Chapter Seventy-Eight: Off the Edge
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Temptations—tender-est missives to the heart—beckoned him on, and he strode forth upon the rain-drinking soil of this region. He had not been there in so long; after his mentor met his end in a faint gloom, disturbed by red's ferocity, this forest was a ghost, a memory forgotten in childhood's frivolities.
Yet, now, it wept, tearing at roots that jutted from earth breaking. Fierce was its tormentor in the sky, purple spiteful, a volatile boy-child of warring shades. What surprises this land held? Storm was out, and it would dig out bones, shattered sculls, memories, time's shards in the eyes, red its thirst, fervid its vengeance. When children went out to get even, they did!
Come out—come out and play
Don't come again another day
And it was time to get even; anger's engine fired, and flames stoked his spirit. Red—night was red; sky was red; rain was red. What was passion if not murder in the night, a boy running red with blood, carrying the same unholy aroma—of vengeance!—beating out crackles of fury. O', his sibling, he was his heart's foe, its beats—he was his heart, his beats! Children, so sweet—and you could not live with fires burning storms out, dreams singeing the eyes; if you could not endure, into the wound you struck deep, made it bleed . . .
Rain shimmered silver on the stones in the mountain's face. One moment light plunged into waters, next it was black as his clan's passion-less eyes. He jumped up, sticking to the stones, lightning quickening his pulses. It was easy to carve out his path; and about him, forest expelled sweet-smelling vapours; spring had fled, yet, in storm's heart, Autumn sang out spring's tune with godly finesse, a spill of colours, a craze of requital. A bleeding heart—what a poor, sad little boy!
Pulsations that thrummed red about his gaze made him see the little cave in which he had played with his companion in the past—more childhood frivolities. It was akin to a broken mouth in a toy's face. He could see nothing: she had been meticulous. No light, nor chakra, escaped its invisible teeth. Her barrier had trapped everything within its infectious tendrils and without storm crashed against valleys cowering in fright . . .
He ran up against the wind that came down in white ropes that almost seemed to anchor this land to storm's eye. Retribution would come, and Leaf would swim ashore on its hearts' bloods. Tit-for-tat—tit-for-tat! He smiled, a child in him gleeful, a foe baleful. Weasel—weasel—his brother was a weasel, and he would grant his eyes peace, piece by piece!
Upon reaching the cave's mouth, all he saw was darkness in the back. Lies! He touched rain's strings that trickled from the slickened stones and his fingers felt something airy that could not be felt and his skin tingled. "Karin, it's me. Let me in," he said, and he saw the barrier ripple to his voice.
His voice ghosted across the shimmers escaping the ripples upon the barrier's surface. This spectacle was . . . like a child's magic trick—Karin and her quirks; sometimes, he could not understand her. Light, akindle, on the wall, defined her body's contours as though she had just materialised from nothing.
Like always, she smiled, a smile that did little to hide away her lickerish nature, softened quite a bit by her tendency to be playful as girl children. Across her cheeks, it spread a colour whose tendency was to exhibit a shy demeanour, not the sort of headstrongness he associated with her.
She made a seal and blocked his path and leant up, like a hopeful, love-sick little girl. "Kiss me first!" she said, lively and mischievous. Too weary to argue, he allowed her to give him a little peck on the cheek. Satisfied, she backed away, tittering like birds.
His father's blood drained from his eyes when he stepped into the cave's refuge, and chakra spoke less to him. In the back where it was a bit dark, a man sat slumped and exhausted by a lantern whose paper was torn and old. He looked half asleep, but Sasuke's footfalls jolted him to a state of wakefulness.
He jumped to his feet, body less crooked than its shadow, and blinked and stared, repeatedly. Sasuke stepped into the solid shaft of light and a shiver of realisation morphed the man's features into a state of shock. He nearly fell forward and grabbed hold of Sasuke's hand. "You!" he slurred and wiped sweat from his face, for terror in his blood kept his body warm.
"Kisuke?" Sasuke asked, a little surprised at the man's unusual reaction upon seeing him in the flesh. Kisuke nodded and grinned as though he was gay as a candy suckling child.
"Do you remember—remember me? You," Kisuke began again, with much fervour this time, "you've grown! But—your face—it—it's almost the same! You was—ah—fifteen? Sixteen? Time flies!" And he was panting, holding onto Sasuke's hand in a tough grip.
"I don't—" he stopped, anger re-uniting inside his eyes—another memory stolen by his brother. Thief! But—why? He had to know—he had to know what the weasel had hidden from him. "I don't remember," he said, plainly. "Have we met?"
