Chapter Seventy-Four: A Temple of Night's Lamentations
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Sky, a temple of night's lamentations; yellow took from it its radiance, and dawn became dusk and dusk became dawn when liquid light surged back out. Eternal was this playtime of children, thunder and clangour; but this morning's breast was torn and turning red at night, hot like the son of May; a child raging between streaks of grey, like a darling boy of Autumn parted from the other in anger. Rains—autumn rains never did relent.
Today was another sombre morning: a slow rain fell, and translucent droplets, disturbed dearly by lights which came to the ground as though by force of will, impacted onto the forest, deformed, burst into fast droplets, glinting. The ground was soggy and sucked in his sandals, groves fed by water. This forest's death was slow, so slow and agonizing; but Autumn's slow death was the sweetest death . . . in Winter's eyes and embrace—children, such martyrs!
Sasuke had no intention of coming out here, walking in the rain to do nothing. It was a hopeless mission that served no purpose. He always could count on his older brother to humiliate him, remind him of his place in the clan. He let out a hot breath touched by his chakra, and mist melted rapidly in front of his eyes, decorated by rain-touched lashes.
Anger moved and struck the chakra-coil, and inside, chakra crackled and anger did boil. His sibling, winter's immaculate dream, was never fair—he was unfair, always. Sasuke walked through the sleeping forest made restless by benign and angry storms. He could hear Kai's wet footfalls behind his back, in pursuit of him, and he had the sudden urge to stop, turn around, and take his anger out on him. He wanted to be unfair, too! Itachi's most obedient whelp—the man was insufferable!
Sasuke chose not to turn around and remind Kai of his hopeless cravings. What good would it do? He let out another breath and mist sizzled and fumed against the latent fires. His mind left the vacancy of his gaze and entered the domain of desperation: Karin had asked of him to meet her in their secret place his brother did not know of, a secret between children. But—how? He did not know what to do! Something had to give! But—what? Think—think—think, he thought, rubbing his fingers together inside the pocket!
He walked and walked, eastbound, and in his sight, rain and mist animated the trees that stood still. At last, he reached the clearing, a patch covered with layers upon layers of forgotten leaves. The aroma of musk and rot nearly clogged up his throat and nostrils; but there was a flavour of autumn in the air, a taste of flowers. The smell was soothing to his senses.
Sasuke stood with his back against the tree whilst fog and mist gathered about his ankles like a turbid river's froth. Kai chose to stand beside him. He did not enjoy this close proximity to Kai, but to keep his brother satisfied, he endured his presence. He watched Neji, red in the cheeks with cold, as he collected the small mission's reports from Reo, Sakura, and two Chūnins: they had to investigate the case of an ill guard in one of the outposts. If his suspicions were accurate, it was just common cold . . .
Sakura looked at him once, her movements twitchy, and then she bent her head to avoid looking at him in the face. In the fog that rose, she was a haze of lines and a blur of colours; his Sharingans were cold and hard to her pleas and seductions; his natural eyes, no less cold and no less hard. He never could understand her or her passions; her constant lust struck his nerves with an irritation. The missive could not come sooner—and then she would be gone. Naruto ought to understand: it was no use playing husband with her; marriage was not a lovesick children's game at the house of dolls. He was such a fool!
She moved through the contours like a distant mirage, stopped by the tree to look back at him once more, and turned away and disappeared little by little in the intensifying autumn's greys. He never possessed the heart to miss her presence, to feel her absence. Soon, there would be a sense of permanence to her absence. He could not say . . . he felt anything, not even a little tingle of sadness, at the prospect.
Moments passed and the mission team went away into the forest, all but Neji. He shoved the scrolls he could into his pockets and clutched two in his hands. Then he made his way to Sasuke, his steps less firm on the rain-covered ground, from which autumn flowers grew. Little bursts of colours, they whipped about at his motion.
"Sasuke-Sama, I—" Neji spoke and stopped to hold out a scroll, "—I didn't expect to see you so soon."
"What does the report say?" Sasuke asked, unable to restrain his irritation any longer, which revealed itself in form of a throbbing green vein in his temple.
"Ah, it . . . " Neji spoke, his voice trailing off into the morning gloom, " . . . 'twas just common cold. Nothing serious. It's all in this report Sakura made." His breath hissed in sharply between his teeth, and the pink colour of his cheeks turned a different shade of red—he was embarrassed.
Sasuke took the scroll from Neji's hand and nodded. Neji gave a short bow and left, and he was done with this mission, at last. Of all the missions to have him oversee, this was what his over-efficient brother chose? Anger—he felt such anger. A trace of it materialised and drowned in his eyes' red and visible whites of his neck and countenance, invading the chalky hue like a spill of blood into the snow—a little pink, a little sweet. This was too much! He would speak to his brother, and he would have to listen.
With this thought, which starved for the fulfilling meal of confrontation, Sasuke walked away from the clearing, homeward. His steps were firm and quick; his heart was raw-beating and fast-sounding. Sasuke did not stop, and seeing his conviction so stark and apparent on his physiognomy, Kai followed in his wake.
"Sasuke, slow down!" Kai spoke from behind, trying to catch up, puffs of white coming from his mouth and nostrils.
Trees' limbs moved in wind and play about them; but Sasuke did not answer as he moved like a wrathful ghost in their midst. If he made it to the house, Itachi would be angry with Kai again; and he could bear his increasing anger no more, not when it showed little signs of softening.
"Sasuke, wait!" he spoke again, breathless; and he increased the speed of his walk and stretched out his arm to get hold of Sasuke's wrist.
"What?" Sasuke stopped and turned around to face him, his Sharingan's flower out this time to threaten him to mind his manner and space. Sasuke never enjoyed his company—he knew. The feeling, at least, was mutual.
"Itachi-Sama—" he stopped to calm his fast breathing, "—Itachi-Sama's instructed me to—"
"I don't care what he's told you. I don't give a damn," he said and looked down, his eyebrows coming together, his cold-bitten lips narrowing into a hard line. "Let go." He looked back up at Kai, and a sharp light rolled over the fire of his irises. Kai, as if burnt by his gaze, let go immediately.
Kai stepped back—this was not good. "No need for anger, Sasuke—I'm just doing my duty."
"I'm sure you are," Sasuke answered, and a smile decorated the dull hue of his lips with a colour sharp, his anger vanishing like mist. Oh, and it was telling of Kai's weakness—he so loathed this younger one!
In the rain that thinned and the light that thickened in glorious, vision-defying waves, Sasuke saw a mousy man that bothered him night and day—his brother's favoured instrument had kept his virtue over the years, like a Kami-fearing and Karma-loving dervish: Kai was not beastly as much as timid in manner; his face was that of a young man—albeit he was as old as Serizawa, he was easily intimidated; and at his height, Sasuke could look at him eye to eye.
Kai's face was sharp like river stones and thin like a wooden puppet's and white like the whitest bone, but less white than his brother's; his eyes, unnaturally bright and dull in equal measures, failed to offer decorative effects for his features, half of which remained hidden by shadows on sunken flesh and wild black hair about his brow and cheeks; he spoke in a clipped cadence that gave his words the illusion of competence and possessed a mean mouth that he kept pursed tightly over his teeth, a method which created the impression of a strong visage.
