you wear and lending ears to your lying tongue that brings me no joy."
Ieyasu smiled and his smile was sincere; he made to walk, but suddenly, as if gripped by the tenderness of moon's waters flowing down Itachi's countenance, he stopped and added: "Either you accept your position or I decide your fate and put another dog in charge of your clan—some eager man from your council.
"You can displease me and gain my favour only so many times till I tire of you, and you are in a habit of boring me. Mind your manners."
And then he left Itachi alone to gather bits and pieces of his shadow. He watched as Ieyasu's shadow moved across the paper-screen windows, invading sceneries one by one; then his gaze fell upon Hanakoto's face illuminated by the lantern that hung by the latticed window. She possessed unimaginable beauty that its radiance dimmed the moon's light.
She wore a red kimono and sat beside a low black-lacquered table that bore tea cups and a lustrous old urn; and she smiled at him with smiling eyes, passion radiating from her mouth and cheeks. Ieyasu sat down beside her, and his demeanour changed: he appeared playful in her company. Itachi could imagine—she had that effect on men.
Itachi looked away, enamoured by lights swirling amidst shadows this maturing night generated. Then, as silently as he had come, he left the place the same way—his journey home would be without wings . . .
"My lord, you are harsh with him," Hanakoto spoke, moving her fan back and forth, "be gentle."
"He does not deserve gentleness," Ieyasu spoke, and a recovering smile came across his lips in visible traces. "Enough of him! What brings you here?"
She moved her hand lightly in a circular motion, twice, trying to get a whiff of a fragrance that emanated from him. "Is that sake I smell in your breath? I hope, you still have the appetite for enjoying tea with me," she spoke, placed her fan on the table that had lost half its lustre, and poured out tea into two tea-cups.
"I am a little intoxicated, yes," he confessed, his smile full and radiant now, "though my constitution is not delicate enough to sour my memories of you."
She let out the lightest laugh, rose-colour appearing darker on her loveliest face. "I flatter men without payment—tonight, you flatter me without payment, my lord," she spoke, holding her smile, and placed the cup before him. "I came here to discuss the Yoshiwara business. Men from the neighbouring bathhouses have become nosy. I want them gone. If you grant me the permission and means to expand the place, it will bring me the greatest joy and relief.
"This matter has stolen my nights. It gives me worry. I make less than I ought to. The Daimyō here is unfair to me."
"That is unfortunate, but do not worry—worry would age you," Ieyasu spoke and took a quick sip of the tea that was still warm, "I would not want that. Your face is more beautiful than the moon and flowers."
Hanakoto lowered her eyes and head and jewels that adorned the pins in her hair tinkled like charms. Her lips sweeter than the sweetest sake; her face lovelier than the loveliest flower—she was Autumn's apparition, vapours about the dead, that haunted the deep of Winter's dreams, a red tenant of its passions.
"I can enforce more stringent measures and grant you funds for expansions. Of course, that would require time and persuasion," he spoke and placed the empty cup back on the table. "In the meantime, why do you not think over my request?"
"Why, I am too old to be your concubine, my lord!" she spoke, expressing surprise, her eyebrows floating up. "Perhaps a blooming Tayū might delight you. A new Takao has completed her training. She would be obedient in your company. She writes lovely songs, too. You would enjoy them!"
"Has Kami left a mark of age on you that I have not seen? Perhaps it is hidden underneath the delicate layers of your kimono?" he asked, eyes twinkling in the lantern's light that touched the red in her kimono and made her appear like an enticing flower on the misty shores of Sanzu river; the dead would surely be tempted. "You should have tied your obi at the front. My, you are playful.
"Come here and sit by my side, with your back to me. I want to see you—all of you in this light," Ieyasu spoke, his words crafted by his passions.
Hanakoto did not protest. She rose to her feet, a delicate layer clutched in her hand, walked to him, sat down with obedience in her movements. She felt his hands on the knot, and he undid it with expert hands. Her skin was smooth when the layers fell away; her hair, delicate paint-brush.
"You are very lovely—imagine that I have done what you asked. Sing for me," Ieyasu whispered and touched the visible sinews in her back, and warm breaths issued forth from her lips. He kissed the vein in her neck—it was unusually bright green underneath her flower-white skin, as if awaiting a different liquid to give it another hue. And the scent of Higanbana blew from the expanse of her breathing pores, upon which stood signs of her flesh's heat.
