Chapter Seventy-Three: Lost, not Found
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It was a day like any other day in this dreadful season that breathed winter's winds with increasing joy: chilly, gloomy, dreary. Everything smelt of Lilies and rot, a devious love shared between Autumn and Winter.
Animals lowered their heads and fed upon Autumn's remnants. Spring no longer remained in this soil's memory: it was but a forgotten trace; dead and buried in-between wet layers, it was meant to be forgotten . . .
It was quiet out here whilst she walked through the forest, homeward. Her bearing less calm, more anxious in the half-light of morning, foregrounded against a sobering mist that bedecked willow trees. The forest slept through the dread of this season. Would it smile in Winter? She could not say.
Flowers of spring at her feet had long since wilted—their brittle stems that remained above ground, decorated with shells of dead pink moths, cracked and crackled like morning biscuits made from old grains. To her dismay, she caught sight of Purple Lilies hiding in shadows like scheming children! They shook . . . so slightly and gleefully against an air current she could barely feel on her eyes and cheeks.
Her face fell, and she looked upon a pink moth that still struggled with sensations of pleasure and death in its belly, its flesh eaten hollow by a distinctly purple poison. She bent down, took it into her hands, watched it struggle in great pain. It had laid its eggs . . . somewhere amongst the thousands that clung (white, round, pearly) to the underside of leaves. Was it worth it? she wanted to ask, but what would the moth born without speech tell her? Nothing . . .
When she was one and seven years of age, she was a budding woman going through the motions of flesh's natural metamorphosis: she had started bleeding from her still-ripening genitals few years ago, which produced a sharp odour, which had yet to ripen like spring's fruits and expel . . . something sweeter.
She hated the blood when it came—messy and smelly and red. It soaked the rags clean through, spread out and dried up like loose jam over the swell of her thighs (when she was not careful), and made her belly ache during the days she did not eat well. Her mother was happy—she even smiled—that her daughter had gone through this bloody rite of passage! She did not understand her, at all (her daughter was half a woman now!); however, books on anatomy and workings of sex fascinated her just the same!
Still young and still foolish, she expected all boys to flock to her: she read that the smell of female sex—the one that was trapped underneath the neat enclosure of nether lips—was especially appealing to young males. It made little sense for some men to reject her and some to want to court her. This paradox of men's hearts and loins and noses puzzled her!
When she first met Sasuke, he was one and three years of age; and she, one and seven. In her, nerve-fraying desperation and underlying frenzy grew, one she had never experienced before, at the sight of him: he was the most beautiful and wild boy, with eyes like the blackest stones, with tongue like the sharpest kunais. He cared not whose heart he broke and wounded. He spoke of what was in his mind. He was honest. He was kind and unkind—strangest, littlest boy!
The older one lured flesh with his flesh; the younger one repelled flesh with his boyhood. There was a seizing charm that haunted about the older one, and though more beautiful than the wicked one, the little one was too pure to enchant Man—he was innocent, not yet ripe. The rhapsody of his flesh, which was caught in music of youth for the cunning one, she found it wanting.
His accent, still not honed and matured, shifted innocently between formal and informal, and something else she could not place: he was keen on impressing the older one whenever he was around. He would stand in his shadow, face lifted and eyes spirited, and speak, speak, speak. He would even smile then—oddest, sweetest boy!
He was young, but not young enough that would entail abstention from intercourse with ripe girls and women (boys and men, too). Oh, her heart and mind, which followed her flesh's dictations, worked humourlessly to coax him into intimacy. Even at that age, he was a bit taller than she, with legs and arms robust. And as sweet and fair and lovely as he appeared, he hid away his intemperate nature in the close disguise of his innocence and boyhood: he possessed quite the temper!
Noises from Nature jumbled up and sexual tumult ruled her flesh. She had always known that, if she did not act, it might eventuate in a harmful behaviour; so whilst they stood alone and together in Spring's forest, which stayed in a state of waking, his temper lashed her senses when she reached down and touched his genitals through the material of his Chūnin pants.
