Chapter Eighty-Three: The Blood of Bloods
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Passions that were undone lead men to ruin. It was night, and like all nights, a lonely night—perhaps nights were lonelier in Autumn, loneliest in Winter? And he purged off haunts that came at him from the place, wandered from the graves that overflowed into black's bowls—this night—all nights. It was always meant to be this way.
And he pushed hard into the tight place, slick and welcoming; head buried into the flower-scented hair, he could smell her. She was not unpleasant, a proper-looking woman: kimono, vibrant and heavy; skin, smooth and fine; face, white and rosy—a common make-up of common harlots. He did not like mixing himself with common women, not when he was lucid; but not on this night when the corruption had got the best and worst of him. Nothing opened the mind like desperation . . .
Joined together, he felt her vibrate around the pleasure's root; her hands on his sweat-soaked back, eager but careful. Never aggressive with Shinobi men, for they were not that forgiving; but this was the loveliest one that she had ever invited between her legs. He had not asked much of her, only that she should let him squeeze into her till he was content—good money, too. No kisses, he was certain, for he had not played with her the way most men did; and she was not one to refuse, not when the man was young and beautiful—and rich.
And what a night this was, calmed by a storm passing, moon rising into the blacks of it all; and he pushed harder now, closer to the release he sought; hair, graceful and long, that trailed across her lips like loose Koi fish . . . black—black as blasphemy delivered against his skin that was white with devilish delight.
Then he heard her whimper and saw, out of the eye's corner, her hair coming loose from the ornaments that had held them together—their lustre showy; and he braced his hands on either side of her face, upon which a sublime emotion rested, head down, eyes closed, as though he was almost ashamed to look at her; spine arching back, arms straight in an obedient posture, hips meeting hers where their filth collected and enwove the curls.
And he heard her again, yet now, she was an etiolated memory that required a fresh murder, for it had lost its way back to its haunt—its grave. "Itachi," she cooed, luscious yet motherly, "you're a good boy—you're such a good boy . . . "
What was this if not a delicious vision that was sent to him, a whisper from another season's throat, that tempted his daemons? The root of his father's ills—oh, he was—yes, yes, he was! Hoary webs moon had woven upon the walls of this little room, on his back, on her; and she kept looking to him, and immured in lunar plights, clouds of opium, he wanted her gone—gone back to the deeps.
"Leave," he hissed, closed his hand round the throat where the veins jumped up all at once, squeezed. "Leave . . . leave . . . leave." And now, he trembled together with his father's gift in the eyes, back hardening with stubborn signs whilst she laughed a girlish laugh—he felt . . . mocked by her sincerity!
Not enough—still not enough whilst she writhed about and under him—a fish lost without rivers. And he tightened his grip, eager to hear the snap; yet something in him came loose, and she vanished with his daemons. With a startle, he pulled away, breaths violent and fast, watched as the woman scrambled away from him into the darkest corner—terrified!
He did not speak a word and left the room in a hurry. Outside, night healed the scars from Autumn's storms, soft air wandering past to other places. The veins in his back gleamed with a purple corruption, a bruise and the richness of it all. He wore the black shirt and Anbu Jacket, tasted the strange feeling that haunted his heart to a pace that was bold, slow, and deep.
Then he walked away into the forest and vanished quickly . . . her happy face smeared along his spirit like shame . . .
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Still asleep, Sasuke took slow and long breaths, sitting in the chair, head bent a little to the left—obedient. Itachi's shadow lay upon him, a funeral garment that was deep grey this morning, upon which melancholy bloomed; and he watched whilst the red-eye remained vigilant in his gaze a Yamanaka man whose hand was gently placed on Sasuke's head: memories he read, a past Itachi had allowed him to see, eyes on the Mangekyō Sharingan, a warning.
And the man had no choice but to look and allow the Uchiha to see what he saw, unrolling each scroll, a delicate composition, a method his clan had developed centuries ago. Not as effective as the Sharingan's ability to tear into the spirit and see it all—but what was?
"There's nothing," the Yamanaka man said and drew his hand back; then he looked at Itachi once, blinking, and looked away to hide his eyes . . . they hurt.
"Nothing else?" spoke the other man who stepped forth from the dimness that rested in the room's other half. Itachi looked at him, arrogance leeching the calm from his countenance, Mangekyō cooling to tomoes, albeit no less threatening.