He invested great care in creating a fair appearance to entice the one he wanted to entice—so desperately; and for what purpose? His face had no feature with which his character could flourish in another's eye—he was as dull as the Lord, whom he served, was magnificent. How foolish! Kai was a tick engorged on his blood in his eyes, no more, no less.
Through his lens, Sasuke saw a wanting man who wore about his body a cord made of ardour that had been rubbed furiously against the stone-idol of his older brother's false charms: like a proper daemon, Itachi's office was to cause fools to fall in lust with him and make them do his bidding—to hell and beyond? Who knew; his brother was just wicked. If Sasuke were to collect the missives, painstakingly perfumed and passionately penned, his brother received from strangers every week, he would be able to make a comforting grave for him, with a fine and chiseled slab that read: he was dearly loved!
They harboured hopes in their breasts that they might converse with the Anbu Commander, who was cold to matters physical in nature; so they dreamt of submission if required by him, passively. This man, too, had officiated as an accidental Anbu lackey of his Devil-brother and an optimistic receiver of his Lord's (Devil's) most-coveted kiss—so sacred, right on his lips! Oh, to be so nurturing of the dream that made skin and voice tremour, tenderly—so undone, right by his feet! Silly, silly, silly! (He had a very sudden inclination to laugh!)
"What do you hope to gain from him?" Sasuke asked, unable to stop the tremble of amusement in his voice; and he saw Kai's contours change and turn meaner—he was prone to process complicated emotions with refusals and frowns than by actions.
"I don't know what you—"
"You know what I mean," Sasuke cut across him, his smile, full of meaning, deepening like the colour in his skin. "Don't play games. If I can see it, so can he. You're fooling no one."
Wind blew in, but Kai did not weep to his dismay. In his eyes, a depth of colour flourished, a kind that Sasuke had not witnessed before. Kai opened and snapped his mouth shut, with visible anger in his eyes and face—he was glowing as red as lush tomatoes! To say something to this young one now would incur the other one's wrath: it was like being crushed between the little Devil and the older Devil; there was no deep blue sea for Kai to find refuge and drown in.
"Your obedience will get you nowhere—he doesn't care," Sasuke spoke and placed a hand on Kai's shoulder and moved his eyes around, "he . . . doesn't care. Stop listening to him. He'll make you miserable like he makes me miserable. See? We're almost alike!" Then he backed away with a soft laughter that sung in Kai's ears and left the bowls of the forest and him all alone!
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Autumn's air laughed with the merrymaking of children fast at play. The bud lurked behind the closed well some yards from where she stood in the library. It was empty, but his signs remained despite his absence: a wooden brush resting on the scroll; an open ink bottle; an old red lantern that was not lit. He worked in silence, and when he left, he cast off his silence like a well-worn garment in the rooms he visited to strangle her dreams: he had not called her to him for two nights . . .
Almost demurely, Izumi touched her belly with one unsure hand: she could tell that it was empty. Worry cast grey upon her countenance that was paler than usual. He had not withheld his chakra from her, but his heart was not in the act; and no matter how many times she went near him for copulation with great enthusiasm, she saw no change in his bearing: he was always . . . distant; he enjoyed the act, not her company; and her eyes, starved of an up-close viewing before, could only glut on his mystic beauty for so long. Colours of him had flooded her barren visions and gone over the brim of her girl-ish eyes—many times over. They needed more—she needed more from him now.
Maybe the child would change him, she thought. It was a good thought. Men altered their behaviours to accommodate to the needs of their children, often; but to him, Sasuke was his first born, and first born sons were dearest to men! She released a long and frustrated breath; she did not understand him. Sasuke was not his son—he was not! Why, oh, why was he moved by the little one's outbursts, pleas, entreaties? Why was he so strange?
Izumi walked to the door that was open and stood in the doorframe, feeling a cooler breeze go through her kimono and slide along her body. Then she thought of him, which she often did, and of lust of which he was capable. When the natural heat arose in him, his flesh heard its supplication and hardened and moved. He was a man like any other man under the spell of the body's needs—he was no avowed atheist battling against the religion of physical attractions; he just knew the trickeries to hide things well.
Yet he sighed less whilst he filled her and brought her love and the girl in her to naught, of which she penned on the scrolls at the feeble dictations of a girl's heart. If his disinterest continued, he would send her home after the birth of his son, and she did not want to part from him—not ever. Something had to give!
Izumi turned away from the garden, upon which tear-sized and light-bespeckled droplets sat trembling, and sat down by the table he utilised for work. In curiosity, she opened the drawer and looked at the properly arranged things: scrolls, brushes, ink bottles, and a neatly folded cloth placed beside a large brush.
It was red as blood, soft and silky as autumn's flower; and she took it out and pressed it to her nose; and a potent but crumbling fragrance escaped the threads that evoked the passing strips of her little sister's memories, who lost her life to fever in infancy: she could almost smell the presence of lavender in her twisting hair, almost see the colour in her curving smile, almost feel the smooth cream in her blushing skin . . .
The smell transported her back in time; trapped by the confines of her mind's prison, and Izumi was . . . lost. She held the cloth close to her breast, her vision entombed in the wondrous world of worlds. Then, as though she felt his presence near, she looked at the door and jumped to her feet: it was Itachi and he stood in the door. It was difficult to discern the nature of his features that were overwhelmed by the moon-white of his skin. He looked at her, stepped into the room, but said nothing.
He had put up his hair in a tight ponytail again, arranging it well with a ribbon, that most of it hung straight and sleek at the back of his neck; and some of it, lank and loose, framed his face. Fully dressed, he stood tall and fair in his Anbu uniform; he was leaving . . . somewhere?
It was the fantastic operation of the mind that made Izumi take note of his appearance again; and albeit she was pretty and girlish in an effervescent sense, she thought that she looked very common in his presence. This truth was made more apparent by the light that was kinder to the coldest places of him. She was a woman, and she envied him and his perfection.
Itachi was quiet whilst he looked down at the fist that clutched the red cloth tightly and then up at the full force of redness that appeared in her cheeks, together with a disorderly collection of sweat droplets. She stole glances at his smooth face: he looked calm, but knowing him, a storm of anger could be brewing in his breast right about now!
"I-Itachi-Sama, I'm—" Izumi stopped, her words lost in her throat; fear and anxiety blurred her vision.
"Why are you—" Itachi stopped at the quick sounds of steps and rustling of wet foliage that came from the garden, and Sasuke appeared within moments at the garden door that lay open. She thanked Kami that he showed up—she was happy to see him! Itachi looked at Sasuke, and swiftly, she placed the cloth back inside the drawer; Itachi cast her a quick glance, but stayed silent.
Sasuke removed his sandals at the steps and stepped into the room, and spoke: "Leave. I need to talk to him."
And just like that, anger for him replaced happiness. "Sasuke, you—don't speak to me that way! I won't—"
"Leave," Itachi cut across her in a voice that was sweetly acidic.
Izumi blinked, taken aback by the lack of censure in his words, and red flecked the whites of her eyes in anger, but she did not want to displease the clan's heir; so she gave a stiff and reluctant bow and marched out of the room amidst the clouds of perfume that originated from her garments and sounds of jewelry that clinked in her hair.