Kisuke let out a startled laughter, his eyes stretching and catching more light, making his browns lighter. "Don't look good as I used to. Life got me bad," he said, almost chomping on words with furious precision, "told you 'bout the Elite Force's involvement in yous family's killing—nasty men. You didn't believe me. By Kami, you was mad—but you let me go. I'm grateful!"
His wicked sibling had concealed another truth? How many—how many? Sapped of vigour, Sasuke sat down on the large stone and faced the jagged rocks; and Karin sat down by his side, her hand in his hair, her head on his shoulder, her arm round his arm. How much had Itachi lied over the years? Weasel! Daemon! Liar! He spoke not a word of the fury that played silly with his soul till it was fatigued and pushed from his eyes, leaving glints of its intensity round the blacks.
Kisuke sat down opposite of Sasuke and shuffled around nervously whilst he searched for words to speak to him of the matter; the young Uchiha looked angry. "I-I gave the Uchiha scroll to the girlie here—I'd stolen it from your Medic," he said, stitching words together as they escaped his mouth faster than thoughts, "forgive me."
Sasuke said nothing, too engrossed in listening to vengeance's great-est machine that throbbed about him louder than thunderous skies. Now, he looked at Kisuke as he smelt himself and looked embarrassed that he stank like piglets let out in rains. His slipshod heels, holed clothes, mangled hair that stuck out from his head in all directions made him feel more embarrassed than before.
"How much did you tell Suigetsu?" Sasuke asked, at last, and leant his back against the rough wall.
Kisuke let out a little cough-like chortle, eyes shining like coins. "Slippery fella—don't trust 'im. Do you?" he said.
"No," Sasuke said, and his mouth worked the miracle of the loveliest smile that made him look like a sweet child in the face, "but why don't you trust him?"
" 'Cause Kisame don't," he said, sighed, "and that's good enough for me."
"Why?" Sasuke asked, persistent, his smile not leaving his lips.
"Don't know," he said, gnashed his teeth together twice in a manner as though he was making them adjust to the mechanisms of a new mouth, "you can ask 'im yourself—if you find 'im."
"Where is he? Sooner or later, Mist will sniff him out. They haven't forgotten. How long does he plan on playing hide and seek?" he asked, narrowed his eyes' red to the tightest flowers.
"He's vanished into the sea—damned fish," he said breathlessly, as though his voice could not keep up with his word. "Haven't heard from 'im in weeks. Could be rotten dead in Waves for all I know."
A dead-end . . . Sasuke straightened his neck and sighed deeply and looked up at the wall, upon which great globs of shadows danced away from light. By his side, Karin hummed, her eyes closed against the grey that filled the cave, her hand on his.
" . . . was in the squad," Kisuke started speaking at last, a sense of pride in his words, wearied of the young Uchiha's quietness amidst storm's madness, "was ther' when the ceremony happened." Sasuke bent his Sharingan upon his features, his flowers spinning and stopping inside the whites, but he said nothing.
"Okami Clan—they—" he stopped and filled his lungs with wet air and exhaled a long breath, "—they was the secret-keepers. They made them tunnels in Leaf, too. Your Root rats probably still use 'em."
"The tunnels in the ground? When?" he asked and curiosity shined his eyes to a sharper red.
"Don't know, but they was there before Leaf. All I knows that Okami was asked to make 'em," he said, "didn't think it'd do you any good to know 'bout this, but her brother's convinced that yous brother's killed her. Has he?" And he was grinning, craning his neck like curious birds, allowing the light to settle upon the yellow that existed on his teeth in a solid layer.
"He has," Sasuke said, and Kisuke scratched his chin, perplexed.
"You sure? The Cloud dog had lots to say 'bout a foul plan he'd made in his head to end Shitchi. Her death's made a mess—Bandit Clans's poppin' up everywhere, and they means business—bad business," Kisuke said and leant forward, eyes focusing on the petals Sasuke's Sharingan had made extra excited.
"I'm sure," he said and looked across the cave's features upon which unmixed yellows and blacks existed, boldly shivering. "He went there to get something. He has it."
"Who for?" he asked.
"Tsunade," he said.
"What was it?" he asked.
"I don't know," he said, sighing. "Itachi's not very chatty."
Karin, a little surprised at Sasuke's decision to deliberately refer to his brother directly, did not speak. He was angry, and, this time, she did not think his anger would choose the lull of slumber, not without a nice meal.
