Chapter Eighty: Trouble, Trouble, Trouble
AN: A reminder that the difference between Sasuke and Itachi is eight years here, not six like in canon (yes, the difference is six, not five years in canon; and it can be easily elaborated on).
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When noise from the inside turned louder, the world slept to silence. Tonight, it was all storm, rising to a sepulchral register; it locked it all up and put a firm lid atop the heart's barrow—how hard was it to open it back up . . . just a crack?
Up and up in the sky, light, argent and gelid, lost to storms that enveloped the land with wings beating on sleeping mounts. Faceless they watched, yawned at the forest that wept in fervent gasps. Moon, night's envy, from between storm's plumes gazed upon the corrosion of souls, a slow rot. Uncaring … of the child's sorrow, it only looked pretty for it made the child so sad.
"Nii-San, that hurts!" he burst out, distressed, and his leg jerked. The wound was deep, red like cut-up white fish, hurting like fire; he had been careless; he was a child; children were . . . careless.
"Sasuke, if you don't hold still, I won't be able to close this up. It might get infected," Itachi said, holding a tailor's needle in hand, his fingertips rouged red. The tailor's needle was surprisingly effective in sewing up wounds, though the process did require a precise hand and perceptive eye for stitches that held the wound's edges firmly together, without breaking.
"Nii—Nii—" he pleaded, gasping between hiccups, his tear-decorated lips and cheeks red.
"Stop it, Sasuke—don't move!" Itachi scolded, his tone very harsh, and bent his head to look at the wound. His Sharingan was more severe than the freshly bleeding flesh Sasuke could see inside the skin that was torn open, a crushed flower on his knee. He fell silent . . . tonight, his brother frightened him more.
Sasuke sat on the chair, his little legs dangling above the matted floor. Itachi sat cross-legged on the floor, back bent forward. Though still a boy of fourteen, Itachi was quite tall for his age, and his shadow loomed large and grotesque above Sasuke's on the wall.
Itachi held the torn skin and applied crisscrossing stitches to the wound. Sasuke chose to look outside the window that Itachi had left open. It was night, and sky was gathering together a little storm that was innocent, naïve, young; and when night breeze touched the fire that burnt in their father's lantern, Sasuke saw red go across his brother's nape that was white as winter's sleep.
The needle hurt when it pierced his skin, left little red bubbles on the pores; it felt as though he was being bitten by spring insects that had come forth from the ripened soil to feast on his flesh; but he said nothing, drank back the tears, swallowed down the sobs. A few signs of pain sparkled on his cheeks in the light; his brother could see, but he said little to ease his worries.
"I don't have any medicine to reduce your pain," Itachi said, his voice strange as if he was speaking to himself, not Sasuke. "I told you not to go outside, but you don't listen. Look what you've done. This will hurt you. Why don't you listen? You never listen to me." And he sent a reproachful glance toward Sasuke, his red eyes half-bright, half-shadow, red glowing behind the black of his smooth hairs—Sasuke said nothing.
At last, Itachi was done with the task; the thread of silk was sewn into the skin; it would have to be taken out when they reached home; otherwise, it might leave a mark. He wiped the wound clean with a wet cloth, and then smeared it with a sickly yellow ointment.
"Careful," he said and rose up to his feet and watched as Sasuke climbed down from the chair beneath his shadow's manifestation. "Go and lie down. Keep your leg straight."
Sasuke did not answer, quiet like nights, benign like infant storms. Itachi saw red emerge in his pretty eyes, crowned by curled lashes, a colour whose ferocious calm heralded a mighty storm. Sasuke bent down, reached for the little toy on the futon, and clasped it to his breast. In the child's wild hair, fire threads danced, interwoven with black by an intimacy that was primal.
With a sigh, Itachi turned from Sasuke. He left the room and the house. Outside, rain began falling down upon the foliage that looked all but black, without the Sharingan that went from his eyes. He stood in the door, held out his hands and washed them clean. He gazed up, watching a brightness storm had patched onto the dark of night. His journey home would be delayed . . .
When Itachi returned to the room, he found Sasuke standing tip-toed by the open window, eyes nearly closed and lips drawn between teeth. Rain droplets, which had fallen inside, by his feet shimmered at the light from the hearth's fires. Craning his neck, he reached up just high enough to pluck something from the bush that grew outside.
The branch stretched and whipped back and swayed; a smile descended on Sasuke's lips, red like summer's remains, toy dangling from his arm. When he turned and looked to his older sibling, he hid away the flower of his smile in his fist; and, quietly, walked to the futon and sat down, keeping his legs straight. Then Sasuke played, but he did not look back to his older sibling.
Itachi did not say a word, walked to the window, closed it. Then he, too, went to the futon and sat down by Sasuke's side. The little one was quiet, busy twisting the string round his forefinger—again and again. He had become quite apt at that trick over the past few weeks.
They sat like this … quietly: fire crackled in the hearth, burning against a winter that stood knocking on land's door. "What's in your hand?" Itachi asked, unable to resist the urge to see that which was hidden in the child's fist.
"Show me," he persisted, sweetly.
With great reluctance, Sasuke opened his fist and showed to Itachi what was in it: red sasanqua! It was fresh, newly bloomed, its petals robust, unfurling in the palm, its hue deep like a dead woman's life frozen in snow. It would not last, would find death at winter's threshold, would marry silence as winter foretold.
"Is that why you went outside?" Itachi asked, his shadow slithering along the boy's countenance, threatening; Sasuke bent his head down but said nothing.
"I don't want you going outside again—not without me. Do you understand?" Itachi said, watching the shadow slip about the boy's wound, like a serpent bleeding out dirty blood.
"You're mean," Sasuke gasped out in-between a long-drawn, quivering sob, tightening his fist. "Okā-San wasn't mean."
"She's gone. She's not coming back. Why don't you understand?" Itachi said, gazing upon tears gathering together into large droplets at the edge of the boy's eyes; his father's light, an oblation, trapped inside.
"I hate you," whispered Sasuke, at last, and tears went down his cheeks; and they looked something like stars and something like morning dews, quivering pretty on his cheeks.
Itachi breathed in deeply, realising that he should not have spoken that way to the child. "All right, I won't take it from you. I promise," Itachi said, bent down, and kissed Sasuke's sweat-flecked brow. Unconvinced, Sasuke looked up, blinking.
"You won't?" he asked, sniffling, hiding away the flower.
"I won't," he said, smiled, wiped clean Sasuke's plump cheeks with the back of his fingers. "But you'd have to make me a promise, too. You won't go outside without me. You promise?" Itachi nodded, and, reassured of his brother's honesty, Sasuke nodded in answer.
"You're a good boy, Sasuke—you're such a good boy," Itachi said and bent down and kissed Sasuke's cheeks and that dawned the ghost of blush across his countenance, touched by the hue of ripened love-apples. He was a little boy, and he was happy. How easy it was to make children happy? Easier than spring made happy the flowers.
Then Itachi took the child into his arms, as to a place of safety, and storm came down upon the land, hitting out like the little Kami's wrath; and storms were meant to die when they began to weep.
"Nii-San, tell me the story!" Sasuke said, looked up, and a big smile changed the character of his features; his blush was deepening amidst Autumn's mercy.
"Story?" Itachi said, looked down, light moving about his mutable eyes like phantoms: his Sharingan had mounted upon the blacks, unseeing.
"That—" he stopped, pouted when he could not remember, bounced a little when he remembered it again, "—that Indra one!"
"Yamatai-koku? You liked it?" he asked, smiling, cupping his hand under Sasuke's chin. The child was beside himself, fire gathering, beating, burning inside his eyes in answer to the sibling's. Dervishes—if they sang, they were meant to sing, too.
"In the lands to the west, Himiko ruled," he began, his reds shimmering like lesser fish in Sasuke's "A shaman priestess, she bewitched men with sorcery, but she brought peace to the lands. She had a son by a Hijiri.
"She named her firstborn Kasai. Some say that he changed his name to Indra after he was betrayed by his father, who chose the younger sibling as his heir that was a Ninshū shaman, like he was. Himiko had died by then, and the rule of the land went back and forth between the two quarrelling brothers."
"Why didn't they make up?" Sasuke asked, visibly distressed by the thought of two brothers fighting bloody wars over something as trivial as lands.
Itachi gave forth a soft laugh and brushed his finger against Sasuke's brow. "I don't know," he said, a smile in his voice, "but if it makes you feel better, I won't fight with you over something as silly as lands." Happy that his brother would never quarrel with him, Sasuke began smiling again.