"I have sent her away like you asked," Itachi spoke and he was demure, silver-tongued again whilst he approached him. Sasuke said nothing, his anger enveloping his features in a tidal wave. How he loathed this act Itachi performed: he was not an audience to his theatrics!
"What is it this time, you sweet child?" he whispered and smiled, and a layer of mischief pulled back from his face, delicately, slowly, as though he was . . . sincere in his words and steady in his promises; an idol of Nature's legerdemain, he could not fool him. Sasuke threw the scroll in his hand at the small table; it bounced off the surface and fell down in a clatter of ink bottle and brushes. Black spread across the white of scroll and few letters Itachi had created and dripped off the sides, drop by drop—his table was in a mess!
"Why make such a mess?" Itachi remarked, his manner lazy and unconcerned. "You have created more work for an old man. Are you satisfied?"
"It was common cold!" Sasuke spoke with a frowning visage that resembled that of an incensed and innocent boy.
"Is that so? You should be glad, or did you want the poor man to perish for your report? You will get another chance at a deadlier ailment. Do not be a cruel child," he spoke, and wisps of light made his tear-troughs more pronounced that he looked like a crow whose outer-mask was fashioned like the charming face of a perfect theatre actor.
"You knew!" he hissed this time, anger ringing in the sound of his voice, rough and demanding.
"My, we have a temper this morning. I am even letting you meet up with the Hōzuki boy at the outpost at dusk. What more should I do to please you?" he spoke, and the way he spoke his words caused Sasuke to become hyper-aware of the claustrophobic cacophony that reigned supreme in Itachi's presence—Itachi's library was a tomb of Sasuke's boyhood dreams . . .
"You think I don't know?" Sasuke spoke and stepped closer and noticed no hint of change in Itachi's demeanour. "You're doing this on purpose to humiliate me. You circle around protocols to do as you please. Your son isn't even born yet, and look at you? You're already hoarding all of the authority in the clan—and in your office. How dare you!"
"Angry . . . so angry," Itachi spoke in a soothing voice, looking at the deep of the shades assimilating to blood in his sibling's eyes, "calm your heart. Why are you always angry with me? Why do you displease me? Why do you not do as I say? I do everything for you. Should that not make you happy? It should.
"I am your brother, your father, your mother now. You should put your trust in me, no one else. I am not your foe. You are my child, and you do not know how it hurts me when you do not listen. I do not want to see you anguished for it breaks my heart that you are hurting over things that should never matter. Not everything matters. You should know. Let them sleep. Let your anger sleep, too." Appareled in the light, he was beautiful, kingly, smiling; and his smile flushed red into the white of him. What a trickster! His fingers, long like hairless spider's legs and soft like moth's wings, moved against Sasuke's cheek as if he was feeling his contours in the dark; and he bent down and planted a kiss to his brow.
At that curious and unfortunate moment, Kai stepped into the room; however, Itachi did not look at him, too absorbed in his sibling's declarations regarding his future plans to prolong the quarrel between them. "Your tricks and your wordy dialogues—they're nice," Sasuke said, Sharingan glowing and growing to appear as a flower in his eyes. "You don't get to decide how I treat the matter of my clan and parents. You don't. You're not my father—and you're not my mother. You're just a liar!
"I'll call a clan's meeting soon, and then we'll see how long you enjoy the power you have. You're not the only one who knows how to play around the rules—Nii-Sama!" The honourific hissed from his mouth, and then he turned around, wore his sandals, and walked away from Itachi; and to Kai's utmost shock, he saw reds of amusement flecking Itachi's eyes and lips. He lowered his eyes and face at once when Itachi looked at him, all traces of amusement gone from his face.
Itachi approached him and the manner of his walk was ominous; he stopped a step short of him and looked down, and Kai, up. Light was bright and fresh behind Kai's back whilst he stood inside his Lord's shadow, and the yellow crown of kings was most glorious upon his head.
"You have made a little mess again when I told you not to," Itachi spoke and cast the table a brief glance and returned his eyes to Kai's awe-struck face. "If not provoked, he is usually never this angry, yet he threatened his brother with consequences this time. Did you say something to him?"
"Itachi-Sama, I tried, but he didn't list—" and he could speak not one more word as Itachi grabbed him by the throat, with his fingers digging against the trembling rings of his windpipe.
"I asked of you to take him to the northern outposts first," he spoke, and his tongue was easy and sweet in his mouth again, "yet you gave him the task I had reserved last for him. Why would you do this? It is as if you exhibit this . . . behaviour on purpose. I have not even asked of you to come clean about the bruise on his breast. Are you testing when my patience ends?"
Itachi lifted Kai up by the neck that he stood on his tiptoes to meet Itachi at eye level; and he saw, in terrible fear and awe, arrogance and anger furiously compete to take hold of the deep domain in Itachi's eyes; neither won, neither lost, but his eyes remained as menacing and black as before.
"I d-didn't do anything, Itachi-Sama," he said clearly for the grip was still tender.
"The first words that come from a man's lips are always a lie," Itachi spoke and increased the pressure against the pronounced ridges of Kai's throat that he saw whites and reds mingle in bursts inside his unhelpful vision. "What use do you have for me if you keep creating messes—little messes that increase my worries? After all, you were granted this office for a purpose."
"I-I swear it—I didn't—" Kai said as though words were wrung from his throat with great force; he could barely breathe, and his throat was filled with fire!
"And, now, you are swearing like a fool," he whispered, his voice slightly hissing in Kai's ears. "I always tell you to stay quiet if he says something in anger, but you enjoy bickering with a boy. You find joy in this playtime. Is that why you bruised him for you wanted to play?"
Kai shook his head with the little will left in him; but his words reduced the ruler of Kai's world, his heart, to a trembling and shamed little boy. He wanted to weep in the corner, with his head against the wall, but he had no air in his throat to create a plea: Itachi had intensified his grip on him; any more pressure and he might break his neck in two. The little puffs that remained in his trachea poked from the inside to locate a passage to his mouth, and his Sharingan fell asleep under the depths of blacks in shame and fear—he was unsure if it would ever resurface to grant him pride.
"I do not enjoy the thought of you wanting to play with the boy. Do you want me to split your throat in two and send the remains to your dear sister for her eternal lamentations? I hope you do not want her to write haikus about your broken neck whilst she weeps alone in the house . . . till her remaining years," Itachi spoke with tenderness that was sincere and sinister, and suddenly, his murderous grip on Kai's throat softened; he slumped to the floor onto his knees, hands going to his red throat, coughing. "Do not pursue him any longer. I will take care of matters myself. Leave."
Kai lifted his eyes, and it took great skill for his hasty Sharingan to animate the flurry of images in the world about him. Air filled his throat like water and cleaned the traces of pain—little by little; and behind Itachi stood Serizawa with a deeply concerned and remorseful look on his features.
Itachi turned around and picked up his sword from the rack; and thinking that he might use it to threaten him again, Kai gathered his body to a standing position, letting his gaze drift back down in obedience. He said nothing, touched his throat once, and left the room.
"Did you give the girl child the gold?" Itachi asked after Kai left the room and sheathed his sword, which shone as rays touched the steel.
Serizawa, almost taken off-guard by his soft tone of voice for the briefest moment, nodded. "Yes, Itachi-Sama—but she asked to meet with you. I didn't say anything to her. Perhaps you should talk to her again. She's very young. She might make a mistake."