He was more gentle with her than her love was when he was in a state of waking; he was less gentle with her than her love was when he was in a state of dreaming. Poisons made a lover of him; but she wanted him to love her whilst he spoke to her with a lucid mind and eyes observing in cold determination. Ah, his obedient and disobedient states broke her heart—always.
And she closed her eyes, thinking of him; and what were dreams of women to the hearts of men? Lies they crafted and believed to be true!
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And transfixed she stood upon the threshold as shades fled, afraid of the spring-bride's murder as it bled in another cheek, not knowing what to see . . . in the sky now. It was dark, and a chill hurtled towards her, her loose white kimono billowing, and blew loud against her breast. Her heart rung like temple bells, unafraid and fearful just the same: a moth had come to visit, and it sat silent and sinister on the lantern that hung by the door.
She chose to ignore it and looked at the vastness that expanded in front of her lonely house. In her sight, everything appeared to come from the grey and black of night. The moors, as wind hissed clean through, swayed in waves, bowing in winds. Mist, scattering like cloven silk, formed again and again, desperate to gain shape; yet it was all for naught; tonight, storm's heart was set on coming, and it was coming harder and faster and fiercer from the sky. Her heart was too timid to match its passion: she lost before its mechanisms even began . . .
Having grown tired of waiting, she sat down, a white camellia in her hand; and she thought of her temple duties. If he did not come tonight, she would go to the temple and pray and prostrate before Kami to make him come to her—see her, cherish her, love her. Oh, her heart, not eased of the thoughts, sang amidst ferocious songs of Autumn's storms. Her tongue moved, too, and her tender breaths morphed into songs, and she was singing! Singing in night! Singing in love!
Wind muffled her songs and ended her voice; but she squeezed shut her eyes against the wailing wind and pressed the camellia to her breast that trembled in prayer; and she pressed it harder and broke the stem upon which the flower stood robust; oh, how she had ruined the flower, herself, in his love!
And when she opened her eyes with hope in full bloom inside her heart, she saw a man approaching her home from the darkness of forest in unrest under the storm. She felt the Moth's eyes on her back, watching; but she ignored it still, all fears of death in Winter forgotten. She sprang to her feet and her hand dropped the flower. Then she grabbed the lantern that sat beside her and moved her slow thighs; and then her slow thighs got quick as she ran bare-footed and disappeared into the dark-green of wilderness, her kimono streaming, flowing, blowing—like her wet and loose hair. So thoughtless that she did not even think of her other vision!
In her mind, her heart, he stood in autumn's bloom, waiting for her and her heart; and she would love him in cold spring and warm autumn, her heart at his mercy—always. White light split-open, a maiden's musk-coated thighs, and swayed before her, unable to keep up with her muddy feet; and as she ran, night's colours merged and everything became one in her vision, a blur made from a singular colour! Her heart beat faster, louder, harder as he drew near; and she, nearer, faster than he; he walked; she ran—it was always meant to be this way . . .
And at last, she came to a halt, her smile coming and going away so soon; light glowed over his face and brow and eyes and prominent freckles about his cheeks: it was Neji . . . she looked at him and then she looked down, blushing in embarrassment at the sight of her mud-clogged toes, her breast fast-moving and sweat-riddled; and as she stood still, colours separated and everything reemerged as a separate entity, which possessed its own hues, in her eyes.
"Hinata, it's cold," Neji said, always smiling. "Let's go inside. I've got good news for you." Yet her heart did not rise and feel joy at his words . . . its speed had fallen, like her passion.
The walk back home was quiet, the leaf-trail quieter and unwelcoming without the warmth of his presence. A storm died in her breast, and she did not know when it would rise again without his touch! She was absolutely crestfallen, uncaring of the storm outside that shook this land.
Quietly, Hinata washed her feet; quietly, she made tea for them both; quietly, she sat by the fireplace that she kept warm with fresh coals (every night). The house was a grave tonight, like always, and its cold moths feasted upon her spirits till she would grow gloomy and sad and angry. Why did he not come?