"Indra shed the blood of his foes there," he said, "turned the lands red, and from deep inside the soil, Shinju sprouted. Its flower had the Sharingan you and I have. It bore him a fruit, too, and he ate it."
"He ate it?" Sasuke asked, tilting his head, surprised. The little house shook, but the storm was playing sweetly with the land tonight.
"Yes, he ate it, and that's what granted him the Sharingan," Itachi said, brushing Sasuke's hair from his brow, peeling the greying shadow from his skin. "It was autumn's peak when the great battle between the brothers was fought. Chakra breaths came out from the earth where he spilled his own blood, and—"
At that moment, chakra breaths bubbled out from beneath them and touched Sasuke's cheeks and kissed them. They turned yellow, not deep yellow like summer poppies, but mild yellow like Autumn's sun which mist concealed. They were not many, yet they danced a dance of passion about the boy; and enchanted by their child's play, he smiled.
"Nii-San, look, fireflies!" he said, excitement growing like songs in his voice, and poked at the round orb that vibrated in madness at the touch.
"They come for purple lilies, but . . . " Itachi broke off, and his words became a part of silence that was unneeded in the tumult created by the child's sweetest laughter.
Bewildered by the spectacle, the older sibling looked on whilst the breath kissed long the child's lips, as though stealing the hue, mimicking its honesty, turning red to bursting. Autumn's smell had risen in the room from the deep, roused by storm's divinity, and Itachi did not know what to do.
Spellbound, yet frightened, he snatched the child's hand away from the breath, his Shurikens rising up to the task to cut up the kindly children earth had sent forth for the child that was hers—always hers. "Don't touch it!" he said, gasping, trembling, clasping tightly the child unto himself.
"Why?" Sasuke asked, voice muffled by Itachi's shirt. "Okā-San said she'd take me to the Kasai lands and show me more o' 'em." The breaths, sensing the malevolence in the older one, scattered like alarmed children. They then vanished one by one, and, upon their leaving, Itachi's heart calmed like winter's calm.
"The lands aren't ours Sasuke . . . not anymore . . . " he whispered and kissed the child's head and passed his hand down the small of the child's back, ". . . and these wisps could hurt you. Don't go near them."
Moments passed like this—in a silence which was embracing; and Sasuke spoke, quite suddenly: "I'd be brave like Indra and fight the men who killed Okā-San—Otō-Sama. I-I won't forgive them!" His voice was solid, unwavering, quite unlike his own.
Itachi uncoiled his arms from around Sasuke and looked upon his eyes; and he felt as though he was being swallowed up by the little boy's red and its ferocity . . . now, after many years, the lands had changed. No longer were they his father's, but they were under the sway of . . . foes as Sasuke would call them.
"Close the window, Sasuke, and come here to me," his brother spoke from behind, and his voice, like a fish, struck the air that was water, and then it was silence from the loudest storm.
Sasuke looked upon the sky that bled darkly once more: the storm's brow was disturbed whilst about its domain cloudy Shinobi formed. It would not take long the storm that was young to arm itself to the last tooth, to call upon its armaments and strike down where it would hurt deep, hurt quick, hurt the most.
Then, after taking in the fragrant air, he closed the window, secured it from the inside, and turned away. In the back of the room, his brother sat dignified by the low table, and about him red dully danced in air, almost appearing like awkward patches stitched deeply into the wounds.
Slowly, Sasuke walked to him and sat down by his side. His older sibling was writing a missive, an official matter, which were many, that required a sense of urgency from him; but his long fingers that seemed soft, as though they belonged to one with a delicate constitution, moved with an unhurried purpose. His brother enjoyed dragging things and . . . people.
The red from the lantern ghosted about the white of his brother's hand, never truly touching, existing in a separate reality yet in the same space. Then, whilst his sibling was creating the most perfect letter, he stopped and looked unto Sasuke and smiled; and from where Sasuke sat, his smile had the depth of sincerity.
"You are quiet. You do not want to speak? It is all right. You can rest, and we can talk in the morning," Itachi spoke to his younger sibling, his smile soaking in the red the lantern issued forth that, now, his lips were redder than red. Then, when Itachi shrank his eyes in the manner of a sober yet playful elder, they twinkled curiously. They seemed not to belong to him as though he had stolen them from a man for whom he held the sentiments of scorn.
No—no, his brother's eyes had always been this way, enchanting, as though they cradled a world of their own; and in the slain blacks and restrained reds of their space, all of Sasuke's world existed. It was a frightening thought, one which required of him to exorcise himself from their daemons, but he was not prepared to flee—not just yet.
Sasuke looked on, and the eyes, a compendium of tricks, Itachi turned them away and returned to the task of creating letters. The older one did not speak, his smile staying like an unwelcomed guest upon the bow of his lips, about which red traced a solid pattern.
His brother, Itachi, was a strange one, always had been. His brumal visage, out of the common, was the cause of much of his allure: it tricked all. To the onlookers, he was agreeable, perfect, beautiful in appearance, yet his seemings were not the best indications of his true sentiments for, beneath them, fluxes and refluxes of danger circulated. Liar—he was not to be trusted.
A sudden assault—storm struck out at the stricken land whose torment was only beginning; and Itachi paused in the task and spoke, his words pretty and soft like his countenance: "we cannot stay here too long. The storm could last for days and nights. We should leave as soon as it softens."
Sasuke said nothing, thinking, looking. His older sibling did not seem upset by Sasuke's silence, his smile taking on an amused quality—little by little. The red met his fairest skin tone lightly, left a mark as if concluding its compliments on the frosty bride's person.
"Do you want me to tell you a story?" Itachi asked whilst he wrote down the final line; the white scroll beneath his whiter fingers, blighted with ink and shadow. "You liked them when you were little." Sasuke did not answer, eyes upon the brush-like hair that touched Itachi's tall neck, moulded according to graceful proportions. The child in him that loved myths would agreeably liken it to the elegant temple tower, which reached up for the storm, that stood erect in the Kasai Lands his mother spoke of. His older sibling was like a prince in faire-tales women cherished and men revered. That part of him was much like their mother's; his brother had more of her in him than he ever did, and a part of him, which had begun from childhood and grown together with his body, resented that . . .
"Silent . . . you should not be that angry," Itachi spoke and placed the brush into the inkpot and looked to him again; now, when he turned to Sasuke a little, light accentuated a crimson decoration about his neck and shoulders. It looked as if he was about to bleed out from the wound that had opened up in his breast.
"You should not be angry with me. You know I cannot bear it," Itachi spoke, his voice sweetly whispering, stroking his cheek, turning the caress into patting lightly as though Sasuke were a little naughty child who had done something he did not approve of; but he loved him too much to . . . punish him. Itachi drew his hand back, his fingers elongating, tapering off to daggers on the wall, a well-drawn scene from a folktale meant to frighten children; his shadow was more honest by being a true display of his mien. Ah, when memories came, so did the precise sort of unpleasantness that was enough to make him feel as though he was slowly growing ill.
Liar! Thief! Daemon! The kabuki theatre actor part he played—and he pin-pointed the act's acuity without rushing through the mannerisms—Sasuke hated it. He had seen through him, and he would not be put to sleep anymore. With Sasuke's resolve made, the glimmer in his eyes, replaced by a ghoulish elation that only a child could get away with.
Itachi, his foe in a goodly fell, sat quietly whilst he gazed upon the letter he had finished writing moments ago. It came as no surprise that many compared his wildness, presented in all its blunt honesty on his person, to his sibling's pristine mien—he was a frozen man who had learnt the art of walking—unchanging, bullheaded, selfish, wrapped up in a motley of black and white. Sasuke felt savaged by his own tendency to be too trusting of his tricks.
He was always immaculately well-dressed—he had to be, with his little job as Leaf's shepherd—loyalty and blindness his adornments. He had too many sheep—rather dogs—to guide; and he had guided many on his mentor's orders . . . his lord, Ieyasu, whose most cherished word was dogs.
Itachi spoke, yet he did not listen for he spoke like a poetic militant whose mercy was only accident. Perhaps the enduring martyr was one that was never born, yet invented. It was a strange sentiment, his heart overawed by the honesty of which he had never thought; and whence it had come, all was quiet as love.