"Never you mind," Sasuke said and smiled and his smile was colder than before upon the physiognomy that was more innocent than that of a child's, "what's this secret-keeper business? I hope you didn't tell Suigetsu. He has a light stomach."
"I like my neck," Kisuke replied and touched his neck and gulped. "Didn't tell him that I'd talked to the Uzumaki whore who made the seal. They was putting on the base-seal—like masks on mean Anbu men." He bent forward and moved his hand over the other.
"Kushina?" Sasuke asked, delighted that he had not been wrong: Leaf played with a priced seal, a seal designed to obscure Uchiha vision!
Kisuke nodded, grey flowing back and forth across his countenance. "It was a cold night—and it gets cold as death in Autumn. Winter's worse. Out there—in that land? Feels like you was dying a bad death," he said in a manner as though he was telling a children's story and shivered for he could almost feel the sensation from that night. "Full moon—like a pearl. Can't forget that night.
"They placed a seal on a girl—wee thing—hardly three. Couldn't even wipe her nose right. Kikyo—yes, that was her name—but me? I was honest—always been an honest man. My mum used to tell me—so I told 'em that somethin' 'bout this wasn't right, you know? Branding a lil' lassie like that, but they says the chakra in the seal's at its peak on such nights. Didn't make a lick o' sense to me . . . " He pulled his mouth down in a disapproving scowl and shook his hand and backed away.
Sasuke listened, his mind in another realm: the seal Karin created with his chakra had reacted to the chakra that seeped from the Bijū base-seal that existed on Naruto. Why could he see it back then, yet not now? Why . . . ? From outside, wind brought in voices from storm's heart, and in his veins, his vengeance thrummed in loveliest reds.
"Something bad happened in Leaf," Kisuke said, and his voice disturbed Sasuke's undisciplined thoughts more, "yous host went mad—killed people. Yous family was blamed for it."
Sasuke looked to Kisuke, his flowers on fire, fury their succulent meal; but he stayed silent, eyes speaking where he could not, heart beckoning where he could not, veins singing where he could not—a flesh, an amalgam of desire, is that not all what he was born to do? His burden—his love? O', Kami, grant him mercy, love, life, his mother would pray for the older one, a mist-touched faerie, Queen of his heart. Amen! Itachi—Yet what was his mercy if not empty; what was his love if not bereft of mercy; what was his life if not nurtured by the un-living? Amen!, Okā-San, Amen!
"Danzō asked Yagura to cut 'em loose from the squad—Minato and Hiashi. Don't know—Kisame wouldn't tell me. Maybe he don't know—don't know," he said with a softer accent and a sense of finality, looked at Sasuke as though expecting him to say something on the matter.
Sasuke did not say anything and rose to his feet; Karin did, too, eyes on his features, questions on her tongue, beats on her heart. Then he made his way to the cave's mouth; Karin, did, too; White flashed and splashed like Martyr's Blood upon the Valley.
"Send Jūgo a missive. He can't stay in Rain. He won't make it," Sasuke said, his tone, though subdued, unusually harsh.
"What do you want me to say to him? He isn't close by, you know. He could be anywhere," Karin said, protest evident in her voice that Sasuke chose to ignore.
"I told him to stay close to Waterfalls. He'd be there. Tell him to get Kisuke into the other village," he said, his Sharingans redder than his flames. "Use the seal on him. I don't want him blabbering in death."
"But—Sasuke—" she stopped at the sudden, shocking flare of his chakra, a voiceless whiplash.
In reflex, his head snapped in her direction, and he hissed, "do as you're told." His eyes, big and threatening, burnt cruelly in his face, afflicted greatly by anguish; and she could clearly see the rigid definition of his neck-muscles, green veins, pinking skin beneath the rain droplets. Youth was kindest to his splendor that had corrupted the boy in him in delightful ways; his beauty, ripened by Time, had overwhelmed the boy child's loveliness, inflicted devastation upon her heart, felled her spirit to be in love and lust with him; yet so had his fury that had grown in equal strength and measure by feeding upon grief's delights. Itachi had ruined him in more ways than one, and she would never forgive him for what he had done . . . was Sasuke the greatest magic-trick Kami had played on her? Her flesh could scarcely bear her lust and love . . .
Bothered by his fresh anger, she said nothing, chose looking, words skewered to her tongue like animals bleeding upside down. He spoke of nothing, turned his face away, peering down into the valley that had drowned deeply into night, in the manner of a curious child. Standing on the edge, his existence distilling into the sensations of fury, he located the thrill of salvation in storm's lightning that crashed into the mountain's height and shook its core.