"Do you like children, Serizawa?" he asked and turned to face him and his eyes glinted—even inside the meek shadows of the room.
"Yes, I do—I love children. They're sweet and innocent in a manner adults are not," he replied, his heart beating faster at the strange question the young heir posed.
A full smile crossed Itachi's lips this time—he was . . . amused. "You love children, yet you are almost endearing like a child yourself," he spoke, and wind, in a playfulness of mood, plucked at his hair and loosened a dark strand to drift about his face; and he looked . . . mischievous as though he was up to no good.
And a sunny and embarrassed smile rose to Serizawa's mouth, but he said nothing. He followed Itachi as he walked out of the house. He stopped by the well to look at Sasuke standing by the stream at the garden's far end, with Izumi by his side. He had the sudden urge to move in that direction to stop the quarrel that was inevitable, but he did not.
"Children," he spoke, as if to himself and looked ahead. "You should decide upon the day we are to meet with the girl child, yes? I do not want to delay this matter any longer."
Serizawa nodded and followed him out of the garden, and out of the Uchiha village; and both men left the makings of the deadliest storm in their wake!
Sasuke stood by the stream, his reflection disturbed endlessly by ripples. He sat down on the thick pillowy grass that shivered in wind. The grass was wet, not muddy. Upon feeling his presence, Koi slipped to the surface in urgency; their round mouths, enlarging and contracting, showed above water, releasing silver bubbles which burst as soon as they touched the surface.
He reached into his pocket and took out a pouch, and then he began feeding the fish, which were impatient, boiled rice. Izumi stood not far from him, but he ignored her presence: he was in no mood to argue with her.
Wind came at them, and, as her kimono layer floated up, he noticed that she was quite thin-ankled. The jewelry chinked and clinked in her hair, a discordant music which affected the natural tunes of the new storm. After a few minutes of listening to it, his head began to hurt; he rubbed his hands together, shoved the pouch into his pocket, rose up. At this, she made a sudden movement towards him, but stopped mid-way.
He paid her no mind and turned around to leave; and that was when she spoke: "Itachi-Sama's unfair to you. I-I feel for you. It wouldn't hurt him to be a little gentle." She bent her head with a sudden movement and looked about the grass in embarrassment.
Sasuke stopped, turned a little, feeling the full force of wind hit the front of his body. Sky was turning dark and dreadful—what kind of storm was this that was so quick to form again? "That's my business. You don't need to worry about me," he spoke, his voice devoid of roughness or smoothness.
Quickly, Izumi raised her head, and he noticed a secret in her eyes and face; nervous and blushing, she had something on her tongue, and it got him curious. If he pushed her just enough, she would spill it—sooner than later! "I mean it!" she almost shouted and darted her eyes about the house, fearful of Itachi's presence—she was so strange the way she lusted for him and feared him, too!
"He's not good to you!" Izumi continued and took a step forward and enlarged her eyes for dramatic emphasis; she looked almost frantic, almost silly. "He's mean and unfair. You should go to the council. You're an heir, too. He shouldn't treat you like this!"
Sasuke looked down and saw her hands shaking, not from cold but from fear. "Don't talk about Nii-Sama like that," he spoke and looked up to meet her dull brown eyes that were rendered more intense by her frightened state. "I told you, it's my business, not yours. Why do you keep getting involved in things that don't concern you?
"You should sit in the guestrooms and look pretty. That's why Obā-San brought you here."
His words stung her like a buzzing spiral of gnats. The carefully twisted hairs that hung at her shoulders frizzled to attention, so did the fine golden ones on her arms and nape. Anger sent up into her cheeks a more radiant shade that she began to resemble an embittered child with a bloated face. Lord Sage! She looked livid!
"Don't speak to me like that, you bitter child!" Izumi retorted, bending forward, clenching her fingers into fists. "You've got no right to insult me! When I become—"
"If you become his wife," Sasuke forestalled her before she could complete her words. "I don't know what Obā-San sees in you, but you took care of her when she was ill—she feels deeply indebted.
"There are many women in the clan who're prettier and wealthier than you. I've heard that Kai's sister is the most beautiful woman in the clan—Kuro?"
"She's barren!" she spat out, her countenance warped, red, and angry.
"Ah, you're jealous," he spoke, smiling, enjoying her anger, "but you're right. That's the only reason she couldn't make it to Nii-Sama's bed. Lucky for you, huh?"
"And I'm not wrong," Izumi said whilst she backed away, taking a deep and long breath with which her breast rose, and composed herself. "Itachi-Sama doesn't care about you. It's true!"
"I told you to mind—"
"Why don't you ask your friend?" she said and made a big smile, teeth and all. "That runt who looks a bit blue—what was his name? Ah, Sui—Suigetsu! He knows. Why don't you ask him what your brother did to you!"
Sasuke straightened his body and raised his hand to wipe at his face and spoke, his voice acerbic (he was expecting her to spill something humorous, not this!): "what're you talking about?"
"You were screaming! You were blind. He'd used his Genjutsu on you," Izumi said, and her smile that grew dangerous like a smudge of blood was a misplaced decoration on her made-up face.
Swiftly, Sasuke grabbed hold of Izumi's arm and yanked her forward and hissed: "I don't like you—I never have! The sooner you leave here, the better. You have no shame! You're so desperate to stay that you'd lie 'bout something like this?"
Fear and anger came and went in short and rapid bursts into her eyes. Her breathing was heavy, burdened, but she had come to him with a purpose. A quarrel in the Council Hall? Itachi would cast her aside and leave her abandoned with her girlhood dolls, her dreams. His mind would come to be occupied, with force, by this boy's theatrics, and her darling son would lay weeping and forgotten by his father in the cold of Winter nights. To hell with him—she would not let him ruin her like this!
"You always hurt me. I want you gone!" Izumi said with honesty, her words coming out like a shout over the wind whose rising echo was a foreboding sign of anger. "I'm not lying! I don't lie—your brother's a liar!" She was weeping now, tears streaking through the powder on her face, which she applied day and night to match the white of Itachi's winter-white skin-tone.
Sasuke let go of her arm, body shaking, Sharingan coming out like a loose tide into the black, like a sinister massacre of men at night. He did not wait around, and, after gazing up at the clouds that drifted across the sun, he left the garden with a renewed conviction in his steps!
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It must have been midday when Sasuke saw the outpost's wooden pillar loom up from between the peaks, adorned with red and gold foliage. He walked down the small hill, his steps steady, looking down at the burst of flowers lying deep in the fragrant and pillowy grass.
This outpost was a depot, but it had little capacity to hold large supplies of weapons, food, and medicine for armed Shinobi in times of war. He never understood its purpose, and Fire Country had many depots like this one, sprinkled about in the forests that blanketed a large part of the country.
When Sasuke approached the gate, half of which was obscured by tall grass, the guard recognised him. The stout man made a smile and bow towards Sasuke and opened the gate. It was sturdy and made from wood, with seals inscribed on its extremities. The grass on the grounds was short, cut all year round by few men wielding chakra-sharpened sickles. It was thick enough that it absorbed most rain and stayed lush throughout the year, save winter.