A frown changed his face that grew less kind in appearance in spite of Spring's tender lights that floated alongside his white face and near-transparent mists; and then he rejected her in a tone of anger overflowing. Just like that! She asked why, but he spoke not a word to calm her anxiousness.
Then he walked away and left a silent girl behind in spring's fleeing noise; and as he matured, he grew more and more distant from her. She tried and tried, yet there was no re-writing the inscriptions on his heart, well and meticulously constructed in matters which concerned her . . . and other things. He never requited her lust . . .
He was most gifted, and she always felt that his duties did not do justice to his outsized talents; but what good were his mind and body to her when his heart did not inspire any lust in him for her and her flesh? And, yes, boys (men, too) came to lay with her, asked of her to spread her thighs wide to accommodate their lengthening organs, yet he never did. To him, she was invisible: to her, he was visible. What a lovely boy—hurtful and cold to her!
When the wriggling stopped, so did the memories' struggle. Gently, she placed the moth down amongst many free ones that lay dead and soaked over the ground—it was drizzling again. Then she made her way to her home. Trees stood jutting in her path, but she knew her way back, like always.
She had just stepped onto the man-made stone-street when a voice called to her: "Sakura-San!"
Sakura turned around: it was Reo. He came to her with an ungainly walk, hair all sprung and prickly. He was clumsy, she thought, but she managed a smile. He had a scroll in his right hand—the ends of it appeared blotchy black with rain.
"It's from Serizawa-San—Sasuke-Sama might resume his duties today with Kai-San. He wants a full report 'bout the medical supplies that were used in the Cap'in's absence," he said, held out the scroll, and flashed a cutthroat, dazzling smile. He had a perfect set of teeth!
Sakura nodded and took the scroll. She did not stick around for the drizzle turned colder and heavier. She truly hated Autumn! So she turned away from him, quietly, and made her way home, eyes bent on countless ripples appearing in the film of water which persisted over the pathway.
She did not hear the slosh-slosh of her sandals: the walk back home was a lonely one. The streets were empty: 'twas a ghost-town with stray voices that came from homes and shops. Lights blinked on closed doors, their hues smothered by mists and rains. How could one's spirits stay jovial in enduring gloom? Purple Lilies, such children, were cruel!
Yet she had to meet with him and take from him a promised cure. It was all for naught . . . her father was still dying piece by piece from an ailment that was incurable. When she was young, he sold wares in treacherous lands: a peddler of common things, he was not respected amongst the people of Shadow Villages.
The girl-child Sakura wanted to be a merchant like he, but as she grew up, she felt the scorn of men hit her harder than it had her father: sour-faced and high-strung, she turned her back to the craft. Her father was disappointed in her, but differences made men turn devils against you. It was no use!
She chose the path of a Shinobi—a life in which blood and creed mattered less. You brought back a pound of flesh from the enemy, and every man cheered! At dawn, you would fear nothing; at night, you would lay down to sleep in a fetal position and coo in fear of your victim's vengeance!
Yet it was primal—everything was raw and real! Dirt under the fingernails of a common merchant was vile: blood-soaked fingers of a dutiful Shinobi, a measured mile. How things changed: how they remained the same. She grew up hating her merchant father, and, upon her hung a mist of otherness she never could escape.
In Naruto, she found peace of mind; in Sasuke, she sought peace of body, with exceeding desperation; and when the body was not at ease, the mind became a playground of dangerous riots that had a tendency to . . . stray; and she had strayed so far down the roads that lead to dreams of little girls, princes . . . escapes festooned with little thoughts littlest girls cherished.
And three years ago, he went away to sell medicines in a secluded village and contracted a fungal infection from a rare black-pin mould—one that festered between the dark seams of wet stones—that endured years of dormancy to cause men nightmares and suffering.
He got lost in rain and storm, but winter's snow, with divinity in its unblemished state, that shone on peaks caught his eyes; bewitched by its enduring beauty, he wandered deeper into trouble. He was never the same again. Now, empty bottles of laudanum lay shining and scattered in the changing lights by his bed. In pain, he cried out obscenities; in anxiety, he coughed out blood that dirtied his clothes and sheets. Insolvent and irritable man, circumscribed by dreams that lay in ruin.