"The clan's transfer papers are coming from the capital," Neji said, but she did not answer, only nodded. "Sasuke-Sama said that it'll soon be over. I just hope it'll be over for the better." And then he did not speak, and she did not speak, either. She had nothing to say—she wished him good fortune and better luck.
"I—" he stopped and produced a scroll from his pocket, "—I brought this letter from Hokage-Sama. She assured me that Itachi-Sama can't discharge you without her and Sasuke-Sama's approval! You shouldn't worry anymore. Rest easy!" He placed the scroll by her side and created the broadest smile she had ever seen on his face: it made him appear . . . a little playful!
Hinata smiled, too, a customary smile to return his. She did not look at the letter, not once, her eyes now focused on the flames as though they had stolen her heart and burnt it to ashes.
"Why hasn't . . . he replied?" she asked in a low, low voice and advanced the cup to her mouth. Her heart was just not in this home tonight—on autumn nights, it never was . . .
"I . . . can't say. He should've been back by now," he said, his smile softening, his eyes looking at the yellows and blacks that danced across her face. And then she said nothing and then he said nothing and then the Devil said something lovingly to the Lily and his storm, but neither heard and neither spoke anymore . . .
With his wings taken, the Crow's journey was difficult through storms; but if home was where the heart was, his existed in a single entity; the rest of his heart, fragmented, existed in patches, buried in each grave, dead like the occupants. The patches stopped beating when theirs had stop beating: each lump knew their rhythms well.
The house was quiet, a place of dim lights and old murmurs from empty rooms. His shadow stalked the walls like a ghost that came by from the graveyard, often. A welcoming coo, soothing and mild, issued from his chambers; and the piece of this heart that remained with him, resonated in love as though it was made to beat along with the child's heart, and without it, it would perish—unloved and lonely.
And the child was storm tonight, weary of his lies. He was ready to come into the world of waking men, with eyes fire and firesome: a divine conception at autumn's peak, but this conception took place in Winter's dream and Winter's womb, and it was more divine than the last one—a new rebirth for this child that was his and his alone! The child opened his eyes, and there she sat by his side, his mother, a white haze, a beautiful apparition in the mist-woven room that was too dim and dark; and the child lifted his torso off the sweat-soaked covers that smelt of his musk and scent, arms out-stretched, fingers trembling, water-starved lips shaking . . . just to whisper in a tone loaded with love and longing he had not felt in so long: "O-Okā-San . . . I've missed you!"
And a ferocious love that filled the child's eyes and dreams since their parting darkened his gaze, and his mother's countenance emerged from the patches of this world he had woken to; and she was beautiful! So beautiful! Beautiful like the Moon. Beautiful like the Moth. Beautiful like the Lord. Beautiful like the Devil. She was everything and nothing! Amen! Amen! Amen!
He just saw her lips, wearing the haze of a smile, permanent yet fleeting, kissed by Spring in haste before she drew him into her breast; and he was too old to draw milk from her teat and fall asleep again; so he wept and clung to her in love; she kissed his brow and cheek and stroked his head and back. Every man was a child against a mother's breast!
When she spoke from lips sweetened by winter's coming, her voice was rich and deep, not like a woman's; he looked up and his red eyes fixed on her long white throat, touched by her smooth hair, where a little shadow lay like a speck and the protrusion that moved there as she spoke; yet he loved her voice more now than he had loved her voice in the red of his memories, with a sword of love running through her heart that bled for his love still! She asked of him to go back to sleep before food was prepared. Yes, he was hungry! She knew! She always knew what he loved and liked and feared, like a mother would, like a mother should!
Then she lowered him gently back on the bed, his eyes filling with new dreams that dripped from the over-brimming red in her eyes; and when she bent her head to kiss his brow again, he felt a musk of rains and moths in her hair. Such a lovely smell that assured him of her coming, and he felt content in sinking back into the ocean of her lies . . . and what were lies from a mother's lips? Stories, just stories, all children loved!
The forest beckoned the new mother now, and its call was crushing. Her blood—no, His blood ran and danced at the phantom-image of that place in the forest that was blossoming in rich purple; so he left the sleeping child in a dream and walked with steps less steady and careful than before.