Otā-Sama, would you see your sons now—did your eyes blossom when they bore death's burden—why do you weep? He closed his eyes, his body shivering; one step off the edge—just one step—and there would be no way back. This was love—vengeance in wind's knife!
Otō-Sama, would you love me the way I love you—did you think of me when you left here, for I see nothing of me in your memories—why do I weep for you—why do I love you—is it that I wear your sight? A mist-clothed faerie, King of seduction, his sibling; and all his knife, his vengeance, required was a white neck, upon which red would bloom sweeter than spring's naïve pink. Lightning hit at the mountain again, shaking free the black in the vale below, light glimpsing, bursting, fingerlings swimming in foam.
"The storm's bad—Sasuke—where are you going? Sasuke!" she asked, wet red hair hitting her face harder than lake pebbles, distressed.
"The capital," he said and stepped off the edge and went down into the valley's mouth, torn open by storm's cleansing punishment . . .
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Unusually quiet, his anger existed upon his features, most pronounced upon his brow. The rest of his countenance, whiter than moon swept up in storm's angers, was calm. This was a condition which only he could exhibit, yet he could not say he had ever seen the young Lord this furious. He stayed silent. He had been his Lord since he was a child. It was not his place to say anything to him.
"What does it say?" he asked, his voice deeper than storm's whisperings that came from the outside.
He unrolled the scroll, careful as to not displease him more than he was. "It states that Hinata's position needs to be given to another Genin—till she isn't reinstated," he said and quietly rolled up the scroll. From where he stood, his Lord's face was white and black in equal portions. He sat in the large chair by the window, glass-cup in hand, in which deep red liquid moved. "She isn't being clever with her schemes," he added, wanting to dispel a bit of his Lord's fury.
For few moments, the Lord said nothing. Then he partook of the drink and took in a deep breath. "You have an awkward sense of humour, Serizawa," he spoke, and his voice was less deep than before.
"Itachi-Sama—he—" he stopped, but he could not keep it to himself anymore, "—Sasuke's—he's gone. A lot of men were whispering about what he said—to you. I don't think they heard everything, but . . . the guard said that he didn't stay there long. He—he went home and left a letter—f-for you—but he's gone. I wanted you to know . . . "
"Of course he is," he spoke slowly, words drenched in ire that could not weather his nature; and his was a cold one that had not known love's softer face.
Then it was quiet as sleeping stones in shrines, little boy-children frozen upon stones' faces. Flashes came, and he saw red in Itachi's face, glaring and harsh his eyes. "It is ruined," he spoke, his hand trembling once in an eye-fleeing moment, "all is ruined."
"I-Itachi-Sama," he gasped, unsure of what to say, which words to choose, for all this was beyond him, "he'd come back home. You shouldn't worry. He said it in his missive—he—"
"Sweet child, he listened to me," he spoke, and coil by coil, his heart mirrored itself in his gaze—a heart beating in his eyes. "He kept quiet when I told him to leave things be. He sat down and drove his anger out when I told him not to dwell on the past. Now? He has challenged me. The child challenges me. He has never challenged me.
"The emissaries and the councilman would come soon. He has driven me against the wall . . . "
There was loose red, like a string, that came from his right nostril that Serizawa saw, unease pitting his stomach. When had he taken that accursed poison? "Leave," Itachi spoke, his voice airy and whispery, and he was left with no choice but to leave his Lord be—leave him be in his own playground.
Itachi barely heard the click, yet he saw it disturb the air in volatile vibrations. Then he leant his head back, eyes upon the web that floated against the air, Shurikens cutting the air's fabric in two—cutting, cutting, cutting. Whilst his flesh, sight, soul trembled, there was the sting of breaths, each an exquisite drink for spirit; and what a beautiful drink it was, hitting upon the heart as upon the earth, solid as stone in long winter? Sasuke—his child, his son, his darling—a foe against his beats' tender-est flow.
His grip tightened on the glass-cup, and into his palm it shattered, shivering red everywhere, ache gliding along the arm with feline grace; his fingers long, pretty like the whore spider's legs, stripped-red decorated brides—it was the colour purposed to pull the very soul of him from himself.
How to stop the child—but the child would not listen—how to end his foes—but the fate would not listen—how to stop the child and end his foes? Ah, yes—yes, yes, yes! He laughed, mad, eyes upon the spread of Autumn's sky that had appeared into his winter's night, his domain, for Kami had birthed no night deeper than his blood; such was his love, his passion's flood—this was true, was it not? he reasoned; his love was pure; his heart, fire—there was no equal for his mystic desire.
