Chapter Eighty-One: The Devil is in the Details
# # # # # #
The Devil—in the details—was Death, and from dream to dream it dissolved; and the echo that to her came at sublime removes from terror was too deep to let go. The womb, quickened by passed spirits, released in reds . . . memories. In a moment, she was wide awake, peering at the shadows that worked and gathered about; glimpsing silver like fractures danced upon the edges, breaking through black from here to there—what a chaos of sounds, a muted canvas waiting to come alive?
And in crimson waves life went from her: one moment, within; next without; and she looked, a terror in her awakening as fully as babes hiccupping for a mother's teat—wailing. Outside, noise, anarchy in the sky, engulfed; inside, dishonor pulsed faster than heart's betrayal.
A scream was just beginning to sting her throat, a knife so keen; and when she looked on her left, he was gone! Oh, how easy was it to set fears free—how hard to let tears sleep? Scrambling to her feet, she tumbled out of bed, pressed her back to the wall that trembled less than she, and watched red . . . live again as flowers on the white kakebuton.
"No—I—I—I didn't—d—do it!" she stopped, shaking her head, wept. "No, please—no—no!"
And she ran out of her room and to the main-door that appeared distant as dreams. About it, white light floated in sparse slivers, but she did not wait—no, she pulled the door wide open, and wind made it hit hard against the wall . . . over and over again.
The noise struck against the pandemonium that scaled high in her breast and shattered it to pieces. By her feet, wind turned over leaves on their worn undersides, and they floated away in fluttering shushes. Then, in hysterics, she looked upon the footprints left in the path softened by rain; and she ran after the signs as fast as she could . . .
The scream came from her, mellowed brutally by the turmoil storm introduced to this land. Alone and helpless, bleeding from the womb, she fell; and an unkind rain hit at her without remorse. Up above, night was mastered with vicious throbs, the shaping of lands below—a barbarous sight for foes.
And she was but a naïve girl, lost; so she slithered away to a tree that stood leaning, weeping, sniveling. "N-Naruto!" she screamed, gathered up her legs, trembled. "Hel—help me! Otō-Sama—Otō-Sama!" Yet no answer came but a tumult of shaking purples that beat upon the sky and it gave way—piece by piece.
"Sasuke—Sa—Sasuke!" she shouted as loud as her breaths could permit, hair tumbling in black ropes over her shoulders, grasping her breast that was beaten by storm and spite . . .
# # # # # #
A heart that lost you; the fear that found you . . . the Devil was in the details, yet when he looked upon the child, he was still unsure of the words he ought to choose, for the Devil had many eyes and did not let children fly. Children were hard to please . . . Devils, harder . . .
Moments passed, and Nomura kept watching bright yellows scale the blush that had mounted the youth's cheeks. Silence. The boy had not spoken a word as though he expected of him to lead this conversation to its due course; but what was the destination that he hoped to reach? Nomura was . . . apprehensive.
"A seat in the Council?" Nomura asked in a manner as though he spoke more to himself than to the boy, Sasuke; but Sasuke did not answer—he did not nod; his eyes, anger-minded, relinquished the blacks seamless to reds ceaseless.
"Child . . . " Nomura paused, pulled in the deepest breath, looked upon Sasuke again, " . . . why do want the seat?"
Through the paper-window, a restrained white flashed across the wall, creating a discreet effect of flora that existed outside. Then the shaking followed that continued on for some beats too long. Sasuke, wiping a lazy hand across his face, almost mumbled: "I have my reasons."
"There are no seats in the—"
"There can be," Sasuke cut him off, tone harsh and quick, and rose so swiftly that it seemed as if he wanted to take Nomura on. His features, carefully changing, exhibited a discontent that was more prominent in the eyes, into which his heart seeded more trouble. Nomura said nothing . . .
"There can be," he repeated with more force, eyes nearly expelling reds as though they had a mind . . . conviction. "Like the old times. You—Obā-San? You sat with Otō-Sama back in the day, didn't you? I want things to go back to as they were." Then he smiled, a preternaturally sweet smile; cheeks bedewed by autumn's rain, he was just a sweet, beautiful little boy.
"Times are not the same. You must . . . you must understand," Nomura spoke, an unspoken burden carried on by his voice.
"Times can change!" Sasuke said, voice rising harder and faster than before, impatience enveloping his face quicker than lights. "I won't allow Itachi to do what he wants. I want things to change—I need the seat—I want the damn seat, and you'd give it to me." Sasuke stepped back and spare fury flooded into his eyes to transmute them into flowers that cherished a religious rage.
Nomura, looking at him, eyes taking on the same threat, an inevitability, pulled in another breath. Sasuke's demeanour . . . surprised him, for he never expected the youth to address his brother directly. What had changed between them? He wanted to ask, but he knew the boy would not be that forthcoming.