Sasuke did not dwell more on the thought, rose to his feet, went to sleep. That night, whilst the room harboured his fears like ghosts wandering in graveyards, his thoughts had not raged like storms in many years; no, they had located a sense of peace in the resignation from his heart that was meant to bear the dead's burdens.
When morning came, he was awakened by the rain outside; it was soft and light. He looked on the right and found his brother fast asleep: he lay prone, neck straight, hands on his breast; he always looked as though he was about to be interred into a lonely grave. About the room, light that was grey glowed through mist, and when he blinked, yellow invaded the walls. Sasuke sighed . . . in what seemed like a moment, he had overslept much to his own dismay.
Itachi sat by the low table. The ink in the scroll had dried up; the fire in the lantern, eaten through the oil overnight. A faint odour of its aging paper existed in the air, but the rain's smell, grape-scented which came from the vines, outside was too overpowering for it to gain any strength. He looked to Sasuke as he sat up, his hair messier than the night before.
"The storm is sleeping. We should leave now," Itachi spoke and smiled as Sasuke's head bowed from fatigue, eyes closing, for these little games had tired out the child; he wanted to sleep some more. He was a sweet boy, but like all children who wanted to play all the time, he did not possess boundless energy. It was for the best if he kept dragging the boy along, a simpler method to prevent the little one from playing any more mean tricks.
"Go and wash your face," he spoke, watching as an expression of annoyance became visible on Sasuke's face. "I can make you tea if you want." The younger one said nothing and left the room. Itachi rolled up the scroll and rose to his feet and went outside. It was still raining, and, by the house's corners, Purple Lilies had awoken, even though it was their time to sleep. They had grown to maturity overnight, delighted at the child's presence in their midst. Playfully, they laughed, swinging back and forth through mist. Itachi exhaled a long foggy breath; he would have to suppress the child's chakra, for a common Chakra Suppression Seal and poison would hinder it no longer . . . somehow.
He looked on the right to the kudzu vine that had overtaken the house under its ceaseless growth. Its rampant branches that coiled and twined about one another had created a natural roof atop the wooden one. He could no longer see the roof underneath. Now, it was off running to the south, climbing onto trees, sprouting fresh stems. He could see few portions that still bore reddish-purple flowers, but the purple lilies . . . they had escaped its wrath, fought it off, eaten up their share of the territory.
Itachi was still gazing upon the purple lilies when Sasuke came out of the house, trying to wear the Jōnin jacket as though he was battling with it, a curiosity in his face upon seeing the look of interest in his older brother's eyes. He turned his eyes to the lilies, too, that looked restless without wind. Then he looked up at his brother in whose eyes he saw a hint of uneasiness, though it vanished easily than nightly ghosts.
A smile returned to Itachi's face and he walked to him, straightened his Jōnin jacket, and locked the house with the traditional padlock and hand-seals their father had taught them. Curious, Sasuke knelt by the purple lilies, and, overjoyed, their petals vibrated. He smiled, watching sunlight slide into the rain droplets that stood on their petals, for he had never seen them do that. It was . . . the strangest thing!
He wanted to touch them, but, before he could, Itachi spoke: "come, Sasuke. The storm is returning. If we do not leave now, we would have to stay here for another night."
Sighing, Sasuke got to his feet and followed his brother. They walked on the broken pathway that led to the trail many traders used. It was just outside this part of the forest that had begun to speak against the storm for it was returning fast, its wind blowing at them from the back, a jumble of scents hitting their senses.
When Sasuke reached the trail, which was flanked by trees overreaching overhead, he saw his brother walking into the silhouettes and a sturdy oxen-drawn wagon, fitted with six wooden wheels rattling over every stone and crack in the trail, heading east. A little weary, he jogged and slipped into the wagon, over which a water-proof canvas was stretched.
The old man who led the wagon looked back to him, a straw-hat slouching low over his eyes, a smoking pipe between his teeth. He mumbled something like "pesky young'uns!" at the sight of Sasuke's too-innocent smile and looked ahead. He thought that the Jōnin jacket Sasuke wore was for . . . make-believe playing, not a genuine article of military clothing; and he was old, and his sight was failing, and Sasuke's face was too boy-like that most that did not know of his temper, nature, and age were graciously fooled.
Sasuke sat like this for a moment, swaying, mischievously waiting for his brother to give up the thought of walking all the way back to Leaf and climb in. Not a moment later, the wagon rattled and his quiet brother climbed into the wagon, too, and the old man looked back and then forward again, mumbling about "fathers—bad as their apples!" and "they have 'em young, but never teach 'em young'uns a darn thing!" and "control yor peckers!"—though he had said the last bit out-loud.
Sasuke, smiling now, stayed silent; he had not spoken a word to Itachi since their little quarrel at Ieyasu's house. Itachi, looking to Sasuke, watched as he fished out a red sasanqua from his pocket. He had probably plucked it before he left Ieyasu's house. He twirled it in his fingers, red blushing across his lips and cheeks like summer's fires.
Itachi removed his gaze from upon his sibling and looked at the meeting point of the mounts and forests that trembled in storm's haze. Itachi, he that wept out illusions into the child's eyes, knew of the fruitless end to the child's journey, a child who thought of the closure in a world that had none . . .
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This meadow was quiet—flowers stood singing. Up above, sun lay in sky's depth, an unusual nugget of gold, no longer bold; and at sky's far end, a storm was coming this way; and with it, it would bring forth . . . trouble. Oh, trouble, trouble, trouble; he was like trouble, existed like her dream's bubble. If only she could cause mischief in his heart, too, a little trouble that was true.
Rays, bloodless arrowheads, came down to her, went deep into her breast, and made shadows flee from their nest, come at her with spite in their hearts. Yellowed by autumn's indifference, lost spring-leaves danced on her thighs as shadows. She sat with her back against a big tree, its boughs leaning down and forward.
How time flies . . . ? she thought, eyes on the meadow that did not hum together with summer's breeze and herald a change this land coveted. Back in those days, spring would come from the soil, sky, air—it was everywhere! Now, Leaf was being caused to sob by autumn's continual fury, and, when it wept, it wept hard; and from its tears grew Purple Lilies that took perverse joys in its miseries. What a spiteful child: he did not know when to stay put!
Autumn began early and lasted long, too long for Leaf to find joy again. Everything was grey and joyless, all the more so for a good spring that was but a memory. Breeze blew in her direction, her hair whipping, boughs hissing out. Sky lost a little of its sunny yellow; and it would welcome gloom that caused it worry. Strange . . . maybe she and the sky were alike.
It was during summer days that she would sit here, with Naruto by her side, under the trees' shade, intense grey against happy yellow. They would reminisce about the old days, sleeping and awaking beside the river that flowed by the meadow, never leaving.
Naruto—he had grown sweet on her when he was a boy running, tripping, jumping senselessly through yellow poppies in summer—smiling. When she went with him to the sunning meadows, sometimes, she found it hard to find him when he played hide and seek, squatted amongst the many yellow smiling faces, bobbing on stalks, lithe and pretty—like her legs as he would say to her. Sunrays he would say had bubbles and joys in them. He was silly like that, though she never had the heart to tell him that she would only come over on days Sasuke would—she truly did not have the heart . . .
Though still a boy of twelve, Sasuke was like a painting come alive. He after much entreaties from Naruto would come over to the meadow, silhouetted against the sky; and she could not help but smile that he had come—he had finally come! She had seen him once before when he was ten, sleeping in his brother's lap, head leaning against his breast.
There was a shadow that had settled across the upper-half of the older brother; and it touched the little brother, too, though the right side of his face was still white, sweetened by hearth's warmth, and visible to her gaze; and she had smiled, pinked in the cheeks, placed her Chūnin Application scroll on the table of the older brother who now ruled much of Leaf.
He had dismissed her, hand resting on his sibling's back. She wanted to ask the younger brother's name, but the older brother . . . he made her afraid; so she left his office and ran down the street that was quiet at night, rain shining on the stones, water splashing from her footfalls—happy. She did not remember what she had said to her mother then; it was so long ago; but why did it feel as though it were yesterday?
Mother tells me that some memories are like the sun. They never leave! Naruto had said to her, his smile no less radiant than sun. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps . . . memories were dreams, which slept in sleep's womb, which birthed them nightly. What a burden?
To her, memories (dreams, too) were like spring that was leaving, chasing autumn, never truly catching hold of its fragments. They were near yet far, connected by summer that linked them to each other but held them apart. Summer stood between spring and autumn; stood between them; stood between her and him. That was what she thought when she was sixteen; and he, twelve. The girl in her never grew, stubborn, but memories mattered to girls, not women . . .