Hours of the day, days of the week, weeks of the month, months of the years locked together and blurred into spotty inscriptions on her Dear diary scrolls; but her wishes that stayed smooth and regular like dreams suddenly became unattainable. Will it be worth it? she thought, but like the unspeaking moth, she had no answer . . .
Outside the window, sky turned red and dark, a wraparound of reds and purples for autumn's sky, a Kingly garb for a King she always desired! Yet he was never hers—never . . . he was never fair—never . . .
Air, cool like rain, filled Sakura's lungs up, and she placed the scroll on the table. It was time to meet up with the man in shadows again. He asked so much and gave so little; it was not as though he could give her what she wanted; but, at least, she found a purpose in him: a purpose to go on, a purpose to live!
With this last thought, she wounded her thumb between her teeth and felt the metallic spurt of bitterness tingle her tongue. Then she drew a quick symbol on the floor and made fast seals with her fingers; and in the blink of an eye, Reo felt her vanish in her room—without a trace!
When she appeared at the hideout, it was darker and sparsely lit than usual; but something was different this time: from crevices in old walls, Purple Lilies grew, shirred by darkness and lichen, delicately. Their fragrance excited blood and bud—their presence roused lust and dust. Sweat materialised on her forehead, a cluster of droplets on her chin.
Bright chakra breaths crossed amidst flora like prayer beads, and at the hot sensations they stirred in air, blood gurgled from the broken orifice between her thighs and soaked through her underwear to make a dark stain; and with it came the tiniest drop of black substance she had nurtured in her womb whilst dreaming of the older one. It hid well inside red and fell down into the crack that was an unending gorge for its tiny size. It had found the right home to grow—at last!
She heard footsteps approach her and turned around; and, in a moment, a young man walked into the corridor and the wash of light that was dim. His face was meek, but she knew Danzō never kept the company of meek men. (She had never seen him before.) He looked at her and produced a scroll from his pocket—so Danzō did not want to see her this evening?
"Take it. A guard from Mist brought it—it's got another Kinjutsu," he said, his tone guarded, and held out the scroll. "Mei will bring another one when she comes to Konoha."
"When?" she asked and took the scroll from him.
"Soon," he gave a curt reply, face full of shadows, and she felt that the conversation was over.
"You're bleeding," he suddenly said, looking down in curiosity at the red globules slithering down her left thigh. They itched, passing down over her skin, exciting fine vellus hairs as they went.
"I noticed," she said, but, when she turned around to go for the receiving seal etched deep and black into the solid floor, he spoke again: "Keep an eye on that Hyūga girl."
"Hinata? Why?" she stopped and asked, shocked.
"Danzō-Sama's orders. He thinks that Itachi knows everything about you—it's for the best that you're careful," he said, his words dripping with latent threat this time. Distracted, he turned and tapped his finger thrice against the withered lantern fixed to the wall with visible screws. This dislodged a chunk of muck stuck to the inside of the glass and brightened the light beam, in which the droplets appeared thick and shiny against the blushing pink of her flesh.
Then he stepped back, as if to give her room to re-collect her breaths, and walked away, a lasting echo of his steps filling the tight corridor. She thought it wise to keep Itachi's forays into her mind a secret. As always, Danzō posed more questions and provided no answers, asked more and gave little in return.
The air sung a refrain, but she had no words to answer it; she heard it one last time, talking to her heart, and disappeared from the corridor inside a bright light . . .
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When Izumi woke up in the morning, she saw red moths dead in the large garden tree, saw them hanging from boughs like blood torrents frozen; but when the boughs shook to cold, they, like leaves which remained, fell down upon the sodden ground bursting with smells. Had the red moths come to gaze upon the beloved in envy? How terrible!
Now, their bodies lay scattered on the ground, interspersed by water-filled shallow rills in the soil. The bud had grown some more, encouraged by the season that allowed it to soak up its richness. At this rate, it would sprout a flower soon. Oh, it was most concerning! What would she do?