Turning to his Sharingan's vision, he saw smooth and long plumes of chakra lift from the ground at his arrival. They must have been visible without Sharingan, too: chakra breaths! They usually appeared at night by the groves when it was dark and moon was high; but it was deep grey in the sky, and they, like confused faeries, fluttered about at his chakra's call.
Sasuke breathed in a deep breath as he looked around at the row of quarters, his ears filling with clink-clinks the particles put out whilst they collided with one another in hopeless movements. His heart jumped and anger recollected its intensity, which it had lost during this small journey, at the sight of Suigetsu's chakra in one of the quarters: he was bent over an old bed, rooting through the contents of his bag which always smelt like the oldest leather.
He steeled himself and walked through the orbs, pale whites against the greys of air and sky, that bounced off his body in gentle and slow motions. With every step he took, his anger swelled; his hand went to his back to wrap around the hilt of his sword, and his intentions of vengeance and destruction compounded onto one another. His Sharingan had grown to maximum effect, which caused expulsion of sinister chakra into the area.
Suigetsu did not even see him, but he felt him first! Sasuke gave him little chance to move when he came through the door and had him against the wall before his heart could ease into the motion of another beat, with a sword to his throat. The sharp end had only touched Suigetsu's skin, and instantly, a mark of blood appeared on the steel that was smooth and beautiful as moon rays.
"Nice ta see ya, too?" Suigetsu said, his lavender-coloured eyes big and large. This was not good!
"I'm going to ask you this once," Sasuke hissed, eyes hissing louder than his mouth, "is it true that Nii-Sama used Tsukuyomi on me? How many times?"
"W-What?" he questioned, utterly terrified.
"How many times?" he snarled this time and pulled Suigetsu forward and slammed him back against the wall. This little roughhousing made every single bone in his body ring like a separate instrument. Colours of pain appeared in his eyes like blots of ink raining down from the sky.
"Who—who t-told ya?" he asked, surprise clear and resounding in his choking voice. Sasuke's torso was pressed against his, and his weight was oppressive, dangerous, cruel!
Sasuke backed away and allowed him to pull in a full breath. Suigetsu slid down to the floor and looked up at Sasuke's sharp features, which drew shadows upon their impeccable arrangement, frozen in utmost shock. His eyes glowed, more in anguish and less in anger, in his face. He . . . looked like a hurt child that had tasted the bitter taste of anger for the first time . . .
"Izumi," Sasuke answered in a tight whisper after re-collecting his thoughts again, "she'd never lie about something like this. If she'd known this sooner—"
"What a floozy," Suigetsu remarked and let out a little chuckle that rang louder in silence and dimness that remained in this room: the grounds were empty and winds, strong.
"Why did you lie?" Sasuke asked, and breaths hissed into his mouth in anger that was as raw and real as storms. "You—you ungrateful runt!" The spiteful rage in his voice struck Suigetsu and he flinched.
After a long silence, in which Suigetsu felt trapped underneath Sasuke's shadow, he let slip a little whisper: " 'Am sorry . . . "
"How long have you known, huh? How long?" Sasuke asked and took one step forward and his hand clenched tighter on the hilt. "Did he fill your poor mouth with gold? Did you enjoy it? Did you like humiliating me to do his bidding? How long—how long?" And his shout beat against the walls of the room and winds of the storm and frame of the feeble Hōzuki, loud, commanding, bitter!
"I did it—did all af it!" Suigetsu shouted this time, rising to his feet with swiftness, and his shout matched his. " 'Am a poor cunt like ya say. Ungrateful, too, ya know? 'Am like that—'am just a cunt—always been a lil' cunt.
"Sage knows 'am not proud af it, but what can ya do? It's pride or livin', and I ain't got the heart to keep lickin' pride that never did me good. Ya can't sleep on pride when yor stomach's growlin' an' empty. It hurts at night—hurts." And in the light that came sweetly and softly from the spaces between fog that hovered over the ground outside, Sasuke saw droplets materialising in Suigetsu's eyes . . . one by one.
"I've never worked fer ya. Yor brother had gold, and I needed it ta feel—ta feel like a man—ta feel like I can be somethin', too," he said with trembling lips and took a weary step and slumped down onto the bed that squeaked. "Ther's nothin' worse than bein' poor—nothin'! Ya look at full plates and ya look at yor mum weepin' in empty rooms, turnin' to bones, and ya—ya stop carin' 'cause what can ya do but look and—feel pity? It's a bitch!"
Suigetsu passed his hand over his head and face that, in the lantern's falling light, looked scared and ashamed. "I didn't want ta do nothin' af it ta ya—I didn't," he paused and pulled in a sharp breath, "had no choice. I was afraid af bones an' empty plates an' rains that came down on ya when ya thought ya felt safe in the night.
"Ya said ya liked the rain and storm. I hate 'em—hate 'em so much. They beat ya down. They shame ya that ya got no roof over yor head. Folks look at ya funny when yor clothes are torn and ya smell like a bitch on the street—a good fer nothin' bum."
Suigetsu breathed in and out the storm-enticed air several times that rushed in torrents into the room; and by his side, lantern's light flickered and flung yellows and greys over his countenance tightened in concentration and contemplation; at this moment, he looked tragically adult.
"I got tired af it—everythin'. I didn't want ta be poor. I never want ta be poor," he said and wiped at his eyes and nose with a quick movement of his hand. "I don't know how many times yor brother did this to ya. I only know 'bout three. My first pouch a' gold was 'bout findin' ya 'cause ya was lost in the forest—ya was mad!
"I swear ta Sage—he was happy ta see that ya was not hurt. He ain't so bad. He's mad—I know, but he ain't so bad. At least, he ain't like me brother—me brother liked ta stick swords in me neighbour's arse when 'e called 'im a bum faggot. Mum told me, but she was all skin an' bones when she said that. She might've just been a mad ol' crone. He wanted me ta hide it frem ya. He never told me why. I don't know, mate. 'Am just ramblin' . . . "
Suigetsu raised his head in Sasuke's direction, and he saw him walking into the maze of greys, and within moments, he disappeared from sight—Suigetsu did not know when he had walked away from him . . .
When Itachi reached his house, he looked up and saw a heart in the yawning sky's breast. A flood of black was rising up fast from behind the hills, which appeared menacing at this hour. It would be night soon. Inside, it was quiet save for the whispers of women from his grandmother's room—too quiet.
He had faith in Suigetsu's promises, but the Hōzuki man kept his legs in two boats: he was not trustworthy. He went to Sasuke's room first, opened it, and looked at the darkness that surrounded the red lantern: it looked new, unlike the one he used for his room and library, gifts from a father to his sons; Sasuke had taken care of the gift, which was his to keep—forever!
"Itachi-Sama, you're home early," Tanaka rasped, his steps slow and creaking on the wooden floor. "Shall I arrange dinner for you? I've cleaned the mess in the library. The child Izumi must've dropped the ink. Young girls can be clumsy. She will learn not to mess with your things!" He smiled, and then, his eyes popped out as if he just remembered something quite important and added: "he's not home."
"Where is he? Did you not stop him from leaving?" Itachi asked and closed the door.
"Itachi-Sama, I—" he stopped and rubbed his aged and venous hands together in anxiety, "—you know he doesn't listen to me. I did stop him, but he said that he'd be back before dark. I don't know why he's not back." He slumped his rounded shoulders further, appearing even smaller than he was.