Lights from outside kept coming, Autumn descending unbound; they split into two behind Sasuke's back, a revelationary curtain, and Nomura was at loss for words; and the reds that sat in his time-touched eyes as delicately as blood in his veins . . . felt uncertain—for the first time in his life. What was he to say to this restless youth—the Truth? How hard the words felt, an affliction on the tongue whose cure was anguish? Alas, he was not as brave as he thought, but his heart had not encompassed defeat, either.
And looking upon the youth from whose visage a sweet boy watched, Nomura put the anxiousness in the spirit to rest; and Sharingan's ardency vanished, dust in his eyes that he blinked away. "What do you hope to gain from the past?" Nomura asked, voice softened by the old tongue.
"Something . . . half the fun's not knowing," Sasuke said, eyes sparkling again with mischievous fervency.
"Your brother will get . . . angry."
"Isn't he always?"
"Why do you cause trouble, child?" Nomura asked, took a step, and looked at the red-coiled eyes that deceived Sasuke's heart with a force that was remarkable. "It will only bring you grief. You are young—a boy. Forget the past. Look ahead. Live. There is nothing in the past for you."
"What if I cause trouble for you now . . . would you reconsider, Nomura-San?" Sasuke asked in a voice that was ominous, its sound a malady for Nomura's spirits, though it excited the sleeping vengeance in him just the same; yet the boy's vengeance was startling, a colour in the eyes that was meant to follow the sun till its rise, a legacy the older sibling had all but sullied with betrayal.
Nomura closed his eyes and listened to a strong beat, bits of cold air affecting his senses, his mind made. "I will speak to Rao-San . . . if that is your wish," he spoke, and Sasuke smiled, eyes simmering down to blacks which forgave, assuaged; and he backed away with a laugh that was mild and breathy—child-like; and Nomura, in spite of himself, smiled.
"Might I ask something?" Sasuke asked, quite suddenly, his face turned towards the fire that burnt a bright yellow in the hearth. "Who made the tunnels?"
Nomura looked to the fire whose radiance gave the impression of a worn-morn's presence in the room, almost distracted by the question that he thought to be disarming; but he guided the fury into his own heart, hoped for it to grow and become the older one's fall, a delight he had dreamt of for years like a poor man starved of meals sweet: Truth was a necessity.
"Okami Clan. It was commissioned to build them in the past," Nomura spoke, eyes upon the shadow's haze that nurtured something more in Sasuke's face.
"Dogs from the mountains?" Sasuke said, a hearty smile changing his features.
"Wolves," Nomura corrected, a bit amused.
"That," he said, with a quick movement of his finger, though Nomura knew he had said "dogs" on purpose.
"The seals?" he pressed further, voice gaining strength in the wake of a loud interruption from storm—ah, Autumn rains, they keep coming.
Nomura, suffering from mild hesitance, spoke at length: "Tobirama Senju." And the name produced a smack of bitterness on his tongue, a taste of familiar malice.
Then, after hearing this, Sasuke slowly walked about the room in silence, a pleasant night's imitation in his eyes, a sanguine promise's guise. Old scrolls on the Clan's fables lined the cabinets, with shadows pristinely sitting on the walls; nothing seemed out of place, not even a brush, a spot, an ink-pot. Nomura was a meticulous man—more so than his brother—though the artist in him was less sincere than his father.
"What is this all of a sudden? What is on your mind?" Nomura asked, and Sasuke looked to him the way a perplexed child may, shadow sloshing over the wall behind his back as effortlessly as ink does a scroll.
"A prisoner died. Some months back. I don't know who did it—can't see the seals." At that moment, a particularly loud clatter of sound disturbed the house again—shook it to its last window; the sound passed in smattering beats, akin to a bold heart that had lost speed, each fainter than the last.
"Your mother's a deep sleeper," Sasuke remarked, taking a glance at the wall to his left.
"The old are less restless," Nomura sighed out, sat down by the low table, opened the scroll in his hand. "You want to know about the seals? The chakra is—"
"Artificial, I know," Sasuke said quickly, and Nomura stopped reading for a moment to gaze at the vigorous colour that looked back to him, with a strength that bespoke heedless conviction. "Whose chakra was it? Uchiha's?" And there was that smile again—equally innocent and vicious.
"Yes," Nomura spoke, letting out the sound as a slow exhalation, surprise tamed by the years his Sharingan had feasted on. "Madara's, perhaps? It is hard to say. The man left the clan in his youth. His chakra is as much of a fable as he was."
"Did Otō-Sama know? Did Itachi know?" he asked, and accusation's taste poisoned his tone properly when he said his brother's name.
Nomura returned his gaze back to the scroll, a resolve rising in him from the years' keep to take this forward with more care; he was to be the wiser of the two. "Your father knew, but I do not know whether your brother does or . . . " he paused and turned up the flame in the lantern that, now, it burnt as bright as a fallen star a child had stolen in a glass. " . . . he . . . is a quiet man. You know this more than anyone, child." And then Nomura spoke no more whilst he sat with his back to the alcove, in which a painting of Autumn from whose breast love voluptuous as lilies burst forth. A painting by his Otō-Sama? How his paints rolled over the canvas of his boyhood, a skin cast off? It was hard not to pay the little designs any mind . . .