Little child—poor child—sad child. He did not know how much he loved him. Why did he weep for the dead? They did not love him the way he did. O', Kami was envious of his love, he thought, poison rendering his mind in honest hues. Why did the dead pull the child from his arms? He would not let them!
In this realm, he took his measure of his Okā-San and Otō-Sama and saw Autumn spreading, battling against Winter; yet, like rivers could not return from sea, the child was meant to know defeat. Winter was supreme, singular; Autumn, a sublime child still gripped with colours and naivety. It would take time to ripen in her womb—after it grew from his seed in his dreams.
Then he wrestled his creators into the ground—man's flesh spreading at the throat like a thread broken; woman's flesh spreading at the thighs like fish wide-open—and damned and smothered them with ardour. Grunting and gyrating on the splayed flesh, a flower he wantoned through. Pleasure squeezed the eel, and it shot forth the froth from which life germinated in winter.
The belly grew, rounded, bore his love. Then his whole life spilt out from her bifurcated womb—there he was, his child, his little darling, blinking, weeping for he had just taken his first breath! And colour was making merry in her eyes, and then it was gone and blood leapt out in delightful gushes. What was this if not love? And he whispered to the babe's bloodied face, "I will set the world to ruin to love you—I will set you to ruin to love you!"
And from above, his greater eye opened wide and wept at the spectacle: he thought himself to be a martyr! (Ah, worry and woe—he was created to shoulder it all!) Then the little child was clean in his arms, cooing and restless. He smiled, awed by the little thing clothed in Kami's beauty!
Then his world fluttered away like loose black feathers, and he felt bile fill his mouth. Outside, rain came down in long grey strokes, yet he needed his fury gone; so he went out into the rain-wrecked night, dream fleeing from his eyes, and heaved by a tree, storm beating into his back with savagery. The sensation went away, and he palmed water into his mouth. Looking down, he noticed pink flying in merging droplets from his hand and arm, but he paid it no mind . . .
The walk back home was with a purpose this night, but his home was quiet. Without the child's presence, he felt its silence more. This storm would not end so easily . . . white blasted across the sky and spread over his room's wall. He could see black boughs painted into its colour by shadow-hands.
He had changed his clothes for fresh ones—another uniform. Fire blazed in the sunken fireplace, but his eyes looked upon the painting in the alcove: his father had painted it. When? He could not say, though the colours were still vibrant. He saw Higanbana looking weepy red in snow—right under the shadow that cut deep across the scroll in the middle. It was the season of its death. His father was a sentimental man . . .
At that moment, the door opened, and Rao walked in. In the fire, her hair tended more to yellow than silver. There were words in her eyes, but he did not want to speak to her. Silently, she walked in and silently she sat down by the fire, red going into the furrows Nature had dug into her visage.
"The night is harsh. You should rest," he spoke and lifted the sword from the wooden sword-stand.
"You are leaving?" she asked, her voice softened by emotion.
"Yes," he answered, strapped the sword to his back, turned to look upon her.
"My darling, it is a terrible storm," she spoke, almost hesitant. "You should not punish yourself. Let your anger rest—stay. Why must you leave now? He will come home—he—"
"I cannot wait for him to return. I must go to him, for your generosity to a stranger has ruined me," he cut across her, his mouth smiling unnaturally.
"Itachi!" Rao gasped, shocked, sprung to her feet. "Child, I love you. You are my heart. Why do you—"
"It has," he spoke, his eyes smiling unnaturally. "You brought that girl into my house. I protested, yet you did not listen. I told you that she used to raise her hand to the child, yet you chose her. I warned you of her nature, yet you did as you pleased. Now, I would have to bow before my child . . . shame myself. If I do not do this, he would not listen. She has laid everything bare. My life . . . she has poisoned it. You created this mess. How can you be calm when I cannot rest?"
"Itachi, child, she—" she stopped, coughed, for grief burnt her eyes raw, "—she drank poison. She has not opened her eyes since. She may die. I—I feel terrible. I did not want this—not for you—never for you!"
"Fate was kinder to her than I would have been," he spoke and left the room without looking upon her . . .
Outside, storm's ferociousness had lost its vigour. It almost seemed as if it had located a new purpose—a new foe. He wanted to take the trail out of the forest, but the temple called to him. Water that had gathered on the stone-pathway trembled away from his feet. It was quiet, but his mother's charms could not be heard by him.