Itachi looked at the paper-screen, on which light inked the curves of shivering boughs in the garden; and without the crescent's presence up in the sky, they presented themselves with a unique blackness against the whites of the lantern's light—an imprint, an artificial splendor of which he knew all too well . . .
"It is dark, yet he has not come back," Itachi spoke and gazed in the direction of the main-door, indecisive. "You can arrange the dinner when he comes back. I will wait for him." Then he went to his library, placed the untouched sword in the rack, sat down by the low table. It was clean, like Tanaka had said, and everything was in place again. Coal burnt red hot in the portable brazier, releasing a faint smell of burnt ash.
The garden door was still open, and outside, wet flora made mist appear in form of thin upward-moving lines over the grey sheet in the background. He saw the black burn white with blue flickers at the sky's far end. A storm was rolling over the peaks there with all its power. Mercifully, this patch of land had escaped its wrath.
He lit the lantern and increased the flame and light streamed along the contours of everything it touched. The red paper was frayed and had turned so old. No matter how many times he adjusted the flame, this red was subdued; and the Uchiha fan pattern, no less muted in its intensity.
Turning his face, Itachi picked up the clean brush. In this light's nature that was languid, half of his unblemished countenance resembled a sliver of strident moon; the other half, a mask of vague red. He wrote one letter and looked at the garden again, the clutched brush poised over the circular inkpot.
He put the brush down, not caring that its wet-end left on the scroll a smudge that only grew in size. He breathed in the air that came from the garden; and as if he had taken a swig of sake, he leant his head and back against the wall and closed his eyes—waiting . . .
Itachi woke up to the tinkling of the falling rain; his vision swayed and focused on the droplets that fell down from the roof in strings. Looking at the sky above the tree limbs, he noticed the diluteness of black at the sky-splitting horizon. Had he fallen asleep? He sat upright, his senses fresh and sharp again. Coals had turned grey and cold in the brazier that, now, two thin smoke strips travelled upon air's fabric.
He wanted to have breakfast, but he did not feel particularly hungry; and it was getting late, and he had to visit the border before midday. He decided to delay his need till noon. Smelling the smell of Lilies about him, he got up and left the confines of the library.
It took him an hour to perform his morning ablutions and change into fresh Anbu garments. By the time he was ready, black had lost most of its thickness—the arc began to appear more and more translucent at the loss of night's oppressive control. Morning was not far.
Itachi visited his chamber to get a scroll, and when he stepped out, Tanaka greeted him with a worried face. "Itachi-Sama, won't you have breakfast? You didn't eat anything last night, too!" he said, sounding rough and old. "He didn't come home last night. I wanted to wake you, but—"
"You should have woken me up," he spoke, his tone of voice stern, not harsh; but Tanaka knew that he was . . . very displeased. He bowed and watched Itachi leave the house with a temper . . .
After he entered the boundary of the forest, it took him a moment (courtesy of a special Teleportation-mark nearby which only the Caption and few more were aware of) to reach the outpost where Suigetsu dropped off his Resignation Letter. The guard told him that Sasuke came to meet with the man, but he left the outpost alone; Suigetsu left here without a soul, as well. He did not understand the child—was he still angry over a small argument between them?
Itachi delayed the border matter for later: he had to find Sasuke. What if—Suigetsu had said something to him? He rejected the thought. It was a fear borne of irrationality, and Suigetsu was too fragile and dependent upon the work he gave him to survive. At the end of the day, thoughts of constant hunger that came scuttling from the past were his greatest fear!
Thankfully, Itachi's task was made easy by the man, whom he met on his way to the office, from the Training Grounds. He told him that Sasuke was staying in one of the empty quarters on the grounds; due to the arrival of a biting winter, many Shinobis who came for training had left Konoha. Wedged between the mountains and forests, the Hidden Leaf turned brittle in winter and had no training programmes, only expensive Shinobis for hire!
It was early in the morning when Itachi reached the grounds; rain stopped, but the sky had hidden away its nature behind winter's coming melancholy. He crossed the grounds, upon which greying grass moved glimmering. Fog grew thick like trunks in front of him, and he was forced to draw upon his clan's sight in need. He did not stop walking, his walk slow and calm, his eyes upon Sasuke's chakra that flared and bared his present mood—deep purple in-between the vertical crossings of chakra breaths; it seemed as if he was looking at him through the spaces between the lattice door . . .
The door was open, and when Itachi crossed the threshold, it began to rain behind his back. It was a soft rain, thin and soothing its sounds. Itachi stopped and looked around: the room was small and stuffy with a set of drawers and one bed. Sasuke sat in the large window, his one leg bent and cramped inside the tight window-frame; and unsurprisingly, albeit Sasuke was aware of his brother's presence, he paid him no mind.
Rain fell onto Sasuke's left cheek and eye and coursed across to the other side, leaving light-coated droplets in its wake. His expression was . . . odd; his half-lidded eye, one which Itachi could see, rain-filled and dull. Sasuke blinked after every few heartbeats, as if out of natural habit, but he did not look his way.
This silence between brothers bothered the older one, so he decided to intrude upon the calm of the younger one first: "I did not stop you from taking the matter to the council. Then why are you still angry with me?"
At his question, he saw Sasuke take two breaths with quick movements of his breast; and after one beat, he spoke in a voice that was harsh like a half-formed growl: "leave. I don't want to talk to you."
"Come. Do not be this way," Itachi spoke, and his voice, though sweeter than rain, hurt Sasuke's pride so much that he did not think possible. Itachi was mocking him—he was always mocking him! And this thought filled his mortal coils with unimaginable rage!
Sasuke stepped back into the room, stood up straight, and looked at him and the red of him. No, all of him was red tonight! He was a trickster—a liar—a theatre actor! And he had turned him, his younger sibling, into an instrument of his lies. He did not move from where he stood, and Itachi noticed that dullness receded in Sasuke's eyes, replaced by a glint that was still being warmed by his anger.
"I told you to leave—get out of here!" he said in the same tone again, cast the open door a glance, frowned a frown that sunk deep into his face.
"What has got you so upset?" Itachi asked, almost experiencing something close to a mild case of disbelief. "Did Izumi quarrel with you? I will send her home if she did. Did Kai say something brash to you? He will be remorseful if he did. Did Suigetsu let slip . . . a little lie? He will be taught a great lesson if he did. Tell me, why are you so displeased?"
"Are you worried 'bout Suigetsu?" Sasuke asked and moved and stopped at arm's length from him; and Itachi looked, with eyes narrowed and red, at the lightest of greys cast upon the expanse of Sasuke's child-like face.
"You child, are you playing a game of riddles with me?" Itachi asked and watched how his shadow traced the lines of his sibling's countenance like free-flowing ink. "Come. Tell me who displeased you, and I will decide what needs to be done."
Thunder clapped far away, and this distant sound was joined by a faint whisper from Sasuke's mouth: "you did—many times, but I never knew. Kai—that bastard. He's no different from you. You're a weasel like the men whose company you keep. A liar."
Itachi's cultivated features took on a severe air; and opening his hand fully, he struck Sasuke across the cheek. His face turned to the side and pink appeared in white almost immediately.