The wild little boy stole her letters in the past, often; yet one night, bursting with anger, she gave chase to him through rolling mists and wet flora; and when she caught up as he stopped by the pond, smiling at what he had done, she grabbed him by the wrist, swung him around, and struck him across the cheek! The quick clap-like sound echoed, as if a wet and slippery pebble collided against pebble.
The plump cheek rippled with the force of her aggression, and red darted across white with quickness. Most children would have wept, but Sasuke was not most children: he stared at her with fire in his eyes and right cheek. Rain and mist did not cool that shade, and she found herself getting afraid at the sight of Itachi whilst he walked to her with quick steps, his Sharingan growing in anger inside narrow shadows.
Itachi went down on one knee and touched the soft cheek that burnt. Sasuke did not say a word, his eyes fixed on her with a determination she did not expect from a child of six. Tears were in his eyes and on his cheeks, spread around like pond bubbles which reflected light—she could tell that they did not materialise from weakness, but from anger!
"Why did you hit him? He's just a boy!" Itachi spoke in a deeper voice not controlled by his patience and rose to his feet—his Sharingan had not returned to a state of rest.
"I—" Izumi stopped, her heart racing in madness. What had she done?
Izumi's eyes widened and then she squeezed them shut and pressed her hands to her breast when she saw Itachi raise his hand to hit her, too. She sniffled, shaking in fear to brace his strike, cracked her eyes open, peered at him. He had lowered his hand that rested on Sasuke's head now.
"I-Itachi-San, I'm sorry—please—"
"Get out of here. I don't want to see you again," he spoke in a tone that was calmer than the previous one and lifted up Sasuke into his arms. Then he walked away back into the shadows that came from about the house.
"Itachi—Itachi-San . . . " She wept, looked down and then up at the sky where meek red danced, a rich palette awaiting the rage of coming murders . . .
That was so long ago, before the murders, before the indifference, before the distance. Now, her eyes focused on the ornate wall-mounted rack, off which light glanced. The door to the ever-green garden lay open, letting in lights that powered through wet foliage.
Sounds of rain that struck lightly this house filled the room up to the ceiling. It was always raining these days. She gazed upon the visible bend of stream by the stone lantern—the stream had slightly overflowed its pebbled-bank, its speed retarded, and water sought new channels through rills. That portion of garden was . . . muddy.
Izumi saw hazes of red and white and black and purple koi twisting and glancing under numerous ripples, their heads bent to the stream's bed. They liked to stay here rather than swim out with the gentle flow. Sasuke fed them well. She sighed . . . Itachi was quiet—too quiet—whilst he sat by her side, busy writing . . . something.
Izumi had not expected that he become jovial over the prospects of sake and mating, yet his distant nature hurt her heart. When Itachi was a boy, he always left her in awe—it shocked her that so wise a perspective would come from so young a boy!
The words from a boy that always delighted the girl, hurt the woman. There was a fear of his desertion that supplied her with nightmares. He was not the one to ply lovers with jewellery and affection, but she could not imagine why anyone would take instant flight after . . . getting better acquainted with this side of him. One woman before her did; a hopeful bride-to-be like she, brought to his chamber by his insistent grandmother, she stayed for two days and two nights and fled his house, thinking him to be a corpse with no heart. Izumi could not imagine why!
She placed her hand gently on his working arm and leant her head against his shoulder. He stopped in his task of writing for a beat—an agonising fraction too long. Then he resumed without looking at Rao who was smiling from across the small table between them, pulling her grey-coloured hair from her face, her old eyes squinting.
Izumi smiled. She had dreamt of him for so long, settling and sliding between her legs, moving and delighting her flesh. Izumi did not understand why she took to her heels (but she heard from a trusted friend that the woman liked the younger brother more—how foolish!): he brought such delight to her senses in dying hours—he was a good lover; he did what she asked and touched her where she liked it most, with a face void of passion, with a steeliness to his tone. She did not care!