She closed her eyes, breeze going through her hair, wondering. Things changed, yet they had the power to remain just the same; yet he grew, and he was . . . just the same. How terrible for women that their dreams remained the same, too, a thought that was true.
Rising to her feet, she felt the wetness enclosed in wind: wind, concealing a change, brought rain from the underbelly of clouds, throwing light-washed droplets at the forest and her. Upon the grass, light sparkled inside rain, and earth's scent ran like untamed children about her.
" . . . like the sun," she whispered, a smile on her lips, and ran through the grass that was tall and wet and yellow. It hissed, sneaking serpents slithering, slapped against her legs; but she was overjoyed, transported down memories' pathways that existed suspended between dream and reality, existed between . . . them truly.
The river moved slowly, its waves long and languid, unhurried; and here, the grass was short, tickling against her ankles, almost crunchy like barley biscuits. Bunching her hands, she kept running, eyes wearing autumn's rain, a love letter, tearing through mist that called upon autumn from north's deep. Where are you now if not lost? No—I'm not lost!
Gasping, she lost her footing and crashed down to the grass—falling, tumbling, rolling, she finally stopped moving, lying face up, looking into the storm that was still moving . . . rain that was still coming. It was a drizzle for now, soft and pleasant and kind, spring-like. Like flurrying curtains, light moved over her, yellow, grey, white. Everything was changing, yet nothing changed between them . . . nothing . . .
Light shrunk about her, constricted from all sides, till the little storm-eye was closed and then it rained; and it rained loud; and it rained hard. The storm began to hit at her, its strikes cruel and precise. The droplets where they struck formed wet flowers on impact. She was shivering now, aching in the belly. The hurting pain was back, and it made her want him again—want him more—and now she bled out from the place that had opened and let out liquid black in long streams . . .
And this time, she did not weep clear tears; no, her eyes gave out blood that pinked as rain filled up her eyes; she should have been frightened, but she was not, dreaming with eyes open, wanting with heart broken. She heard humming and turned her head and saw child Naruto sleeping on her right, a smile sleeping on his lips like summer poppies did inside earth.
Then she looked on her left, and there he was, curving into her in the way that his charm was daemonic, indifferent, unforgiving—not unlike Autumn, uncaring of spring's gifts. From the seam of his trembling lips grew the Purple Lily's bud that sought out the moon; and he was young—twelve, she imagined—sleeping like darling children dreaming deeply.
Up in the sky, moon came upon night and released its lights; and the bud that came from his lips grew; yet so did he, to the handsomest man in the world, with the most beautifully formed countenance, limbs, and torso; and when he grew to the state in which she saw him now, the Lily's petals unfurled to the full, sighing.
And lilies, many of them, grew out from his veins, their stems, hair-like, running beside his blood like elixir. It was not fair to be so close, yet so far; and Autumn Moths' larvae wriggled free from the soil to feed upon the blood that flowed from him in thin and graceful gushes.
Soon, they were turning, becoming sinister, growing out to be Winter's Moths—Devil's Moths—the Sharingan-eyes on their wings glowing, warning, threatening; and they were all looking upon her, snuffing out her life slice by slice. Their reds went deep into her spirit, splintered its fabric, enchanted her soul. The older one was less fair than the little one, after all . . .
And they rushed to her, and, beneath her skin, hungry larvae bit at her. Unsatisfied by her bitter blood, though they continued to bite away at her flesh out of habit and hunger, they trembled towards his sleeping form. She quivered allover, aching, unable to get up. At last, she screamed when she saw a shiny one squirming into her right eye and broke free of them, squishing many in the process; and Devil's Moths that had matured in winter's air flew in a feverish rabble up above.
Rubbing at her eyes, she sniffled, weeping. In the wind, breaths sang and she looked up at a white tree reaching tall and bowing low to the youth sleeping by her side. When its flower opened wide, inside it was a big red eye with rings many that looked upon him as though he were its child.
A flower shivering at the lips, he slept as peacefully as a babe. Curiously in love, she bent over him and plucked the flower from his lips; and disconnected from the soil of his flesh, blood bubbled at the lips' seam and first they were red like the flower's eye and then they were child-pink against rain, spring's memory in autumn.
And his mouth opened . . . a little and he drew in the air deeply as though he meant to breathe in all of autumn—all at once. He never had been a patient one. Pink, spreading over his throat, disappeared, yet shadow of tree and moth remained; and she kissed him, for he was distressfully tempting; and poppies slept long and sound, their summer now dreams . . .
Then her flesh wriggled free like the larvae, twitchy, and she sat astride his flesh . . . stars his eye, rain his hands, snakes unfolding, invading, pouring inside. It was a dream, a faerie-tale of a prince she loved as a child, yet her body was afire, grieving; and, soon, she saw fires burning red, struggling underneath her skin; and her mouth opened wide and she sang arias from her heart and then she was ash, floating . . .
"What are you doing here? I told you to wait by the tree," a voice spoke, and she opened her eyes and saw a man against the sun's twinkle, a sun that was less warm.
With the dream soaring like ash, she sat up and looked at him. "I was tired of waiting, Toshirō," she said and wiped her rain-soaked eyes clean. "Do I have to tell you everything?"
"What is that? You're bleeding—again?" Toshirō asked, surprised, looking at the black liquid that remained stuck to her thighs. "You might want to get that looked at."
"There was a little mud here. It's nothing," she said and swiftly rose to her feet and looked at him. Though Toshirō was hiding a smile, he looked sober, hairs of the lightest yellow like this sun.
"Mud, huh? That don't look like mud to me," he said, amused. "It looks like you shat inside your underwear. It's a'right. This job ain't easy. I'm not judging."
"Fuck you," she muttered and walked away from him . . .
The long walk from the forest, whilst dreadful, was better than the sense-throttling damp of Danzō's sanctuary . . . if you could call it that. She did not know what he was expecting from her. A Tsuchigumo, he enjoyed dwelling in his borrow, tricking fools with his strings.
"No one came?" Danzō asked, and she could almost hear . . . a little surprise in his voice.
"No," Toshirō replied, his cat-mask in place, as though he was hiding his face from the daemon he himself had summoned . . . a talisman to ward it off. In the dirty light, his faded yellow hairs shone brightly, which still had rain in them.
Danzō breathed out roughly, clicked his stick against the wood that was older than he, and looked at her. Then he was silent, almost observant.
"Did you send in your Jōnin application, Sakura?" he asked her, his voice rougher than last time.
"I did, but—" Sakura stopped and inhaled the dirt-scented air that smelt unpleasant, smelt of him, "—it's no good till Sasuke doesn't approve it."
"Feisty little boy," he spoke in a long gasp, and Sakura and Toshirō stole a glance at one another. "What of the Anbu contract?"
"I did ask Itachi-Sama to give me the medic's place—the one that died? He didn't say anything. He told me to get an approval from Tsunade-Sama and Sasuke. My hands are tied. I can't do anything," she said and took a moment to look at the old walls the light barely affected.
"You have grown . . . easy," he spoke, and his voice, though frail, had a threatening edge to it that she did not miss.
"I'm trying, but—but Tsunade-Sama isn't making it easy. She—"
"Have you worked on the seal? At least, tell me you have been doing that duty as you cannot seem to manage anything else," he spoke, a derision in his voice that she did not like; but, as always, she did not talk back.
Sakura nodded, eyes upon the old man whose furrows called upon the gathering of shadows more effectively than this room's nooks and corners. He truly had grown quite old . . . against the storm that came at the house, young and brutal and powerful. Would it leave here with his old head, sleep smiling in its bed? Vengeance, family, honour, delightful things boy's faerie-tales were made of!
"He's . . . he's growing ill. It's not working. That's not what you promised me . . . " she said, bravely, though her voice was still whispering, telling of the terror she felt.
"Why are you young and a fool . . . a cliché?" Danzō asked, letting out words from between his compressed teeth, though she felt as though he worded it like a statement, not a question. "It will work. I need Minato on my side. What better way to do this than to free his son from this burden Leaf placed on him? He will come around and then I will have the strength to oust Ieyasu's dog from the council."
Silence . . . Sakura heard his breaths, rough upon the air, and saw the white ghosts they left in the dark as they disappeared. By her side, Toshirō had not spoken a word, though he never spoke out of turn. She never asked where he was from—probably a Yamanaka stray like Fū that Danzō had plucked from the orphanage. He liked his orphans to be naïve and young boys . . .