Sasuke, knowing that the conversation had reached an end, made to walk when Nomura's voice stopped him: "will I regret my decision?" he asked, tone solid steel, deep.
"I hope not," Sasuke answered, an energetic smile returning to his face, and left . . .
When Sasuke stepped outside, Yuu stood by the stone-lantern that was unlit; he was like a lonely figure trapped between the shadows that loomed at him from both sides, a caustic net of omens that flashed behind.
Sasuke walked to him, his Sharingan revealing what darkness hid—Yuu's face that was covered with rain and an expression that showed his child-like state of fear.
"What did he say?" Sasuke asked, watching Yuu twitch a bit with unease.
"He said that he wants you to have the seat, and—" Yuu stopped suddenly and pulled in the rain-soaked air several times as though he was out of breath.
"And?" Sasuke asked and leant closer, for the man was almost mumbling.
"And his family wants the same, but," he broke off and looked up at Sasuke with a countenance that was a grueling mélange of desperation and fright, "but Itachi-Sama would be upset with you—I can already see it! I—I worry for you. Is there no other way?" And, at that very moment, light tumbled and noise tripped, and he looked no more than a boy Sasuke's age, whose heart was mauled with glee by the fear it kept of his older sibling.
Sasuke backed away with pleasant laugh that bubbled up from his throat; his eyes' laughter, heartier. "You did good," he said, nearly over-joyed, and patted Yuu's head twice. "Give Nomura-San the letter. He doesn't want to speak to me. It's in your pocket, hm?"
Yuu looked down at his pocket with a quick, shaky moment as if he did not know that the scroll was there. Then he nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but he only managed to let out a foggy breath.
Then he watched as Sasuke walked away; and he wanted to say something to stop him, but he had no courage . . .
# # # # # #
When Hinata woke up, sky was kinder, like a storm had passed her by seasons ago; and there he sat, busy on a piece of paper . . . lovely in the light that fell on him in robust waves, though he looked a bit paler than she remembered.
She sat up and he blew air at the origami and it floated away . . . but not far. "I can never get it right," he said, a bit frustrated at this little thing. "Nii-Sama's good at them." Then he inhaled a deep and full breath, a strange expression passing from his face, with the shadow, a thing forgotten.
Cold air crackled into her lungs, and she looked at the sky that was undone behind him, sun martyred upon this mount's arrogance, Autumn flowing. Then he looked to her and showed her a smile that knotted and un-knotted her heart faster than her childhood hands could the doll's braids.
"Did you lose something out in the rain? Silly little girl," Sasuke said, but he did not move and turned his head to the window that was open to let the fresh morn in; and she wished the skies would turn like this at night, sober yet mystified, with him beating in corybantic pulses right in the centre . . . of her littlest world—all of her world.
Hinata did not say anything, though she had many words in her mouth for him; she looked about, noticed nothing on the bed, no sign of the children that she had let bleed from the sanctuary in her, many a lonely night. Relieved, she placed her hand to her bosom, her heart a machine that calmed the fears that bred nastily in her belly.
"I saw Neji today," Sasuke said and stood up and went to the latticed-window; and light sparkled through the little rain, stuck between overlapping wooden pieces, that stayed as reflective glass the wind had directed this way. "Man's a little out of it. I think it's the seal. It's going away and he doesn't know what to do . . . told him that he needs to train you. You've got to pull through. Nii-Sama won't have it any other way—not this time." Then he picked up a soggy leaf stuck at the window-frame, lost in thought, and said nothing more.
And Sasuke was quiet again, sun sitting tenderly on the cheek—she said nothing, wanting to besmear his white cheek with a kiss's radiance. Exuberant the forest grew to the far north, a mystery, in front of him; and behind his back she sat, a thing meant to be his past's fragment, a shadow. How she wanted to coat his name with the spirit's shame, play with him till morning went and night running came? Yet morning sang out in the forest, and she felt as though it had robbed her of the words . . .
"When's that Byakugan ceremony?" he asked, a sudden question that nearly startled her, and she shook her head a bit. "You don't know? The man's still kicking? Lucky! Imagine all the people celebrating your death. Sounds a little morbid, but I wouldn't have it any other way." And when he turned around to look at her, Sharingan's mischief was apparent in his eyes, his face like that of a puckish boy's.
"He's . . . very old. Otō-Sama's great uncle. Cold this year got to him. He . . . he won't make it to winter . . . t-that's what Otō-Sama says . . . " Hinata said, voice going under the season's odorous, luscious breeze, felt autumn's chill envelop her with an unpleasantness that made her shiver.