Izumi laid down to sleep and mate with him and creatures made music in the white light and black night. He liked to keep the garden door open during night, but she never felt the cold of winter glimmering in patches inside mists spreading in curls about ground; and she clutched to him and sighed to him in lust. She enjoyed initiating the act, making him join his flesh to her flesh. Girl—she was such a girl with the most girlish heart!
Often, he would lie on his back, hand on his breast, head and neck straight, and look up at the ceiling where reflected ripples rippled silver. Lost and unblinking, he stared, like nothing existed in the world but the faces of moon in all manner of things; and she was forgotten in the moments. Just like that!
And he was so beautiful that she would look upon the moon over his throat that peeked from between the hair so black. She was not allowed to press her body to him like a needy child after the act was done. He liked to maintain . . . distance—even from the lovers he indulged. So days crossed and nights passed, and she waited for a sign of him to appear in her womb. Sooner or later, it would, and that made her quite happy!
Izumi was thinking of speaking with him about the growing flower in the garden when the door opened and Sasuke walked in. Itachi stopped writing and looked up with hardness withering in his eyes. She looked at Sasuke, too, whilst he stood in the light that turned bright in mists dissipating—he looked unreal, his beauty unnatural (she never understood the women who desired the company of this man who approximated an ethereal boy in his adolescent years). The rain stopped . . .
"I need to speak with you—about the team?" Sasuke said, his eyes wandering about the room. Itachi nodded once and frowned a subtle frown when Izumi did not move. Sasuke bent his head and let slip a little chuckle.
"Izumi—come!" Rao spoke as though she was speaking to a wee girl, nodding. At that, Izumi frowned, a frown that was exquisitely comical in appearance. She got to her feet, did a little bow to Itachi, and marched behind Rao—but not before sticking her tongue out at Sasuke whilst she passed through the door, a gesture that did not go unwitnessed by Itachi.
"What is it?" Itachi asked and rubbed at his temple with the tip of his fingers.
"The team—where is it?" Sasuke asked, and Itachi saw the same accusing boy glaring at him from his face.
"I discharged them," he spoke simply and resumed writing.
"Why?" he asked, his tone impatient as always.
"Your team's incompetence nearly cost you your life," he paused and dipped the pen into the inkpot, "it is for the best."
"You can't discharge them without my—"
"I can and I did," Itachi cut across him and stopped writing again. "It is in my authority to extend their stay. I decided against it. Suigetsu will come by to collect his resignation from the outpost. You can meet with him should you desire."
"What incompetence? You don't tell me anything and keep doing things as you please!" Sasuke spoke, and his voice cracked with irritation—a bit.
"I do not wish to speak of it. That is all," Itachi spoke, and this time, he chose not to stop his writing and look at his younger sibling. He heard Sasuke breathe out a loud breath of frustration, but he said nothing. It was for the best.
Itachi was silent; Sasuke, annoyed of the scribbling noises that came from the pen scraping against the scroll. Itachi was ignoring him again, and he disliked that his brother had created his own scriptorium in the library to keep on acting in this manner.
Sasuke, determined to wheedle a tiny hint out of his brother, opened his mouth to argue when Kai came into the room through the garden. At his back, light shone brightly that he looked like a lump of coal to Sasuke's eyes. Kai bowed his head and did not raise it. Always a sycophant—Sasuke truly loathed him!
"Till you are not strong and robust, Kai will oversee the matters of your team alongside you," Itachi spoke, and this revelation struck Sasuke's senses and made him angry.
"I don't need him," he said, almost whispering, almost hissing.
Itachi stopped writing. He put the pen down, gazed at the scroll, and stood up. He wore white garments with a black haori. Sasuke could not tell where his hairs, which fell upon his shoulders, began and ended. He walked through lights to Sasuke, breaking them in half, and stopped a step short of him.
"Be a good child. Do not disobey me," Itachi spoke and adjusted Sasuke's flak jacket. "Look, how your hairs have grown. They grow out so fast. Cut them." He nodded with a little tilt of his head and smiled an unnatural smile that was soft and cold at the same time.