"Sasuke knows about the tunnels. I can't use them anymore," she said, drawing a bit of his bright eye's attention for a moment too long. "I don't know how he found out, but he's been sniffing around the forest—looking for them. I think he knows—everything about them. Maybe Itachi—"
"He did not tell the boy anything," Danzō spoke, his voice blaring a little in the cosy little room, and rose up to his feet. "You forget that he is Leaf's Commander. The tunnels were built to keep a watch on the Uchiha. He has known. He has always known about them.
"They were built before my time. Tobirama-Sama . . . he never trusted the clan, so he got them built. They kept the clan in line, but they grew suspicious and planned a coup."
"A coup? But—But I don't—" she stopped, shocked, wide green eyes collecting more light, shining in her face. Did Sasuke know of his clan's treachery?
"That is what ended them," he spoke and walked to the window and looked at the rain pressing against the glass in clear grey sheets. "After the massacre, they promised that no man in their clan would ever possess a Sharingan powerful enough to tame the daemon, but they cannot be trusted, can they? The boy exists, and Itachi protects him. He was never the way he is now. He has . . . disappointed me."
Lightning twined about the darkness and sky burnt like the living, dying in white lights; and for once, she was quite afraid . . . for herself . . . and then when Danzō said nothing, she left his house, walking swiftly through the storm that was beating at her. Terrified of what was to come, she ran into the forest where rain was thin and trees grew grim and stopped, her breast heaving fast. She did not know when the tears joined the rain on her face, but they did . . .
Sakura heard the crunch of steps behind her back, and she knew who it was. "Toshirō, leave off!" she shouted, even though she did not mean to.
"I came here to tell you that Danzō-Sama isn't happy. He wants you to try harder," Toshirō said, standing by the tree, looking up at the storm that was passing off to join the one that was distressing Leaf.
Sakura straightened her back and looked at his face: his mask was off, revealing a face that was young and pleasant to the eyes. "Are you smarting on me?" she asked, breaths hissing from her lips. "I didn't know anything about the coup, and now he tells me? Sage damnit! I can't stop Sasuke—can't stop a man who's out to get even. I can't stop Itachi. I'm being crushed between your wars. I can't do this anymore!"
"I'm telling you what he told me," he said and looked down at her and smiled. "I didn't come out here in the rain after you 'cause I like you. No, I came 'cause I had no choice. So why don't you do as you're told and stop bullshitting? I'd make my job a lot easier."
Angered, she hurled a fist at his head. To her surprise, he was far more swift than she had imagined for he had slipped under her arm and flashed back before she could blink. That did not lessen her anger; no, it fired it up ten-fold. "Why don't you suck my cock?" she burst out, hands knotted like iron-clumps, quaking.
"Kami—you're an unpleasant cunt," Toshirō said calmly and brushed the rain-droplets from his glove-covered arms. "You think there's a way out? There isn't any, and I think, deep down, you know that, too—or maybe not that deep down.
"You thought you could just come laughing into Root for whatever petty reason and up and leave? You stupid bitch. There's no way out. There's never any in the Villages. You either enjoy your stay, or you get put down—so enjoy your stay and don't forget to smile. Nobody likes a killjoy."
Then Toshirō smiled fully, turned, and left her alone in the forest's cloistered night; and, up above, Leaf's sky was still burning, dying, fighting against the storm that would see it turning to ash—evermore . . .
"A change in Uchiha leadership?" Tsunade repeated his words, her lips almost giving away her amusement. "Itachi isn't my business. Your clan isn't my business. Why are you here? Tell me."
"You know why. The Lands' lease is ending soon," Yamato began, and Tsunade held her breath for it was loud within and without. "Their ownership will go over to Sasuke. Fugaku-Sama's will. And we both know the boy doesn't like Leaf."
"Itachi would—"
"He's . . . a little sensitive when it comes to Sasuke," he cut across her, lightning shining upon the side of his face that was exposed to the window. "He won't force him. He'd try, but he won't force him to hand it over to you."
Tsunade leant back into the large chair, whose shadow was smaller on the wall behind her, and entwined her sweaty fingers together. "What are you suggesting? Should I have the boy killed and invite Itachi's anger? Should I hold him hostage and invite Itachi's anger? What should I do? Because no matter what I do to the boy, Itachi would be angry, and I don't want him to be angry," Tsunade said, her voice surprisingly cool despite the uncertainty that occupied the air like a ghost and its jagged teeth.
"I can get you the proof you need from the boy," Yamato said slowly, and his voice was a whisper to Tsunade's ears.
"What proof?" she asked, impatient, her heart like thunders.
"Toruné's and Fū's murders. Unpleasant business. I'm sure their families might want justice," he said, smiling earnestly, his teeth shining like silver coins against the light. "That'd be enough to remove Itachi from his seats—both of them. The clan won't take the news well, and I'm sure that your Council will be upset by his . . . lies."
Tsunade did not say anything. Think—she needed time to think. "Once he's removed from power, we can control the Lands together—Leaf and the Uchiha. That was always Fugaku-Sama's dream—Kami bless him," he said, and then he was silent, looking at the shards that sparkled on the floor when the sky burnt in the midst of white fires.
"Itachi . . . he is Ieyasu's favourite boy," Tsunade began and wiped clean the sake droplets from the table, with her fingertips. "I think, your . . . ambitions are loftier than they should be." She moved her hand a little in a circular motion, unamused.
"A man should aim for stars," Yamato said, his smile gentle but restrained. She could tell that he had much on his mind, though he chose little to share.
Tsunade looked at him, her gaze penetrating, still, reflecting lantern's light. "Not every man should," she said at length, observing him.
"But every man could," he shot back, quickly.
Tsunade let out a gasp-like sound of amusement and pushed the unused scroll aside to make room for her elbows. "You want me to butt my head with this country's most powerful councilman?" she asked and widened her eyes and smile, her teeth showing. "And over what—your wish to take Itachi's place? Are you out of your Sage-damned mind? Not a coin goes through Leaf without Ieyasu's blessings. The whole country eats out of his hands.
"The boy—Sasuke? He's a nuisance. A pest. I want him gone, but if it means that I'd invite more than I bargained for, I can tolerate him. You should, too."
"The Lands will go to Ieyasu," Yamato spoke, a peculiar shine in his eyes which did not leave in spite of the softening lantern's light. "Itachi will make sure of it. If not completely, a joint ownership to tease the Daimyō. Leaf will be cut off from them forever. Your medicines, crops, Ninjutsu—everything you can think of, Ieyasu would control it. He'd choke up Leaf's life-line and it'd dry out in months. Next it'd be your seat. He might do away with Leaf altogether.
"Are you prepared for a cut-throat bureaucrat to strangle the life out of this village—your grandfather's dream?"
Tsunade did not speak, her mind raging faster than torrential rivers in summer. "And what about Danzō? Wasn't he his father's favourite first?" he continued and stood up, his shadow falling heavily in front of him, upon her. "Once the lease ends, you won't have time to think. Make your choice."
And then he was gone . . . and Leaf wept, hiccupping, fretting, regretting; and joyful he arrived, his older sibling in his wake. There was a happiness in the way the little one moved, storm guiding his steps to bring forth more trouble. Moon bled from the yawning cut in sky's breast; what a time to be young and alive?
The Uchiha Village was slumbering, blinking in night's retreat. Lanterns that hung outside closed doors discharged dampened reds, yellows, whites onto the air, and it wore them upon itself the way a demure bride wore its garments. The stream went tumbling, mumbling, bubbling down the winding road, never stopping, carrying silvers the moon gave—night's gifts.
Their house that stood under a leaning tree and its stooping shadow loomed into view, and the older sibling noticed that the little one's walk turned faster as though he was a babe returning home, delighted by the prospect of gifts after . . . a festival. He was in half a mind to ask Sasuke to walk slowly, but before he could, Sasuke turned to the garden and disappeared inside the house.
Tanaka stopped him at the gate and told him of Tsunade's arrival an hour ago. The Lands . . . he knew, but she could wait. He asked the aged servant to go to sleep as the night was cold and long; and then he stepped into the light that was less welcoming than the last time he left here.
Itachi looked down the corridor, and, a moment later, Sasuke came from his room, mischief-causing scrolls stuffed into his pockets like children's tricks—no doubt. "Sasuke, do not go outside at this hour. A storm is coming—" Itachi stopped as Sasuke left through the main-door in silence, "—this way." Letting out a long breath, Itachi wiped his hands across his face.