"Everyone's got to go someday," Sasuke said, the smile not slipping from his lips, like a decorative effect, and turned a little to look outside again as though the forest's lonely and bleak nature, autumn's gift, fascinated him.
"They only do this for the dead—no matter how old the Byakugan?" he asked from the window, not bothering to face her.
"Y-Yes, it's been in the Main House's tradition for as long as I can remember," she replied and took a breath from the air intoxicated with fragrant rot. "I . . . you . . . " Unable to whisper anymore, she bent forward, long hair a curtain over her love-sapped cheeks. Clenching her fingers, she looked at the clean kimono; the rain was so severe that no mud from the trail was left behind on the fabric. How long was she out there—all alone? She could not remember . . .
Then Hinata heard him move, and, nervous, she looked up and found him standing by the table, his hand inside his pocket. "I want you on the grounds before seven. Don't be late," Sasuke said, placed the scroll on the table, left the room; and the gentlest wind, softer than the hawk's snowy down, ran after his steps whilst leaves spun along the stone pathway outside; and she looked on to the door, hair twisting at the brow, dismayed.
Hinata felt the main-door open and close with a too-familiar thud, and a rush of air that followed moved her spirit to despair . . .
A fever of autumn and a dance of mist—what a time to be lost? Sun, circumscribed by a storm that beat better than the heart in the breast, barely reached past the mounts in the distance. In the library, long shadow-stripes fell over the two occupants whose countenances appeared marked by its signs.
"Why . . . " she spoke, prolonging the breath that granted depth to her voice, enriching it with sentiments only time's lethargy could cultivate, ". . . why did you do this? You should not have listened to the child."
"It is for the best," he spoke whilst he stood by the window and looked at the garden that was lonely without lily—Autumn's pulse.
"Itachi will not forgive you . . . " she whispered, wearied, and inhaled a sharp breath that felt heavier, " . . . or me."
"I do not need his forgiveness. I never wanted it," he spoke, tone bone-solid, hands clenched behind his back that was endowed with an ability to retain youth's unforgettable arrogance. "You were quick to send away the letters. What is eating your spirit now?"
"The past will come back to haunt you . . . me . . . everyone. Is that what you want? Let the wounds heal," she spoke, grooves taking in more shadow to appear deeper and blacker. "The young ones . . . so quick to favour the little boy. Everyone answered . . . Kumiko told me. Why? You know why. They want to see Itachi ruined—Kiryū wishes it the most. Perhaps you wish for it, too. It is only fair—too fair, I know. Is it not time to—"
"You cannot forgive him forever!" he cut across her in a voice that was harsher than winter's feral callousness, turning around, a fury sparkling through his eyes like caged lightning. "You cannot let him do as he pleases. This cannot go on. How long . . . how long will you allow him to have his way? He is not your son. No, he is but a ghost that deceives you."
"Nomura!" Rao spoke, a striking reproach in her voice, and the name drew up her soul to the last vein that she shook in the air that was too cold to bear her indelible summers.
"Look—look back at the past and see what you have done. A wicked boy who walks in your son's clothing was not worth the blood—your son's. He was not—he is where he is now, for you have allowed him to germinate—a disease that is eating us all to the heart," Nomura spoke, his voice a sound that blared in the autumn-sweetened room, a melody of rain tumbling between his words.
"Nomura . . . " Rao whispered, a fire lost in her eyes, rendered up like an unwilling soul.
"I have made my decision. I will not change it. Do as you wish," Nomura spoke, his features cooling with the heart, and turned away. "The elders have responded with kindness. I do not expect Serizawa's family to go against him. It is hard to displease your Lord, but it matters not. Sasuke will get my seat, and Itachi will have to endure it. Like a true shinobi." And Nomura moved his hand, his long sleeve flowing luxuriantly, in a gesture so achingly familiar to punctuate his point.
"You mock him," Rao spoke and looked to the sky, a periwinkle flourishing at the far-end—a pristine garth. Was evening descending already, a kiss of night and a spite of morn? "Give him another chance. Give him time . . . he is only a boy who is lost." Then her gaze descended onto her hand, an instrument that carried her life's imprints to perfection. How deep they had become? She feared that they could go no deeper . . .
"An apple that falls far from the tree never gains roots. It grows rotten under the sun. He did not even wear his father's shadow. If only you had seen that in the past . . . you have ruined us all . . . " he spoke, and his voice, now, was lost in the house. So many mysteries in such a little past . . . ?
"Your mind is made, and . . . it's . . . it is all right," Rao spoke in a muted voice, eyes a void-black for a fleeing hue. "I am but an old woman. What do I know? I just want you to know that I have not forgotten. I made a choice . . . and broke my heart . . . "
There might have been a little sob that escaped the lips, but Nomura did not have the spirit to hear her anguish anymore; so like her sons, her voice went into the winding winter's graves—once more.