"Oh, I received the delightful letter from the Hyūga Chūnin. Persistent girl," Itachi spoke and pressed Sasuke's rough hair down. "You clever child. It appears that I made a little error in Judgement. I cannot discharge her without a reason.
"And I searched hard in my memories and found an answer. If she has not learnt anything of value in the coming trials, I will discharge her. You may leave." Itachi gently tapped his fingers against Sasuke's cheek, twice. The older one could see the helplessness, the annoyance, the anger sprout like clustering blooms in the younger one's eyes; yet the younger one said nothing and left the room in silence.
When Itachi heard Sasuke leave the house, he turned around and looked at Kai: he had not lifted his face since he entered this room. "You could not hide one missive in my absence. Is watching over a little boy so hard? What am I to do with you?" he spoke, his smile lost to cool arrogance and cooler anger.
"Forgive me, Itachi-Sama. I—" he stopped, speaking in intermittent whispers, "—I left to tend to my sister, Kuro. She called me to her. She had a fever. She gets ill when seasons change."
"Leave. I will speak with you later," he commanded and watched Kai leave the same way he came in. His weakest shadow slipped away behind him.
A few moments passed and Rao came back into the room, and Itachi could tell that she was not happy with his treatment of his bride-to-be. He helped her sit down by the low table and spoke: "you should rest. This exertion is not good for your health."
"You do not care, child," she spoke and wiped away wispy silver strands from her cheek. "Show the poor girl a little warmth. She is heartbroken by your distance."
Itachi sat down, too, and gazed at her and spoke: "what more do you want me to do? Dandle her in my lap when she weeps? Put morals of food in her mouth to satisfy her whimsy? Write love letters to her whilst it rains?
"If that were your vision, then, perhaps, Serizawa was better suited for her. Though I imagine you will have to press him with conviction to take another wife, or relinquish the one he has—amidst great sorrow and tears. He is quite the romantic, or duty-bound. I have always misjudged his intentions regarding the most delicate matters of marriage. The man is very strange."
Upon hearing the frustrations of his typically cold grandson so apparent in his words, Rao pressed her hand to her lips and laughed . . .
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Wind swung the window open and it hit against the wall. Wind and rain came at his face. He was too tired to close the window. He liked the cold: it calmed the heats in his heart that raged in this unfamiliar age. Perhaps his heart had escaped the time of withering, staying young like he.
"His fever is down. He is sleeping," Kushina spoke, her faerie-like face glowing in the lantern that refused to go out. Minato smiled and Kushina elegantly interlaced her arm with his.
"I do not understand—the seals are not working," she spoke in her usual delicate voice whilst she looked out into the dark of the forest that fringed the peaks. "Perhaps Sasuke is responsible. Sharingan can manipulate the essence of the maturing seal—like Fugaku did with the host. It bypasses it.
"I do not know how—why. It is all a mystery to me."
"I was cut off from the Tulip Squad when the host went mad—disgraced. Danzō's orders," Minato spoke and issued a long white sigh that vanished into the breeze. "I believed that implicating Fugaku would grant me the seat after his shame—grant me the power to resist Danzō when he suggested that I place the essence in my son. I was wrong . . . "
"Minato . . . " Kushina whispered with trembling lips and squeezed his hand in hers. "It is not your fault. Darling, forgive yourself!"
"I never offered any aid regarding the coup. Perhaps this is Karma . . . " he spoke, and she saw pearls floating over the oceans of his eyes—blue, ever blue!
"Do not fault yourself!" she assured and planted a kiss on his hand. "I have placed a good seal on Naruto—one that will mature quickly through the cold days of Autumn. The season favours this seal. He will recover fast!"
"Did he send the rienjō to Hiashi's house?" Minato asked and looked at her. Kushina nodded.
"Some hours ago," she whispered, a sense of relief in her voice.
"We never should have burdened him with this matter—regardless, it is in the past," he spoke, looking at the droplets crossing and flying across the window-frame—silver and delicate in the light, they were many!
"He wants to re-join the squad. Should I . . . ?" she asked, unsure.
"Let him. It will make him happy," he answered, and his overcoat floated in the breeze; its colours, fires which marked the edges with surety, had truly faded . . .