Rain, thin and silver, fell down softly and tinkled on the stone statues. The guardian-deities, two little boys, smiled in rocks. Did the rain make them happy? The moon was kinder to their features that had worn away through Leaf's seasons. He did not stop his walk, moving in their midst whilst they smiled to be reborn after death—together for all times, hand in hand . . .
Inside, temple's lull greeted him. It did not seem as though this place had witnessed storm's ire. He climbed down the stairs without lighting fires—his Sharingan was sufficient. The muniment room held records of his clan's history that had never interested him.
He lighted the lantern by the heavy set of drawers, and, instantly, a yellow rippled onwards across the darkness. The back of the room was black, but the light was enough for him to read the missive his father had written with special ink. He took out the missive with the shrine mark—tunnel business. Perhaps it was time to know more? So he unrolled the scroll and read the words of a dead man:
Takauji,
In this time of winter, I pray for your health . . .
The tunnels haunt our people. Leaf's councilmen say little, yet I know of the treachery that runs deeper than mountains in this land. I had thought wrong: the tunnels were made after the betrayal of Madara-Sama at his people's hands. How could the Elders' Council not see the flow of fates? It burdens my spirit . . .
This land was bought from Fire Country's Daimyō at a steep price. Perhaps it is the price we paid with our trust. A secret was kept from us. Why? I cannot say. It seems to me that honour does not burn in the Senju's blood, for Senju Tobirama commissioned a Bandit Clan to carve a venous network of tunnels into the soil. Why were our people not told of this? Was Leaf meant to be our grave? I will not let this happen.
The Bandits, Okami Clan, knew these lands. They granted the tunnels purpose by connecting them to the caves in which earth's chakra slept. We Uchiha had left this land many moons ago, yet the chakra did not leave—no, it stayed and slumbered in wait. Now, it has woken in excitement. It is a marvelous thing—truly. It reacts to my little one. His birth has roused it. I do not know what to make of it, for it was nurtured by Madara's unnatural spirit before—it was never visible the way it is now.
The boy . . . he is beautiful, little, remarkable, only few months old, yet I see much in his eyes. I hope you can come and gaze upon him and the miracle his birth has brought to us. The Uchiha land matters in the capital can wait.
I pray for your safe return.
Fugaku.
Tobirama, not Danzō, commissioned the Tunnels? He was not surprised by Tsunade's lie, yet his father had said nothing of the tunnels' matter he himself did not know. Itachi breathed out a flame, and, when it touched his father's words, they burnt away in ashes; but he smiled a deep and lovely smile for the son Fugaku spoke of was . . . Sasuke! Then he left the temple like a ghost as if he had never visited upon it at all . . .
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There was storm in the sky whilst she ran, sky's spread about angry clouds that let out purple in violent beats. Rain beat at her from the front, pushed her back, but she dug her feet solidly into the soft soil, mud flying at the heels. When would this storm end?
She could hear the Yamanaka man behind her back, though he was slower than she; it was an arduous task to Sense whilst braving Autumn storms, after all—chakra had a tendency to vanish like ghosts. Not choosing to dwell on it, she focused her attention on the man in front. He was slow—slower than usual. Why? She could not say; it was not as if she could ever understand his heart . . .
He probably knew he was being followed, but it was Anbu custom to check upon soldiers that fled villages without orders. A scowl altered the nature of her features—Itachi would protect him, as always—her greens sharpened by the anger, lighter than the foliage night had obscured.
Yet it was impossible to let him not affect her heart; the closer she drew, the more her fear intensified at his chakra's raging torrents, the whiter and brighter sky seemed to become. What if he killed her? Her heart stalled, but gained its rhythm quickly; he was no fool, for killing inside Leaf's barrier was suicide!
She had come with a kunai, dipped in the pink-moth's poor poison, to fight back if he chose to retaliate. The Yamanaka man was not swift on his feet, nor in mind, to catch the lightning quick Uchiha, though it was worth the effort; suddenly, he ran so fast, tearing through storm which seemed to be his extension, that he fled beyond her sense's reach—by a mile!
Where was he? She looked behind once and increased her speed and jumped off the rocks into the limpid mass that was this night's shadow. It parted, her eyes fighting against the black that had turned to dull grey; so they beat on, their footfalls sending pebbles ricocheting into other pebbles. On their left, white shone on and off the water's surface that was not calm.
A great gust scourged the waters and waves flew and crashed onto her. Water, black and quick, trembled away from beneath the foam. From above, whites rushed down and spread out as spectres out to hunt; and in her head, everything roared; she could hear not a thing. She did not stop and thrust more chakra into her legs, and, in reaction, she felt her muscles strain and tighten to their limits. It hurt!