"We can call the meeting tomorrow. Get this done. The little one is restless. He would do something else if he does not get this—this seat," Rao spoke again, having found the lost strength in her voice, and walked to the man whose back was still turned to her.
"He has his father's fire," Nomura spoke, and she could almost hear the pleasant smile in his voice, see it on his mouth, feel it in the breeze, for he was kind to Autumn's callings, unconcerned by its mischiefs.
"What would you do about Itachi's anger? He would never accept this," Rao spoke and stood by his side, her body breasting the autumn evening's wild little spirit.
"He would have to if he wants to keep the seat."
"What if he—"
"He will not give up the seat. His father's eye no longer watches him. Now is the ripe time to enjoy power." And the smile on Nomura's face was like reminiscing other times of life, lost in the eyes where the passion was stronger; yet Rao looked on, a hazy night biting at the morn with a senseless appetite, a child's canvas right behind the holt crouching under its weight . . .
# # # # # #
The Devil is in the details—Piteous melancholy, an adulation of things bygone—man was always in the past; he, more than most.
All big and strong, he turned silences into a world and its unutterable reds—the world stood on toes two, yet now it danced, too—where were the spectators of his art? Pity, they all slept whilst he wept, an unrecognised martyr.
Seconds—minutes—hours—days—months—years . . . oh, Otō-Sama, how long did time run back—on and on? And dreaming, sitting by the tree amidst the holt, he watched as the world fell away and he watched the child's eyes for the entire day. The blacks, like nights that fell on holms that stayed unspoken, looked back; and he wished his love was taken in, an imitation by the sincerest eyes; tongue-tied, the rufescent eyes spun, damasked with a single affectation, and a primal tone danced from within and came without. Oh, what rapture to be captured in the eyes by the sun? He almost swooned, with the babe playing in his arms.
And winter-sun-eyed he looked upon the child and his eyes that ought to follow his sun. "One," the child said in a little coo, too little to roll the words as truly as an adult, lilies in hand.
"What's one and one?" he asked, reds singeing down to the spirit, blacks going into the body's artifice—a ghost in him overtaken.
"One . . . one," he said again, smiling with lips summer red, holding two lilies in one hand now—busy, busy, busy.
Then, after a while when the little child was tired of playing, teardrops, prettier than the stars that disturbed this night overhead, materialised in the eyes, trapped between lashes; and the little boy-child wept, softer tones bedaubing the cheeks.
"Are you hungry?" he asked and gathered the boy to his breast and stood up into the shadow that fell—all over the hurst, moon an infant in shadow's belly.
"I'd take you to the lake. It's—"
"Itachi," a voice broke into his, and it was deep like the rivers he had seen. He turned around and saw his father who appeared from the coppice; and his father's reds forced his own to come out, though he had put them to sleep . . . for the night.
"Give Sasuke to me," he said and took the babe from his hands, mien quiet in the moon that was barely out of cradle, and looked at the sign of maturation in the older son's eyes. He caressed Itachi's cheek, but said nothing, a grim shadow driving his gaze's passions out.
"I can hold him," Itachi said, almost a plea, but his father, in silence, started his walk towards the Uchiha Village, against which Leaf's lights glimpsed . . . a little brighter.
Itachi broke into a little run in the wake of the man's shadow; then, stopping by the tree, hair flowing back in tangles, he looked back to the place he had left and saw fireflies that as throbbing hearts burnt about lilies . . .
A maturation in night's wanton mystique, he grew—Divine his eyes; pulse Devil; but the Devil is in the details . . . Then he woke up from the eyes' dream and, sitting with his back to the wall, saw a sun just starting to gain sky in the moon's domain. It would be a struggle, but night was his—only his. Getting to his feet, he walked to the boy's room and opened the door and saw red, from the man who was buried in earth's enduring deeps, seep through the mist that came from the garden; but no boy . . .
A bit angered by the boy's decision to not come home at all, he started to get ready for his duty . . .
The day went by in idleness. There was not much to this duty, but a need to guide the unwary to Leaf's threshold. That was what he was taught to do, an art that allowed this land to mother more children. He was always honoured, fought against the foes that came at this house with vengeances fathered profanely in the breasts; and he was always ready, armed to the spirit's last bits, hands damasked like the dusk sun's throes. If not him, then who? The immense burden was but a divinity Leaf had delivered unto him and to his last breath he shall carry it—with spirits more joyous than Leaf's hushed springs.
Now, he sat by the window, and a moon, growing profoundly upward, let loose its elements upon him that it was a bothersome task to separate his dewy mien from the whites. In the nebulous office where a dim lantern burnt, a Chūnin boy (of sixteen) wept, and by his side stood Serizawa and Kai.
He listened to the sniveling some more and slightly moved the fingertips to indicate to Serizawa that he should take the boy away. He obeyed, and, in some moments, he could hear the boy no more. Then he looked to Kai whose head was bent, hands quivering by his sides, shadow an ink blot that wobbled.