Then he heard creaky, energetic steps come towards him and a voice said: "Itachi-Sama, Sasuke left. Should I stop—"
"I noticed," Itachi cut across him, irked. "Go home, Serizawa. Your wife and child must miss you dearly. It is late, and I am weary." With that, he left his subordinate in the corridor and heard him leave some moments later.
When Itachi opened the library door, a smell of incense fled the room. Tanaka had left open the sliding door that led to the garden. Outside, leaves scraped against the house's roof, took wind's burden upon themselves. He placed the sword back on the sword-rack and settled down by the table and looked upon the brazier that was cold as the rain outside.
Closing his eyes, he leant his head against the wall. The rain was still falling, plashing on stones, ringing. It would be a long night . . . occupied by a restlessness that he had not known in a long time. Sleep . . . he wanted to sleep. The nerves were tight, throbbing in his temples. The child had begun a new game, but he was too drowsy to give chase tonight. Let him play—at the end, children grew tired of it all, too.
The door of his father's library opened a crack that let the corridor's light in, and, before the sound stopped, Itachi opened his eyes and gazed upon a woman that stood in shadows. "You have come!" she spoke, her voice's age battling against its youthful joy.
"I was worried," Rao spoke, smiled, settled down beside the brazier out of habit; but, in the darkness, he could scarcely see her smile.
"Why are you still awake? You should be sleeping," he spoke and looked away to the garden that invited his gaze.
"Serizawa received your letter, and I," Rao paused, her smile growing uncertain, "I wanted to see you before I went to sleep."
To her dismay, Itachi said nothing, eyes upon the trees that stood blackly against night's territory. "I made a mistake, but Sasuke is back and your anger is, too," she spoke, her tone tender as spring trees, and lowered her eyes to look at the soot that existed in the brazier and rubbed her hands together in aggressive slow motion. "I should not have made a mistake, but I did. I want you to forgive me. Your anger . . . is hurtful. I did what I thought was best for you. I do not know why you think I am against you, but you should not . . . " Then she said no more, her continued gaze pressing upon the ash as though she was hoping to bring forth something to life from its cold-caressed remains.
"He would not have come back had it not been his intention to cause mischief," Itachi spoke, looking outside at the dark and heavy mist that existed in the midst of rain's continued burble. "I know Sasuke. I can see the mischief in his eyes. It is there . . . a pretty little sparkle that makes him look more innocent . . . "
Then Itachi stood up and looked at her; and she, him. "You want me to forgive you? I forgive you, but does my forgiveness mend what you have broken?" Itachi asked, casting a gaze of frigid apathy upon her. "I do not think it does, so does it matter if I forgive you or not? It does not matter, and for that, I forgive you, Obā-San."
Then Itachi left the room, and wind from outside blew at the ashes and tossed them on the floor, and she closed her eyes and saw stars through the anguish in her eyes . . .
# # # # # #
It was a lonely time to be young and alive. This house was a mad dog, and all it took was great joy in biting her. It nipped at her heels and feasted on her meat and chomped away on her bones—dramatic, but half-true. There were days when sky would look so blue, outlined against the billowing clouds, not a star in sight. Summer skies had an energetic blue, a smiling sun, clear nights.
Rains were sparse, and storms did not come till summer's fall; but autumn was different: it wept all day long, and its nights were wet and strong. In those nights, of which she spoke to no soul, she rid her womb of summer's remains. It was a cure she had got from Miyuki, and it helped her live for another night—her own little vengeance.
Back then, her palm would stretch over the womb's beating core, feel the heart that was young, see the spirit that had sprung. Then her hands would run with blood, a babe, collapsed into the womb, lost. Days and nights—it was all the same whilst she travelled upon indented grass and trampled ground all day. Sometimes, she would run out into the dark, knowing that no one would come for her, and spend her night by the trees that slept in peace, dreaming.
Yet she felt . . . good for the graves she dug out in her belly, one after the other. How many had perished, a woe in the blues of her darling? He cared more for them than he ever did for her. "Okā-San—Okā-San!" she would weep, guilty, but she dreamt, too, in peace. In Yomi's cracks, a Blood Pool awaited her; and in night's clotting gloom, she would be terror-struck by what she had done, for her children should have died on Kami's time, not man's—not mother's.
Then day would come amidst a purl of stream and curl of sky, dawning through autumn's fog; and she would forget the children . . . for another night. Now, it was a creaking dog that bit her hard and slow and long. Sitting by the fire, she had grown used to its angers, her children forgotten reveries.
She pulled in a trembling breath, looking upon the things that stood before their shadows, watching; and in the midst of storm's rising breeze, she heard a knock come upon the door. Lonely, she smiled, for she had not seen a soul out here in days; and when she opened the main-door, her joy knew no bounds. Kami had listened to her prayers that night, and there he stood, lithe and lovely at the door.
"Sasuke," she let out the whisper and, without thinking, hurled herself at him, took him in an embrace that was crushing, her blood and veins beating in pairs, warming. She did not let go, hair floating about her in the night breeze whose fragrance was less enchanting than his.
"I thought I should check up on you, but You're happy," Sasuke remarked and looked down at her and smiled. "You look like you missed me."
Like a besotted young girl, Hinata nodded, touched his cheek, kissed his lips. "I missed you," Hinata admitted, joy flowing from her reflecting eyes.
"You're like a little girl," he said, backed away, and sat down on the wooden threshold, looking out at the moors lost in darkness and sounds of waving grass that never left.
Hinata sat down by his side and leant her head against his shoulder. He was quiet, looking, waiting . . . for something; but, out there in the forest, no one was waiting for him. "I . . . " she began and could say no more, words finding solace alongside her children in Autumn's charming sepulchers.
"It's nice out here," Sasuke said, crossed his legs, breathed out a loud breath that curled in white tendrils towards his countenance before it vanished. "Quite. Peaceful. No one to bother you."
Hinata sat up straight and gazed at the sunny side of his aspect, affected by the lantern that was hung above them. She did not know what to say; but she smiled for he was here, for she was happy, for her heart was overjoyed.
"I'd ask Neji to train you," he spoke again, not looking at her but the forest that was cursed in her eyes. "If you learn something, Ita—Nii-Sama would have no reason to throw you out. I'd talk to Naruto, too. He needs too—"
"He freed me," she said, suddenly; and that got his full attention.
"What?" he asked and shrank his eyes and lost his endearing smile, a confusion coming into his features with slowness.
"Naruto freed me," Hinata said again, took hold of his hand, kissed his fingers. "I'm free, Sasuke. I'm free!" And she saw red wriggle unto his eyes, obscured by a stranger emotion; it took a moment for them to resume their delicate black richness.
"When?" he asked, a fresh smile maturing upon his lips, though it was not as sweet as the one he showed to her before.
"Some days ago," she said, shy. "I waited for you to come, but you . . . didn't . . . "
With a burdened sigh, Sasuke directed his eyes back to the forest; and ripened by autumn, its scent was lovely. Mounted upon night's wings, darkness fed on the land with its delicate proboscis, sucked up shades, left promises of a whiter morn that would bloom inside Autumn's shelter.
The air about them was night-warmed and mild; and with Sasuke by her side, she thought that the scene was fragrant and agreeable. Restless to speak with him, Hinata turned her face to him and said: "what's wrong? Are you angry?"
"What—no," Sasuke said, shaking his head once in absentmindedness. "Why would you say that?" Then the smile returned to his lips and brightened his visage, but his gaze did not return upon her.
"We should run away," Hinata asked, out of the blue, and fixed on him her round grey eyes.
Sasuke laughed softly and looked upon her as though he was looking upon a naïve little girl. "Where?" he asked, smiling fully.
"Anywhere!" she burst out, red like a juicy apple's bottom.
"You know," he began, leaning forward, feigning soberness, "Obā-San always says that that's like running away from trouble rather than taking it by the horns." And he made a light fist of his hand and shook it a bit. "She does this fist-thing, often. Turns red in the face—crazy."
"We can hide from trouble," she insisted, straightening down her hair, blowing at stray ones that blocked her vision.
"But trouble always finds me," he said, playful.
"Then . . . " she paused, her words staying in the air like low-ringing sounds, " . . . then we can go somewhere else."
"But then we'd run out of places to hide," he said, enjoying her silliness.