Wind, unable to carry their whispers so far, reached Hinata with a gentleness. She sat by the lantern, its light passing through camellia's delicate white petals, which like silk were the finest and whitest. The Purple Lily had dried up by its side, and with its splendor lost, chakra breaths stopped coming—vanished! She did not understand their mechanics.
Her father's house creaked less tonight. Perhaps the storm was calmer now. She moved the flowers aside and opened the first letter: the handwriting was made of erratic lines in spots of black ink; Naruto never had a steady hand.
Dear Hinata,
I'm sorry—I'm truly sorry. I never knew you, and you never knew me. I can't return the years I've taken from you; but with this, I hope that you find freedom in the new years you always wished for. You are free . . .
Find it in your heart to forgive me.
Your dearest friend,
Naruto.
Hinata's lips and fingers trembled, and the letter slipped from her hands. Hastily, she opened the other one: this was composed with a steady mind and bold hand, the lines having a sense of less impulse and more clarity. Minato wrote this—she could tell; and true to his promise, Naruto had freed her from their agonising union with three and a half vertical lines and a clear black thumb-print.
She whimpered, like a girl child who tried hard to hide her weakness, breaths hissing from her blood-less lips in spurts. Frightened of the words as if they had come alive to bite her, she took hold of camellia's stem and ran out into the rain. It hit her flesh with a ferocious cry, roaring; excited from slumber her spirit, soaring.
Hinata did not care where she ran—heart-ward? Rain and wind struck her cheeks with passion; her wet hair and kimono slapped against her flesh, and she dripped, dripped, dripped! Her feet, rough-white and hard from years of toiling amidst the grass of moors, sank into the loose mud. She did not care. There was a strange sense of freedom in running—running—running!
At last, out of breaths, she sank down by a stone lantern. Fast droplets slipped off its edges like unbreakable and unending strings. She leant over the stream, her hand in mud, her other hand holding the camellia tight and hard. And she saw blood pool into her lips whilst she created a trembling smile; and she laughed—laughed for she felt happy!
"Free!" she said, elated without measure. "Free! O-Okā-San—I'm free!"
Hinata jumped to her feet and spun round and round and round in dizzying circles. The whole world and its hues crushed together to make of this woman a happy little girl! Round and round and round she kept spinning, releasing silver droplets in floating circles with her movements, thinking herself to be a string-less toy.
It was Naruto's birth date today, and a gift of freedom for him was truly an act of freedom for her! She loved Autumn—she loved him, missed him, desired him; and she stopped, leant her head back, and passed her hands over her hair and head and heart; sensed his songs rattle her spirit; felt his instruments kiss her flesh; heard his whispers in her head!
She opened and closed her eyes, blinking.
Free! Free! Free!
# # # # # #
Itachi was mean and imposing. He did not understand his older brother—not one bit. With Kai around, his movement was restricted. What to do—what to do! Time and Men were not on his side; it was like the whole damned world was out to get him, ruin him. He would not sit easy. Damn his brother—he was hiding something, and he intended to find out.
The emissaries from Cloud and Mist were coming soon. He had to create a chance to slip out. It was now or never! He smiled and opened the little safe place only he and Karin knew of. His Sharingan saw the surprise before he removed the seal-covered wooden piece in the floor of his room.
It was a missive, and its content—it surprised him! It said that Itachi asked of her to make a seal for him, a seal from the Base Seal utilised for Bijū sealing! His smile widened and he let out an innocent laugh.
Could it be? he thought; but it was just a little game between hard-headed and un-bending brothers now, was it not? Let some fools die: let some fools enjoy!
The thing was lost, not found; but soon—soon! Oh, his brother would be so sorry!
# # # # # #
EN: Mikudari-han (literally 'three lines and a half') was a document used for divorce; however, most surveys in the late-nineteenth century use the term Rienjō (letter of divorce); and since I'm using the more stringent rules of the late Edo Period for the Hyūga clan matters, I decided to go for the latter name rather than the former.
The black-pin mould reference should be taken as fictional. This isn't how it grows.