"Disrespectful child. You have grown shameful in that boorish boy's company," he spoke slowly, calmly, and grabbed Sasuke by the thick of his arm. "Come—now!"
"You're lying to me right now," he said, Raiton fizzing around his hand and taking a proper shape. "Tell me, how many times did you use your Genjutsu to drive me mad?" Dragging air into his lungs with astronomical force, he fueled the fires that burnt as ferociously as daemons in his face that was so reminiscent of a boy's face—he had never seen Sasuke so angry!
Sasuke moved towards Itachi so swiftly that he barely managed to flicker a little to the left and catch his arm before his hand made contact with his body; and, had Sasuke's body not been trembling in anguish and rage and weakness, the sharp-end of his Jutsu would have gone clean through Itachi's shoulder. He flung Sasuke around into the wall and pressed up against him, his grip tight around the chakra-dripping wrist!
"Calm down," Itachi spoke, his voice smooth, whilst he twisted Sasuke's wrist to block the chakra-carrying coils that transported live-chakra to his hands' exist points. It was no use—this trick had little effect on a (nearly) robust Sasuke's impossibly potent chakra!
"Let go!" Sasuke shouted and pushed forward and radiated Raiton from his whole body; however, before the surge could enter Itachi's system, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a needle-like instrument, jammed it into Sasuke's neck's one side and then the other—lines of blood jumped forth from the tiny wounds and streamed vertically down the nape: the act shocked Sasuke's senses, and he blinked and enlarged his eyes with each jab; his Sharingan gleamed once with all its might and went out!
Itachi had punctured the primary chakra-coil at two places that connected the Sharingan to the body. This primary coil lay deep inside the neck; he did not want to resort to this, but he had no choice! Sasuke's body went limp and a dark sludge fell into his eyes; instinctively, Sasuke touched his neck—he could see nothing!
Grabbing both of Sasuke's wrists, Itachi threw him down to the floor and pressed his knee down into his convulsing breast—Sasuke was not backing down! "Stop this—calm down," he spoke again, his voice less smooth this time, and watched small pools of red spread outwards on the floor, away from the origins. And from where Itachi sat, they were darker than the colour of his blood!
Sasuke freed one of his wrists and grabbed Itachi by the neck, but his lungs were not full to make his body work the way he wanted. He coughed, Itachi's knee squeezing the breaths out of him, and his fingers slipped on his brother's throat and left long red streaks across his skin.
Itachi took hold of Sasuke's wrist again, and, after some moments of thrashing, Sasuke did not struggle anymore—he started laughing. "You bastard—damn you!" he coughed out between laughter and turned his face towards the floor.
"Suigetsu bites the hand that feeds him. Your company will ruin you," Itachi spoke, looking at the boy whose laughter echoed away upon the wind.
"He didn't tell me anything—" he stopped and licked his lips whose rosy fleshes clove to each other in thirst and hunger, "—I squeezed it out of him. He folded like a cheap flak-jacket. You thought I wouldn't find out? Fuck you!"
Itachi removed his weight from him and stood up. "I did everything to protect you. You may not understand it now, but it is true," he spoke and gazed at Sasuke whilst he sat up and pressed his back against the wall—Itachi could tell that he still could not see a thing.
"Protect me?" Sasuke spoke, his voice approaching a shout, turned his head and blind eyes in Itachi's direction, felt a cool music of wind against the wetness on his nape. "You had no right to do what you did! You had no right—you bastard—you liar! Lair!" Sasuke trembled and his torso jerked forward with the brutality of fury that hit his body with lashing strokes; and the sound from his throat, rumbling deep and piercing high, beat about the walls like lightning.
Sasuke's anger was too much, and Itachi felt a deeper and crueler one of his own, rich, ripe, reaping in his heart's chambers and eyes' coils that dragged in a sizzle of passion; and resting tomoes spun and spun and spun and turned into Shurikens that cut deeply into the glass of perfect red—a mystery created in the flesh by the hand of a murderer who had taken his own life! Sasuke did not see—he did not feel—the depth of his brother's cruelty! Child—what an innocent child . . . ?
Itachi turned away from Sasuke and stopped at the threshold when he heard Sasuke shout behind him: "if I find out that you had something to do with the massacre, I'll kill you! Damn you—I'll kill you!" And this time, albeit faint in the storm, his words were heard in rooms down the row; and one by one, lights came on in each room and whispers soon followed . . . Itachi looked at the glow of lights in the fog and felt raindrops cut across the pinks on his throat. Then he walked away in the direction of his house . . .
Itachi did not know how long it took for him to reach his house, but he was dripping when he stepped in through the main-door. Inside his eyes, Shurikens spun in danger; outside, storm roiled in anger. He did not hide the Mangekyō that stripped away the walls and broke them down into primal patterns of chakras, red being the most prominent which came from the Shurikens' cutting nature. And whilst Itachi approached the library, he felt that his anger needed the cold hand of his control.
Izumi was standing with her back to the door when Itachi stepped into the library. Rao stood beside her with a scroll in her hands. His closeness forced Izumi to turn around; and she had barely registered the presence of Shurikens in Itachi's countenance when his hand rose and struck her cheek with a lightning-swift twitch and half of all the anger he felt inside.
And albeit he did not channel much force into the strike, it was enough that it sent her stumbling back; she hit the back of her head against the rack and fell down in a cascade of scrolls onto the floor. The smacking sound rung in her ears; and her cheek burnt hotter than the brazier and redder than the artificial blush she had applied there in the morning.
"Itachi—no! Stop—no!" Rao shouted and clutched Itachi's hand when he tried to raise it again. She stood before him and pressed her little body's whole weight against the front of his body.
"How dare you?" Itachi spoke, his voice cold and slow.
Izumi straightened her body and felt her cheek—her hair had come loose and half of it lay over her forehead and other cheek. Brushing hair off her face, she looked at the ornamental pin that fell from her hair and him and wept with a soft exhalation.
"Why did you do this?" he asked, his visage without a discernable expression, his eyes like that of a fiery zealot. "Do you have any idea what you have done? You fool. You have laid waste to years' worth of my patience. Everything I have done lies in ruin because of you. He will listen to me no longer. Why . . . why would you do this?"
Rao encircled his waist and pressed her face into the lower part of his torso. Izumi could hear her moaning. Izumi's face contained not a trace of anger, only hurt, and her stooped shoulders heaved convulsively. He had no pity for her in his face, much less his eyes that sung a voiceless tune demanding release, from which she was still safe . . .
"No one had the audacity to speak of that night, but you," he began, his arms, calm now, hung at his sides. "You lied to me. How much did you see that night? I made one mistake, and you acted to remind me of it?"
"Itachi, my darling boy, forgive her! She did not mean to cause you any harm!" Rao moaned and took his hands in hers and kissed them.
Itachi's Shurikens cut lines across Izumi's body, and then he looked straight ahead at the painting that was darker under the slant of shadow in the alcove. "Her womb is empty," he spoke, without a heart, "if she is not gone from here by the time I return, I will take her to the gate myself. Then she will be responsible for her own shame."
And then he left the library, and sounds of garden and sobs of girl together joined in unison with storm's music . . .