"You're no fun!" she said, pouting her lips which she had painted with a common flower colour, which was taken from the light pink ones, which peddlers grew in pots.
"I know," he said and emitted a pleasant laughter and looked at her out of the corner of his eyes as if he was still playing. "Tell you what, you go and find me a good place to hide, and we'd think about running."
Hinata nodded, happy, and he went back to peering into the forest as though it was his long lost mother that he had not seen in years. Wanting all of his attention tonight, she tapped on his shoulder and said, "I made something for you," and smiled a big smile and pulled a folded scroll-paper from her obi.
"Wait!" Hinata yelled and snatched the paper from his hand. "Oh, no—not this one. Come inside! Come—come!" She grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him into the house and locked it from the inside. Then she took him to her room where half-finished paintings lay scattered on the floor by a lantern, whose light made richer the wet paints, and beamed up at him.
"Ah, Rinnegan. For me?" he asked and tapped her little nose with his finger-tip. "No one's ever made a painting for me—well, Otō-Sama liked painting, but I don't think he painted anything for me."
"You like it?" she asked, standing by his shadow, which the lantern had cast.
"When you give it to me, I'd keep it close to my heart," he said, tapped lightly his breast where his heart was, winked. Hinata emitted a short, shy, girl-like laugh and lowered her eyes that wore blacks upon greys more intensely.
"I should—"
"No, stay!" she protested, held fast to his hand that was warmer than hers, twisted her lips in worry. "You don't come often. Stay. I'd have to go to Otō-Sama's again. I'd be stuck there—won't be able to see you again for days."
"You can't keep doing this. If you want to stay in the squad, you'd—"
"I can't. I have to go. It's our memory-reading festival," she said, enclosing her hand on his.
"What?" he asked, mind chasing again the thread it had lost.
"It's—it's like a look into the eyes, you know?" she said, widening her eyes as though he did not understand, inviting him to look into hers. "We look into the Byakugans of the men who've died, record their memories, and say our prayers. We do this every year."
"Every year?" he asked, unaware that his lips were moving, lungs were working; his mind was in another realm now, leeching off the images his Sharingan was seeing, laving . . .
Hinata nodded. "The Head Family's only. The cursed seal of—you know . . . " her voice trailed off like dots on an unfinished missive; and she then said nothing.
Outside, lightning awoke the storm, and it came to life with a new vigour. It was easier before her words: now, it was the loveliest meal. "Stay, please," Hinata said again, her words softer, caressing his hand; and he took one look at her lust-ripened eyes and he thought it all to be a true treat!
Ah, there was no rest for the children when they got out to get even . . . twining spines, a lull bookended by frenetic slices of ardour, piquant pleasures of Autumn—gush, gush, gush . . . rainwater on stones trembled from underneath light, rippling uncertainly onwards, netted by golds.
It was the deepest parts of night when he directed his steps to the library: in his age, reading Uchiha Folktales brought him great joy; he heard his mother's rough breaths as he passed by her door, lantern in hand, but he did not stop. The library and its lights awaited him; and when he opened the door, he was greeted by an interplay of brightness and dullness about the racks, which contained many scrolls.
He placed the lantern by the low table and turned towards the rack that had the scroll he needed and that was when he felt his presence behind his back. "It is rude to steal into someone's house," he spoke, took out the scroll, turned to look upon him. "What would your brother say, Sasuke?"
"I didn't want to disturb your mother, Nomura-San," Sasuke said and took a step to come into the light that was radiant. He was smiling, a pleasant smile, though Nomura could see the unmistakable twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Nomura looked at him up and down and spoke: "you are soaking wet. Were you out in the storm all night? You should go home. It is cold. A storm rages outside. We can talk tomorrow."
"This can't wait," Sasuke spoke, the tone of his voice approaching dangerously close to a hiss, and his impatience brought forth Sharingans from his bleak black's deeps, placing vibrant joys in their centres.
Nomura pushed his hands into his sleeves, watching, listening, lending his ears to all that he could hear. "What cannot wait, child?" he asked, straightened his spine.
"I need a seat in the Uchiha Council, and you'd help me get it," Sasuke said in a soft voice and sat down by the burning hearth and leant forward.
Nomura did not know what to say . . .
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EN: ". . . and storms were meant to die when they began to weep." It might sound strange, but the "ending stage (to simplify this)" of a storm begins as soon as it starts to rain. This line has other meanings, as well, but this literal one was one of them.
The term Hijiri roughly translates into "a Holy man". I didn't know whether I should go with "by Hijiri" or "by a Hijiri" as it's strictly a Japanese noun. In the end, I decided to use "a" before it, even though it looks a tad bit odd as, after all, I'm writing in English, not Japanese.
This following part deals with myths in Japanese historical texts and Kishimoto's Naruto Canon. You can skip it if you want. The tale of Himiko from Yamatai-koku is a very popular old legend. Most of what I've written on it here is true (well, semi-true given that her existence is a debatable affair) save the mention of Kasai (noun, a powerful, unquenchable fire that destroys everything in its path) and her husband. It's said that Himiko (Pimiko in Chinese) ruled the lands by bewitching people. She also had a large mirror that she utilised in the process (it was a reflective mirror, and, apparently, it's been discovered in one of the tombs). Doesn't it sound a lot like Kaguya's tale in Naruto in which she cast Tsukuyomi on the moon and then used its reflection on earth to bewitch people? I'm not sure why Kishimoto went with Kaguya rather than Himiko, given that the latter matches the canon-lore of her more effectively. She was also thought to be a descended of Kami (as is the case with Japanese royalty and the myths associated with them), so I'd always be surprised as to why Kishimoto didn't simply go with Himiko as she's linked to Japan's regalia, as well, that, according to Japan's mythic lore, are Holy Relics. (She also brought peace at a time of great strife, which is another striking similarity between the two characters.)
The Imperial regalia consists of the Sword (Kusanagi), formerly the Ame no Murakumo or "Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven"; however, today, it's referred to as the "grass-cutting sword". According to myth, it was taken from the body of an eight-headed dragon. There's the Mirror (Yata) or "Eight Hand Mirror" that was rebuilt from the ashes of the original after it was destroyed around a thousand years ago. And, finally, there's the Great Jewel (Yasakani) that's believed to be bead-shaped like a magatama and is possibly the most precious of all the regalia as it's believed to be the only one that has survived completely intact and unchanged over the millennia. The sacred nature of the regalia comes from their legendary origins. According to tradition, the Holy Treasures represent the sun goddess, Amaterasu, and were brought to earth by her grandson, Ninigi-no-Mikoto (father of the Japanese Imperial Family), to use their divine powers in pacifying the country.
(A lot of people who like Sasuke and Sakura together see Ninigi-no-Mikoto's crystal clear associations with Sasuke to reach a bizarre and pitiful conclusion that Sakura is Konohanasakuya-hime. Frankly, the theories to back this up are so hare-brained and threadbare and foolish that I've always had a hard time believing that they're written by people other than children clinically obsessed with pairings. By the way, the combined image of Sasuke and Itachi makes up Ninigi-no-Mikoto, not Sasuke alone, as Sasuke, whilst being a great archer like Ninigi-no-Mikoto, doesn't wield Mirror Yata, Itachi does; they both complete each other as, when they face each other, their eyes match the other's eyes' powers like an inverted mirror-image; they can literally and metaphorically look at each other eye to eye; and Sakura is only Konohanasakuya-hime in a very paper-thin kind of name association, nothing more.)
Now, Himiko's name in archaic Japanese means "Sun Child" or "Sun Daughter" and probably alludes to her divine descent from Amaterasu, the Shinto sun goddess, as all Japanese rulers would later be identified as being descendants of.
Queen Himiko's role as a shamaness or high priestess, not an uncommon practice for rulers in early East Asian cultures, is alluded to in the Chinese history book Wei Chih ('History of the Kingdom of Wei') which was written in 297 CE. There, we are told Himiko "occupied herself with magic and sorcery, bewitching the people" (Henshall, 152). Japanese dynastic histories such as the Kojiki ('Record of Ancient Things'), compiled in 712 CE, and the Nihon-Shoki ('Chronicle of Japan' and also known as the Nihongi), compiled in 720 CE, do not mention Queen Himiko by name. It is recorded in the Nihon-Shoki that the Queen (although not named) sent a tributary embassy to the Wei kingdom of China in 238 CE:
"In the sixth month of the third year of Ching-ch'u [238 CE] in the reign of Emperor Ming Ti, the queen of the Wa sent the grandee Nashonmi and other; they visited the prefecture and asked permission to proceed to the emperor's court and present tribute. The governor, Teng Hsia, dispatched an official who escorted them to the capital. (Keene, 72)." Himiko, apparently, had only one male attendant (out of thousand which were all women) and she never married, which could be a romanticization of the shamaness culture. Surprisingly, she also left the state affairs to her brother or they ruled together.