He rose up from the chair and walked to him; and Kai's eyes followed the sounds with hopeful fear and miserable anticipation, though he did not dare to look up and meet the other man's eyes. For some beats that Kai could not bear, he said nothing, and Kai, consumed by a hurting fright, bent his head further down.
Then Kai heard him release a breath, and the smell of him leeched through his senses as though the man was a living fragrance, a delight he cherished ceaselessly ever since he had laid his eyes upon him . . . so long ago.
"How many times must I tell you to mind your manners?" he spoke, and his voice struck Kai's mind and all he could do was tremble in so much shame. "You are like a dog. You see a lively boy, and you want to bite him, yet you are supposed to be a man. Are you?" he asked, tone remarkably inquisitive; and Kai's mouth was clamped open to emit a breath that choked him, as though he had forced something of himself into his orifice, though Kai was sure he did not enjoy the tone that increased the speed of his torment's progression.
"I-Itachi-Sama, I—" Kai began, a hazy black halting his Sharingan's journey to the eyes, "—I didn't—I d-didn't do anything. I swear it! I—I swear to you—I didn't."
"That boy does not agree," Itachi spoke, a breathy voice that scarcely masked the mockery. "Who should I believe? You? Honesty has never been your virtue."
"I'm not lying!" Kai said, his tone almost like a child's, and looked up at pride that had forced the young Lord's face into an arrogant visage. "He—he agreed. I-I'm not—I'm not lying!" And then he was weeping, clenching his teeth, eyes gelatinous black, cauldrons of pitiful melancholy.
Itachi gazed at him, his delicate-mouthed meanness on constant display, and spoke with as much heartlessness as before: "Do you want me to take this seat from you? Do you think you deserved it? You did not. I did not want the child to have it. You forget this delicate reason. Do you want me to shame you? Do you enjoy groveling about your poor, dear sister and your dead father and your dead mother and your . . . cherished pastimes? You have many sad stories to tell, you wretched thing."
Kai's eyes widened, and, swallowing in Itachi's red into the stricken spirit's nexus, he dropped down to his knees, hands trembling over Itachi's feet. "P-Please, d-d-don't! I b-be-beg you—do-don't do t-this!" Kai prayed at the Lord's feet, piteously, voice broken by the intensity of sobbing that moved his whole body. Itachi was silent . . .
Then Kai raised his face, yet more tears starred his eyes, and he saw nothing but shadows that swarmed Itachi's countenance; his Sharingan's wintry absence was torturous to witness. Heart-broken, Kai directed his eyes down to Itachi's feet and spoke in a voice whose trembling was a letter of his passions: "I won't do—do—do—" he stopped, unable to let out a steady breath, "—won't do it—never again! I s-swear it—swear to you! D-Don't, I-Itachi-Sama, don't—don't send me away—not f-from you—p-please—please!" And he gave a violent shake of his head—the last word, a distinct shout, echoed against storm's reawakening outside; and, without a thought that could have shaken his pride, he sniffled and lowered his face against the right foot, lips pressing into the skin, tears flowing out in ceaseless runnels.
And Kai felt as though winters, together constrained, passed by for years and years in this state—a discarded red in the luminary's design? Then grasping at Itachi's thigh with both hands, Kai lifted himself up a little and slumped against the leg—all shame forgotten inside this chasm; and he wept hard and he wept harder and harder at this saintly alter whose profanity had all but seduced his spirit to ruin—and he wept on and on till all he heard and felt and tasted were the shivering aches that travelled to and fro inside. Oh, how he wished for all this to end, a cessation of spirit-eating frailties?
At that moment, Serizawa stepped into the room and lowered his eyes at the sight before him. "What?" Itachi asked in a voice that was no less harsh than before, listening to Kai's sobs lose their strength with each slow breath; he was like an exhausted child.
"It's this," Serizawa said and showed Itachi the scroll.
Itachi looked at the scroll and then he looked down at Kai and Kai looked up, a hopeful Sharingan's rise on his countenance to receive mercy, bearing lips that trembled much. "Go home," Itachi spoke and shrank his hard eyes, mouth poised in a ghostly expression Kai could not read; but obedient as ever, Kai drew his hands back, shoulders falling forward with a pronounced exhalation, and stood up with shaky movements. Then he composed himself, bowed, and left the room whilst wiping his face furiously on his arm.
Serizawa stole a quick glance at the door, hiding in shadow's refuge a pained expression that galloped once across his face's expanse. "What does it say?" Itachi asked, and Serizawa, a bit startled, looked at him and his body that was like black omens against lightning's pervasive assaults on Leaf.
"It's . . . " Serizawa paused, hand that held the scroll trembling a little, and looked down and guided his hand to Itachi's, ". . . it's for the best if you read this."
Itachi took the scroll from him and unrolled it and turned a bit to the window that showed moon's battle against this new storm at the upper corner; and Sharingan's rage burnt inhumanly in Itachi's face whose too-white state made him appear like winter's daemon than a man, red draining from the lips, a fugacious affectation.