The smell was faint and it played with his senses with a cruelty . . . he always liked! And memories had come running back like children into the house of his mind—past was never in the past. It was haunted like homes and tasted rotten and sweet like candies! "Itachi, my boy, my sweet sweet boy!" she spoke. "You are a child, my child!" he spoke. "Won't you come and kiss and smell and taste our love?" they spoke, but why did they matter—why?
He had piled the corpses from the grey of his threshold to the pink of the horizon. Oh, sweet pink, spring in Winter's sky—there, right there, bleeding its heart out in love.
Oh, Winter, sweet sweet Winter, come here running for the heart that keeps. Oh, child, sweet sweet child, come here singing, see that for you it bleeds.
What love in the white of Winter, pink like spring, pink like blood. Sing Autumn child, sing songs, sing! They grow fierce, forever smothered by your love . . .
There was always a little wickedness in you, your heart, your feet, your hands. A sly tongue that told lies. An evil hand that broke hearts—ties. The forgetful eyes that chose new things. The wicked boy. The wicked child. Your tongue was no less wicked—serpent-like, profane like the Devil's. You wanted to know—you did not want to know what lay in another's heart; such was the indecisiveness in your pretty heart—the abode of Devil's love.
Are you shy? Everything is gone, but the whimpers the child's throat has sealed away for you. Won't you listen, won't you see, won't you feel, the love Autumn has nurtured in his heart? No, you shall bleed it on Winter's ground, too, and put a new heart in its place that listens and sees and feels . . . just you—only you! Amen! Amen! Amen!
The smell was strongest here, and his companions danced on Devil's wings, awaiting his union with moon and moth in this night when Autumn sang the loudest! The reaping had begun now, and Winter unleashed its first whisper!
Itachi stood by the spot where she had expelled the black curd, and he knew she wasted a part of him here. No matter—another time! Tonight he came to look upon the Lilies and smell the Moths that expelled poisonous fumes into the air whilst mating viciously! He looked upon Lilies, in autumn's bloom, dancing and catching the moon in their hearts. He had walked for an hour without a sense and sight, but now his eyes opened to colours.
His lashes trembled faster than moth's wings, passion shaking loose and coming alive in his veins and loins like a wanton creature out for union, and he crumpled to his knees on the poison-soaked soil of autumn upon which pink moths writhed and wilted after mating in frenzy. A red one was dying, too, but its death was slower and sweeter than the pink ones! So foolish in lust—so hopeful in love! They jumped, pumped full with poisons filling their bodies as they awaited release. Perverse. Simple. Common. This ground was their lust's grave—forever, always!
He gazed up, purple spots appearing in his reds, and beneath the tree, a fine patchwork of moon's light and night was on his face; he leant his head back and his spine and neck curved and his arms fell slackly to his sides; his hair hung loose and wet from his head as rain fell. His nostrils flapped and he sniffled like a child punished with severity: he had no space left in his senses to fill up with this smell; this was a holy perversion of his wishes—a wanton divinity!
His hand brushed and pressed harder against his wanting organ that desired something tight and wet to let out the primal ooze; and his eyes opened wide and his mouth opened wider to issue sighs from a breast that rose and fell fast—and soon his breaths morphed into laughter; and he laughed and fell back against the tree, with one leg stretched out and one bent awkwardly. Every memory of his mother, father, child flowed in and flowed over the brink—there was nothing more to accumulate! He was full! He was about to take flight upon his faith with wings reborn and mighty!
And he laughed and laughed as though everything was humorous tonight, his laughter crackling like thunder, soothing like breeze. He was not keen to run through the veins without purpose; and what was love till it did not but flow from the eyes? He closed his eyes, humoured, still laughing . . .
# # # # # #
EN: Tokugawa Ieyasu in my story is very, very loosely based on the famous historical figure. He will share some core traits with the man; however, treat my Ieyasu as an original character. (Ieyasu, however, did have male and female lovers, something that was fairly common amongst all Shoguns.)
Yoshiwara: A famous prostitution centre in Edo that flourished during the Tokugawa period.
Takao: A name awarded to a Tayū in Yoshiwara's famous Tayū house. There were eight Takao's (possibility nine or ten) in Yoshiwara's history.
Kiku: Japanese for Chrysanthemum.