# # # # # #
It was night, and air drunk on the sake of autumn's perversions. He was sitting in a large chair made for a King—no, it was a poor imitation of that chair. The room was dark; its silence, darker. By his arm sat a lantern, its beams weak and pink on his skin. He waited, waited, waited. At last, a boy appeared from the shadow behind the curtain!
Oh, what a beautiful boy, no older than twelve; and his Lord was twelve when he had seen him first, too. He remembered his lips, brash red and petal-like. Kami had indulged in a palate of red, white, black to transform their creation's features into a godly visage!
And this boy—this one right here—was a moon-lit manifestation of the Lord he loved. A simulacrum—not as perfect as the real thing, but the closest thing to perfection! The boy was not skilled to shield himself behind the façade of Winter's careless manner: he was innocent still, eyes big and wondrous and without red's taint; he was a boy still, body small and soft and without youth's paint—he, too, was a boy at heart! His visage was not impenetrable like his Lord's, and he trembled, trembled cold, and trembled bold whilst the boy sat on his knees as though he were here to offer a prayer and prostrate by his feet.
He had spent so much gold to enjoy this little illusion. The boy's little mouth was parted open, affording the man a free indulgence; and when the boy freed him with little hands, his organ was bloated with blood. Circling his hand around the little throat, he felt himself—all of himself—slipping, stirring, turning like an eel inside the tight and wet tunnel of the boy.
Oh, his small lips, wrapping around him and moving over and over again! It was bliss, his heart joyous, his solitude vocal with the sounds of breaths joined to the boy's breaths. Leaning his head back, he watched lights falling and dissolving on the ceiling. The boy—his Lord's coarser image—had gladdened his heart's abode.
His poor heart that thundered and stopped when he released his burden between the softness of his pinkest lips. It was done. And when the nameless, beautiful boy walked away, he felt the silence on his heart once more. It did not matter. With this thought, he stepped outside into the forest. This place would be gone by tomorrow . . .
Light fragrance-carrying wind danced down from the mountain. It was late at night, and he had to return to his home. He made to walk when a voice stopped him: "you engage in fruitless things, Kai. How shameful!"
Kai turned around and looked upon the conniving face of Kiryū. "What do you want—leave me be!" Kai spoke, declaring his disinterest in him at this hour of night.
Kiryū smiled and looked at the sign that offered Wakashū Services at various prices—the Bath House's most beautiful boy was the most expensive. "I asked of you to bring me news about what you saw in the boy's eyes, but you want to roll about in the wakashū all night," he spoke and walked into the light that came down from a large and round lantern. It was yellow, and its light caused the whites in his robes to turn into yellows, too.
"You will get something when I'm certain of something," Kai said, and calm crumbled away from his face. "Don't come to me like this again." He did not stay, and albeit this night was still young, he left in the direction of his house, with an ache that still burnt . . .
# # # # # #
EN: Converse, obsolete, sexual intercourse.
Itachi, weasel in Japanese. Now, it might seem strange that Sasuke called weasel a "weasel"; however, my usage is rooted in the word's connotative nature in the Japanese folklore, not its denotative nature in everyday language use.
Wakashū, young boys that were quite popular amongst men and women in the Edo Period for various reasons, eroticism being the most prominent one. They were generally never a part of large prostitution centres like Yoshiwara but of Bath- and Tea-Houses, Male Geisha troupes, and Kabuki Theatres and the male brothels associated with them—the young and attractive male actors almost always offered prostitution services on the side; in fact, there are many risqué art-pieces (which show aristocrats indulging in sex with the actors whilst the female performers, who were banned from theatres fairly early on, are still inside the quarter, getting ready for the performance) and folktales associated with their charms; some go as far as to suggest that they were sought out and abducted by Kami for their beauty.
The history of the Kabuki is an interesting one, and I'm going to briefly describe it here. As a dance-drama form, it probably dates to the 1603 performances of one Okuni, a former shrine priestess, in Kyoto. Because Okuni's troupe consisted primarily of female performers, her art was referred to as "women's kabuki", but she was often joined by male performers. As often as not, males would play female roles and vice-versa, causing quite a sensation. Among Okuni's most popular skits was one in which, dressed as a handsome man, she trysted with a prostitute (also played by a woman) in a teahouse.
Because the performers in Kabuki theatres engaged in prostitution, it was perhaps inevitable that quarrels over them should lead to violence and hence to shogunate regulation. Okuni was banned from performing at Ieyasu's camp at Suruga in 1608. From 1612 or earlier, Okuni's kabuki was rivalled by a theatrical form called wakashū ("youths'") kabuki. The companies consisted entirely of young men and boys playing both male and female roles. This was not new, of course; there had been no actresses in noh, either, although in the latter the erotic element was muted. In "youths' kabuki", eroticism took center stage. Many early performances dealt with homosexual themes. By this time, the word wakashū, originally designating a male no longer a child but not yet a full-grown man, had come to suggest an adolescent who excites a man's sexual interest; so it's no surprise that the term, Wakashū, later came to be associated with "sexually attractive boys"—its original connotations, lost.
By the Tokugawa Period, the eroticism of the wakashū was a celebrated affair that was practiced, depicted, and flaunted in all cultural facets. There are accounts from Jesuit Priests who travelled with Japanese officials through the country, and one of them is about a high official who made the whole group stop at a Tea-House that offered prostitution services of Wakashū (who were as young as ten). The priest, naturally, was aghast at the casual manner in which young boys were sought out for sexual services; and this is one of the many stories of this nature from that time. The group waited for an hour whilst he engaged in sex with one of the most expensive boys on the menu there. Yes, they were spoken of on a menu-like banner outside the Bath- or Tea-Houses, and the qualities of each boy (how he looks, whether he cross-dresses or not, which instrument he can play, if he's soft spoken, etc.) were listed with his age and price. The more good-looking and young a boy was, the more expensive he was.
One of the most scandalous incidents in the Shogun's palace involved a Shogun's widow and a wakashū (an adolescent theatre actor of that time who was famous for being quite beautiful): as the Shogun, who was quite old when he died, had passed away and his son was very young when he took the Shogun's seat, she worked as a regent. She was quite fond of theatres and used to engage in sexual escapades by bringing the theatre actor(s) (sometimes monks) into the shogun's palace where women were kept (male guards weren't allowed there, so female guards were kept), inside trunks: that's how the famous actor in question was transported in and out of the palace; and one night, when the actor was performing, she took her female attendants (and she had quite many of them) with her and engaged in drunk merry-making and an orgy, which involved theatre actors and monks who'd come to perform, of about a hundred male and female participants. The servant of the late shogun's other consort told of the affair to the council, and the lady was ousted from the palace and exiled.
There are other stories about the wakashū that utilise humour and talk of frustrated wives who'd have sexual intercourse with young actors and monks that came into the town to perform. Some of the stories depict the wives that rave about the wakashū's penis being "as large and long as the Buddha statue's penis". The art-pieces that depict the wakashū illustrate them in sexual acts with men and women and, sometimes, between a woman and a man. Usually, oral stimulation was never offered by boys or men to other men; however, one painting (literally, just one) does exist in this regard: it depicts a monk and his acolyte, with the latter performing the act. Oral stimulation was always reserved for the opposite sex.
I'd talk more on this in the coming chapters, but the wakashū were an integral part of the performing arts and prostitution industries that flourished in Japan.