Then he brought his hand down, lips miserably working over the teeth to swallow back the urge lest he let his emotions out fully—yet a bestial rage surged from his eyes and went outward till the blacks in the room about his face broke and red percolated their design.
Casting one look upon Serizawa that was full of loathing, Itachi left the room with an arrogant gait. "Itachi-Sama!" Serizawa called out behind him, but he did not stop; and fearing the worst, he went after the angered Lord, his walk uncertain . . .
When Itachi reached the elder's house, it was meek blacks and deep whites into the night, and the faces-bearing mountain that stood crouched under sky's uncertainty all but cowered in the face of a receding storm.
Not wanting to wait any longer, he went inside from where the voices originated—one of them belonged to the child; and hearing that, his heart changed and anger came back to taunt it to a quicker pace.
Itachi opened the door to the library and his eyes found Sasuke immediately, who stood between Nomura and Rao, with the fleeting smile that tempted his anger to tumble down. Undomesticated—Wildling—How he wished for the child to listen, but he had done something else to challenge him.
Undeterred, he took three steps and grabbed Sasuke from the back of his neck and roughly pulled him forward (not paying any mind to Rao's protesting voice): rage violently ran into Sasuke's eyes, but he said nothing, looked into his older sibling's eyes with a boldness that he did not welcome. "What have you done now?" Itachi asked, breathing long and slow, and leant his head down till his eyes' red seemed as though it might slosh over into the younger one's eyes. "Did I not tell you to stop? Give me an answer or help me Sage, you will be remorseful."
Sasuke's mischief-hiding eyes wandered to Nomura's face for the briefest moment when Itachi shook him by the neck. "Do not look at him—you look at me," Itachi hissed to add effect to his words, but Sasuke still said nothing, expression distorted by an anger Itachi had seen all too often on his face.
"Enough. This is my house, boy," Nomura spoke, and his heavy voice made Itachi take note of his presence, countenance taking on a cooler appearance; and slowly he loosened his grasp, and Sasuke stepped back away from him.
"What is this?" Itachi asked, appearing ghostly and dangerous like he typically did, a calm in the eyes forgotten.
"The missive I sent you?" Nomura asked, though it sounded more like a statement, and looked back at the man without courage's respite. "What meaning could it possibly have but the words that I have written?"
"Did you put the child up to this?" Itachi asked and turned and faced him fully, fury swarming over his face and eyes like flies did over the dead.
"I did not. He asked. I listened. Others agreed. We all do not live the way you do . . . terrified of your own blood." And the ghost of a smile that danced across Nomura's lips inspired more rage in Itachi that his nature could breast it no longer; and he had not felt this way in so long, an unease that attacked a winter's heart in the multitude—over and over again till the spirit in him wanted to flee and set things into fright, like a knife wrested from a child's hand.
And chaos of flashes and night rushed through the lattices and left lasting imprints across the walls, which elongating into stripes partitioned the room into sharp whites and shallow greys, black runnels in-between. And, in the midst of it all, the eyes located the boy, and he made a little movement towards him, but Rao stepped forward. "You . . . knew of this?" Itachi asked, stopped, looked, a man's heart in him rising to a fevered state.
"Why are you against this? What is this all of a sudden? It is nothing you have not seen, child. Your anger . . . I do not understand it," Rao spoke, a calm in her voice that did little but rouse the ire in Itachi more and more.
"My anger?" Itachi asked and bent his head down and smiled—a very odd smile. Then he gazed at her—straight at her—not bothered by lightning that worried night. "This child . . . is my concern, not yours."
Fury drawn by this artful lure, Itachi looked at the boy again and spoke, a voice in whose sound a command resonated: "Come, now." He held out a hand, a very white hand, towards Sasuke, stood taller when night dominated the room in the midst of storm's turmoil.
"Let him stay for a little while. He has to look through a scroll or two," Rao spoke, tone timid but strong, and stepped forward once more to breast his vicious shadow that brought trouble from her son's grave.
"This . . . ? What you have done . . . ? I will not allow. You know this. You must know this. Why do you stand before me? It is not you to be this way," Itachi spoke, and, for the quickest part of a soul-simmering beat, she saw a plea shimmer in his face's contortions; and then it was gone . . . so quick to leave, like his mercy.
"It is done, child. Best that you make peace with it . . . with us," Rao spoke and straightened her neck and back and watched, for a beat too long, her son's visage rise from the spectre in him . . . and she looked away, an act of attrition, a desire to see more in her waning.
Taking a step back, Itachi exhaled a long breath, leant his head back, felt a fainter wind play at his back. "I do much for you, yet you . . . ?" he asked, bringing his attention back to the boy, the child, Sasuke, " . . . now you go and do this? You disobey me . . . disappoint me."