Then she jumped over a large rock and landed into the forest that whipped about against storm. Deeper—she needed to go deeper! Where had he run off to? They were far away from Leaf now, and her heartbeats, fearful of his wrath, fell and rose in harmony. Suddenly, he stopped, but, before her mind could think of a way to respond to his decision, he vanished!
"What?" she gasped, running, panting. All about her, storm seeped deeper into the forest, its voice a muted tone amidst the clustering trees, purring. Slowing down, she looked about, her senses hitting no man save the Yamanaka in back of her.
At last, she arrived at the spot: a broken shrine under the quietest tree, forgotten in the forest. It could have been a grave—of a sibling, child, parent? It was impossible to tell, but here his chakra had escaped her sensing. She looked up and peered at the storm that had moved away from Leaf's heaven to raise hell—elsewhere. He was gone . . .
The Yamanaka man, Toshirō, came running and she looked at him. He held a lighted chakra-stick in his hand—a basic supply item all Shinobi carried that turned rudimentary chakra into flame at the tip. A smothered red threaded his gold hair and spread and shone upon the misty air that was brighter than the blood she saw on operating tables—sometimes, on her palms . . .
She could not tell which expression he wore upon his visage; his eyes, a mystery in the monkey Root-mask, in which she thought he looked silly. "He's gone," she said and wiped a careless hand across her cheeks.
"There isn't any Teleportation mark here," he said, an accusation subtle in his tone that she did not miss, and removed the mask to reveal his youthful face and green eyes that had taken much of the red into them. "How did he get away?"
"He was there—right there!" she said, angered, and pointed at the shrine. "He's gone now. What do you want me to do? Did you think this was going to work?" She laughed a short, derisive laugh that echoed more in the midst of trees than she had thought possible.
Toshirō exhaled a sharp breath that disturbed the flame and granted more green back to his eyes. "This wasn't about detaining him. You know this, Sakura."
"He wasn't going to let you sense him—you fool," Sakura said and turned her head away from the light, eyes like peridots in her face.
"How did he get away?" he asked himself, ignoring her anger.
"I don't know," she answered, calmed, and looked down at the rain-kissed shrine. The forest, now quiet, made it appear more like a lonely grave than before . . .
"He must have a seal on him—probably from the Uzumaki woman that hangs on his arm," he said and looked at her countenance and silver-striped spring hair.
Sakura said nothing, her gaze lost in the little boy's smile in the stone: it was broken, like the head of the older sibling; the hands where their fingers connected in stone had fallen away. Now, a shadow moved along the shrine's fragmented bricks and rocks that were no more than memories. Who had built them . . . ?
"How's the Hyūga girl?" he asked and broke her from her thoughts.
"I don't know why I need to watch her," she answered and pulled her gaze from the shrine and looked at him. "She isn't even in the squad anymore. It's a waste of time."
"Danzō-Sama has—"
"Danzō-Sama should tell me what he wants me to do!" she cut across him, biting back the temptation to box his ear, her fury coming back. "I'm tired of all this. Naruto isn't getting any better. This wasn't what he promised me!"
"Look, don't show me this temper. I'm only doing my job," he replied, sighing. "You want answers? Go and talk to him yourself." Then he looked upon her once more, his eyes fleeting green against red, and left her in the forest . . .
By the time she made it back to Leaf, it was sleeping deeply. Storm had left hours ago, its fury taken whence it had come. Lights blinked on doors, and she heard faints sounds from inside shops. Merchants brought in the stock early—many shinobi preferred things fresh . . . she resented this arrogance of wanting, not giving, shinobi practiced more solemnly than creed; her father was a victim of their faith. For a moment, she stopped, stood on the pathway, upon which yellowed rainwater shivered.
She wanted to go home, to her parents; but the thought of seeing her father wrung out the sentiment from her heart. Sasuke—her freedom and her prison . . . night breeze moved crackling leaves across the stones, and, amidst their rising tones, she chose to go back to her home—wearied.
When she opened the door, she saw the man she was not expecting to see: Naruto! He grinned at the sight of her, forever a boy! His cheeks, swarthy and round, tightened with sentiments she knew to be true. He always was in love—a fool . . .
"Naruto," Sakura gasped, surprised. "When did you come?"
"Some hours ago!" he replied, enthusiasm visible in every part of his features.
"Are you hungry?" she asked and sat down by his side, and he, as always, pressed himself into her, longing for an embrace from her.