What's interesting is that the regalia are equipped by the Uchiha either as Susanoo's armaments or as separate weaponry or they're a part of their abilities: Sasuke's Sword (Kusanagi), (formerly the Ame no Murakumo or "Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven" or how, today, it's referred to as the "grass-cutting sword"); it's interesting to note here that the actual Sword Kusanagi in Naruto Canon is not wielded by Sasuke, but Itachi (Sasuke's Kusanagi not being the actual Kusanagi is pointed out quite explicitly by Orochimaru when he calls Itachi's Kusanagi to be the real thing); however, all of its "connotations" are wielded, used, and shown through Sasuke, not Itachi (which is why I said that their combined image creates Ninigi-no-Mikoto; even though Sasuke fits the image far more, he's missing two of the regalia that create the deity's image). Sasuke's also the most proficient user of Raiton bar none, hence, the sword's connotative and denotative aspects fit him the most.
Then we have the Kami names (for instance, you've read the name Ninigi-no-Mikoto). They're further complicated by the fact that they are descriptive and always incorporate one or more titles, such as no-kami or o-mikoto. Each kami is considered to have three mitama (souls or natures): aramitama (rough and wild), nigimitama (gentle and life-supporting), and sakimitama (nurturing). Obviously, one or another of these natures might predominate in any particular myth: Susano-wo usually expresses his aramitama, whereas Amaterasu usually expresses nigimitama. Under different circumstances, however, for example, when not sufficiently honored, another of the deity's natures would express itself: when forced to confront Susano-wo's apparent rebellion, Amaterasu very quickly assumes her aramitama, arming herself as a warrior and performing aggressive rituals. Now, Sasuke's mother's name is Mikoto, which, technically, isn't a name (depending upon its script and origin, but as I'm seeing things from an archaic perspective, it's a word, not a name) but an honorific extension that's added after the name of a deity or nobility; so Sasuke's ascent to godhood in the manga had a solid groundwork from the start; furthermore, he wields aramitama more than other forms of mitama, on which I'll elaborate briefly through Buddhist tradition. (I've seen a lot of Fan-Fiction authors attempting to sound more elegant by throwing "no-Mikoto" with whatever they feel like, without looking into the lore itself, and it'd never stop being silly.)
In the Buddhist scheme of things, the deities rank lower than the Buddhas and boddhisattvas. Unlike the two previous categories, deities are still enmeshed in life, and it is by their efforts to protect the Law that they aspire to reach membership in the higher categories. Thus they serve as protectors and defending deities. In Buddhist mythology their function is to protect the Buddhist Law, or particular aspects of it. In many cases they have made a vow to live in the world in this way. This category can be split into a number of subcategories based more on their popular associations than on their nature (ferocious or tranquil) or history. We thus have a number of groups of deities that often occur together in statuary, paintings, or myths. Many of these have manifold identities: Some are the more martial aspects of the gentle "bosatsu", the Buddhist equivalent of the "aramitama" of the Shintō kami. Some appear in more than one group, assuming different names and attributes, but considered (at least according to priests and scholars) to be "the same as" one in another group. Ten (Sanskrit: Devas; protective gods): This subcategory includes a number of deities, mostly of Indian origin, who command armies of gods and lesser spirits devoted to protecting Buddhism and the Buddhist Law. The most important of the tenare the four heavenly kings who have taken a vow to protect Mt. Meru, the home of the gods and the symbol of the ascent to Buddhahood. The four, generally called the shitenno (four heavenly kings), are:
• Bishamon-ten (Sanskrit: Vaisravana), also called Tamon-ten. He is the defender of the North and appears in full Chinese armor, carrying a reliquary and a spear.
• Jikoku-ten (Sanskrit: Dhrtarastra) carries a trident and rests his foot on the head of a demon. He is the defender of the East.
• Zōchō-ten (Sanskrit: Virudhaka). Armored like his peers, he carries a polearm or holds a drawn sword and stands on a demon. He defends the West.
• Kōmoku-ten (Sanskrit: Virupaksa). Armored as well, he carries a scroll and wields a baton. His domain is the South.
Two other ten (out of a larger list) are of great importance and originate with major Hindu gods. They are:
• Bon-ten. Originally Brahma, the Hindu god of creation. In Japan he protects warriors who fight in his name and follow the Law.
• Taishaku-ten, originally Indra, the Hindu god of warriors. Like Bon-ten, he is a deity of warriors who defend the Law.
Indian Buddhism had adapted and built upon the earlier mythological tradition of Hinduism. Indian mythology included references to a pantheon of powerful, well-defined gods. Many of the chief deities of Hinduism—Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, Indra the Fort-Breaker, and even many of the demons—were harnessed as Buddhist figures: lower than the Buddhas themselves, but nonetheless powerful and worthy of respect. Introduced into Japan via China, these figures and deities became figures in Japanese mythology as well, under Japanese names and with Japanese attributes, but clearly sourced from a rich Hindu and Indian tradition.
It's interesting that if you look at the image in which Danzō asks of Itachi's to make his choice between Uchiha and Leaf, Kishimoto showed two statues that marked the said choices: the statue on the left (to which Itachi turned) greatly resembles "Ni-o, or Kongo Rikishi, known as Naraen Kongo (Kongo with Closed Mouth)". The one related to the "paired Ni-o (Kongo Rikishi) is Shikkongo Shin 'Vajradhara, the 'Thunderbolt Bearer,' a form of Indra. He wields a thunderbolt (Japanese kongo, Sanskrit vajra) in his right hand, a weapon against the enemies of Buddhism". It also bears a resemblance to "Fudo Myo-o" that is shown surrounded by flames and "Jikokuten (a thunder deity)", that is often shown "playing his drums to produce rolling thunder". These are added references to Sasuke and Uchiha: The former has Katon and Raiton affinity and the latter were renowned for their potent "Katon" Jutsus.
It has three heads and holds a spear/bolt like object up (the one Sasuke makes before reshaping them into "Indra's Arrow"). He creates the Bow and Arrow out of that Raiton Spear or he makes the weapon's set out of the Raiton Spear; so Sasuke covers the aspects of both the deities; Uchiha Clan's Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan tale was told through a similar image, as well.
Hence, Itachi turned towards Indra or Sasuke. Itachi also chose "Konoha" over "Uchiha" or Pureland aspect. On the right, Kishimoto showed a Buddha statue that's very similar to "Dainichi Nyorai (Vairocana), the Great Sun Buddha, Amida Xyorai, Amida Nyorai and the Great Sun Buddha". You can see the sun-like elements in the hand and behind its head: "very commonly found in Hein period sculpture work and in Kozo-ji and Fuki-dera temples." It's commonly referred to as "Shakyamuni Buddha" or "Shaka Nyorai, meaning the Buddha". The manga image had the typical features associated with this specific type of Buddha: long ears, mark on the forehead, bumps on the head, along with the cleft on the chin, rings around the neck, and robes.
Thus, Kishimoto equated Buddha and elements of pureland with the Uchiha (and the coup) through the statue on the right and the massacre and Sasuke with the statue on the left. (However, he also spent the entire manga justifying the heinous massacre and the absurd shift of Buddhist Law from Uchiha Clan precepts to Will of Fire's Imperialistic Fascism, so Kishimoto is an odd one, indeed.) Hence, Sasuke basically represents the aspects of Tamon-ten (Bishamon-ten), who carries the reliquary and spear, and Taishaku-ten (Indra), who's a warrior deity that defends the law (Uchiha Law of Pure Land in case of Naruto's Canon) and the Commander of the Four Heavenly Kings. In fact, if you look at the descriptions of all the Heavenly Kings, Sasuke draws something from literally every single one of them (whether it's the iconography, demeanour, abilities, armaments, etc.), though he draws most from Indra. Last but not least, it goes without saying that the Uchiha Clan does have a great degree of depth in Canon—more than most would like to admit.
(The titbits you've read were cobbled together from few books on art, myth, and folktales that I still have on me. The rest was taken from few websites, since, I don't have the books on those anymore.)