"This would reduce the number of people I can disappoint, Nii-Sama," he said in a voice that was marked by a clear mischievousness that enraged the older sibling—so much that he raised the back of his hand immediately to strike him across the face.
"Itachi, stop—stop this!" Rao, shouting this time, came between the siblings, breathing faster, rougher, harder.
And an untimely visitor, Serizawa, came in, and, as before, Itachi's wicked glare was latched from Sasuke unto him, a burden that he had never learnt to endure. "Get him out of my sight—get him out of here," Itachi spoke in a voice that had risen considerably, countenance reddened with much anger.
Looking from Itachi to Serizawa, Rao spoke, a sweetness returning to her tone: "Take Sasuke to my house."
"The child will not go to your house. He will go where he needs to go," Itachi spoke with a clarity of the impassioned Shinobi—and his face now did not reveal a discordant emotion, but a visage of restraint, a return to a state of absolutes . . . he was so quick to charm his heart into this act.
And Rao gazed upon his face, a son in it sleeping, and smiled, gathering the innumerable marks in her countenance to a state of serenity. "Then I will go to my youngest's house. Perhaps I am another disappointment you must bear." Then she said nothing more, took Sasuke's hand, and led him out of the house.
For many moments, Itachi spoke not a word, eyes on the door as though he expected a visitor; but not wanting to prolong this, Nomura spoke first and broke into the thoughts that chased down the little one's littlest dreams: "Do you want to say something to me? Speak. It is treacherous, your silence." Nomura took a step and stood by the fire, his body a distorted shade that danced on the wall.
With his back to Nomura, Itachi spoke, voice almost a static distortion in the air that irritated Nomura's senses and caused his Sharingan to bring itself out to the fore: "You are a man who is not forgetful. You could have refused, but you chose to listen. I know why. You would gain nothing from digging up your past by the tree. It is only a dead girl." Then, as though a ghost who wantoned through this place, left carrion in its wake, Itachi left—but not before he tempted a fury so severe in Nomura that, if he had a heart which heard, he would have tasted its shiver . . .
A sigh whence you came to me . . . a soil to which they leave—Hours passed him by in winking melodies that hung at the door, which he never heard; and the slow-ticking clock on the wall took bites of his resting rage. "Love, hate, grief, greed . . . when they overwhelm, they become death," Itachi spoke from the garden door that was open, a breeze coming into his library that was dreary as pits.
"Is that what happened to Otā-Sama—Otō-Sama?" Sasuke asked, nearly fearless whilst he looked to him.
Then Itachi's eyes smiled, red-lustered, and he gazed down at the pools in which rain stood and moon's haze swirled about. "Obā-San always spoke out when you used this honorific. It irritated her. Has she learnt to let it go . . . for your sake?" Itachi asked, never offering to move.
Sasuke emitted a sound of frustration, but stayed quiet. His older sibling's anger had been cooled by time's stranger mechanics—a trip between two houses—it was best to leave him be. Then Itachi placed his hand on the wooden frame, and, like a white mark, it caught the eye's attention; and now, he was smiling, closing the eyes, breathing in the air deeply saturated with the scent of lilies and winter's poison in wings. "I am sure that living with me is unbearable, but you would just have to endure it, child," he spoke in an odd tone that whispered, a stark hue going down his nose to the lips' bow, kissing it. "Go to your chamber. Do not leave without my word. I will speak to you in the morning."
And Itachi titled his head to the other side that Sasuke could no longer see his face; and in the moon he stood, skin an imitation of its white. Feeling lost, Sasuke turned away from his brother and went down the corridor and listened to the rain that made melody, though its ferocity had gone elsewhere. For a moment, he stopped by his father's room, hesitant, but then he chose not to visit him—not yet . . .
And out there amidst the trees that susurrated under the wails from storm, Toshiro stood by an old grave—a very old grave. He had come here with a sense of accumulating speed and transport, to see the stone he had seen a thousand times, to spite it a thousand times more. His eyes, wide and crazed, though a mask hid his face, looked on at the man hidden—no, crushed behind a stone; he liked being rude to the dead.
Then his eyes bulged and a wetter spot began blackening the front of his pants; and spiteful still, he opened the fly and urinated on the stones, watching, laughing . . . as the yellow arc disappeared into the rain that dripped from leaves overhead. How silly all this felt—how satisfying it felt?
Then he fell back, his laughter dying down, mask slipping from his face . . . hackles rose; pupils dilated; a cold coming into the lungs. The darkness . . . swallowed rivers—amidst forests set aquiver, a funeral veil that about Rain fluttered.
And he felt lost before he was lost. "The stars—the stars! Brother, Look at them! Don't you miss this? Look—look—look!" he exclaimed, throat burning more so than the eyes, green lightened by love. And storm's breast had opened wider and there was a little shine in the sky, a star—and when rain went into his eyes and flowed out, he could not see why this sky was any different . . .
# # # # # #