"No, I—" he broke off, his breath warm against her wet ear, "—I left Hinata. I set her free—I'm free!" And at this, Naruto threw his arms about Sakura, clasped her to himself; and she forgot to breathe . . . she could not say a thing, hands trembling on his back . . .
"Mother and father have changed their minds," he said between deep breaths, and she knew he was weeping again for she felt a warm wetness engulf her cheek. "They said that it's—it's all right—that you and I are . . . all right!" He backed away, his hands closed around hers, tears sparkling in purple light upon his blue.
Silence—sweetest rain splintering the memory forest in her thoughts, in whose wilds she perished at Lilies roots; and he saw a grimace of pain go from her smiling countenance. Surprised, his face lost its joyous visage and revealed his anxiousness.
"You—Sakura-Chan—you're not—" he stopped, weeping fresh tears, "—you're not happy?"
"What? No—no, Naruto! 'Course I am!" she almost shouted and clasped him to her bosom again. "I'm happy—if—if you're happy . . . " And this time, upon smelling Autumn's scent in his hair, Sasuke's distance crushed her, and she grieved . . .
And she was lonely and she was sick with lust and love and she was angry; so she made love to him the way she liked, brought him to herself from the back, rubbed her sweat-covered body against his, head spinning and body shuddering in feverous anticipation, for she was more lost in lust than he . . .
# # # # # #
Storm had fled, and she felt more alone than ever. The temple was quieter than her family's graveyard. In winter, which was coming, the well in their house went dry, so servants went to the graveyard to draw water from the retarded stream whose waters thinned, and fish fled to warmer waters in the Uchiha village whence it was said to originate, from deep inside a boy-child deities' shrine . . .
Inside the Jizō hall, she gathered the sūtra scrolls scattered about the wooden floor and sat down by the alter upon which a quiet golden Buddha stood. Paintings of ten worlds, stages of human cycle—it was all here. In her youth, her mother had been a Shira Bikuni, a follower of the Jizō cult. She dispensed knowledge of the unborn child's appeasement and preached for fundraising.
A white tsubaki in hand, she went from temple to temple and instructed women to pray to be spared and protected from the fate in the chi no ike. They all wanted Kami to protect them from death in childbirth—and the damnation that was to follow. "Okā-San, are you suffering? I . . . I pray for you," she whispered and looked up at the statue, its eyes as hard and golden as his body, her eyes sparkling gold in grief.
Her mother was young and pretty when she perished—dimpling cheeks, pink lips, long hair. That was all she could remember of her . . . her brother was born dead, and, in vengeance, he had taken her mother, too . . . why? she used to ask, but her mother was without words beyond the shore—so was Buddha by her side . . .
She decided when Hinata was a girl that once she had bloomed to the age when it was expected that she become wed, she would be given over to her betrothed, Naruto. How happy had she been—a child excited for weddings and play? Alas, it was never meant to be . . . and she had resented and loved her equally for so long; perhaps it was time to let go . . .
"O-néh-San," a girl's voice said from the back, and she looked to the door. It was Hanabi, and she was smiling. Hinata lowered her gaze a bit a noticed that her belly had rounded—a bit. She turned to the Buddha, pressed her palms together, bent her head, and prayed for the safe birth of the unborn and her sister that was dear to her.
"Should we go home? It's cold!" Hanabi said, shivering, standing by the light that moved across her face lightly than spring's rains.
Hinata got to her feet and gathered the scrolls and put them in the bag she had brought with her. When she stepped outside, Leaf glimmered about a mile yonder, a lively spot of green amidst a lush landscape, battered by Autumn. She wore her sandals and Hanabi curled her fingers about hers and together they walked down the stone-pathway.
Suddenly, Hinata stopped by the shrine and looked back: rain droplets sprung off from the statues and floating eaves and hit the stone pathway and light fainted in the hall. The servants would have to blow out the flames come morning; but, in that light, Buddha's golden eyes asked of her to make a wish, and she did for she wanted to see him so badly . . .
Smiling, she started walking again alongside her sister, and they left to Leaf under a clearing sky . . .
# # # # # #
EN: Chi no ike, translated into Blood Pool. The Shira Bikuni's teachings and her mythology have been touched upon in Chapter Two (He Loves Me; He Loves Me Not) before.
I usually do not do this, but I feel that it's prudent to lend the readers a helping hand on this front: do not take Itachi's dreams too literally; they aren't meant to be read that way; read them with the underlying aspects in mind, not the scene's literal depiction itself. You'd understand his mind quicker that way.