Saitō Tatsuoki, Danzō's firmer arm, was a man of convictions: a tall and gaunt figure, eyes sunken and deep as though nailed in, not set; face, shaded by kanmuri, angular and sharp, a stone polished against metal; it was perhaps by reason of his trickeries that his appearance was less than welcoming. Saitō Clan's last scion, he carried their care and price on his sokutai that were as long as they were delicate—rosy designs crafted by keen and liberal hands. He watched over Uzushiogakure, guided the eddies from ruining what was left of it after wars, whispered in Daimyos' ears—a hatchling that has learnt to hiss, as his Lord would say, but he was here now, eager to nest in Danzō's burrow.
Itachi thought of him differently as, standing between Danzō and Daimyo, he was a tricky man, and his presence here had enveloped Leaf with a fraught atmosphere that would not leave here, not without its victim. Itachi turned around fully, ears heeding Sasuke's soft breaths for he was still sleeping soundly.
"What is it that you are looking for, Tatsuoki?" Itachi asked, tone carrying a bolder note that was not well-received by the other man who stopped in-between the lights that came long and steady from the window—sickly yellow as the sun was but a love-starved boy-child, a sad little poppy in an unfriendly season.
"Truth," Tatsuoki spoke, smiled a serene smile that appeared as a wicked mark on his face, and looked down at Sasuke with the greatest interest—an action Itachi did not enjoy. "Nothing but the truth." Then he looked up, eyes with an unnatural gleam sparkling, stealing away sun's warmth.
Itachi chose not to say anything more and looked to the door where Serizawa stood obediently. With a subtle tilt of his head, he indicated to the puzzled man to take Sasuke from here. Serizawa gave a quick bow in acknowledgment, and when he walked, his steps were muted in the small, frowsty interrogation room.
"Sasuke, come with—"
"A little soon, young heir?" Tatsuoki spoke, his old face and new robes yellowing in the sun that was forgiving in autumns. "See more. I want to know what this wild little boy hides away in his head."
The Yamanaka man nodded and moved his hand towards Sasuke's head, but Itachi caught him by the wrist with a swiftness that startled the wits out of him. "That is enough," Itachi spoke and the sound elongated in the room like a precarious hiss; eyes rose to Mangekyōs, a threat that was most apparent.
"You disobey me?" he spoke, irritation stark in his gaze, Shurikens slicing the eyes round and round and round, red everywhere.
"Itachi-Sama, I—" the man stopped, clearly flustered.
"Leave," Itachi ordered and pulled his hand back. The Yamanaka man, in great confusion, looked quickly from Tatsuoki, who was smiling in silence, to the Anbu Commander, bowed clumsily, and left the room with fast steps.
"Serizawa," Itachi spoke again, and Serizawa obeyed without question. He bent forward a little and pulled Sasuke up on his feet; he was still quite drowsy from the drug's effects, eyes half-lidded and tired, but he went away with the man without protest.
At last, their steps died in the sounds, softened by autumn's playfulness. Itachi looked at the man, on whose face the smile still drifted like curses, once and made to walk when he spoke: "still enjoying the seat of importance?" Tatsuoki remarked and walked to him in a manner that was exceedingly delicate for a man of his constitution. "He has made you so different. Unique. Usually, when the glimmer of lust ends, so does the importance. I feel terrible for you. He used you and tossed you away . . . just another thrill he rode through and forgot . . . pity."
Then he looked outside the window, a pensive expression changing his time-caressed features, and spoke again: "a change approaches. I wonder where you will stand . . . lie down. Sensitive pillow talks do not always help men of means."
"Pity . . . " Itachi paused, a smile coming to his face that was white with winter's terror " . . . pastime of a curious man is a hard life. Perhaps you should come to Yoshiwara. I will ask a Sancha to place a chair . . . right in front of a futon, upon which I would court her mistress. You will not have to conceal yourself in the grass any longer."
Then, without speaking another word, Itachi walked away, not looking back at the man whose smile revealed more teeth than necessary . . .
Monthly Report Day—only this time, his fiercely dutiful brother, who was not terribly busy these days, had decided to drag all the Jōnins and all their little Assistant Jōnins to this part of the forest, just a little beyond the barrier.
Since people—important people—from the villages were coming after a week or two, it was time to make sure that everything was in place: seals, security, shinobi. He would have his work cut out for him, patrolling the borders from end to end like a fool. He never wanted this post—not once; and he felt miserable that he was dealt this hand by fates . . . and his brother who was born wicked!
The rain was light and sun, half-way down, bled out variegated shades across the horizon, some bolder than others. He walked to the slick boulders and sat down, his head spinning faster than his brother's nasty Shurikens; and when he looked down at the yellow poppies, saddened by summer's grave, he saw fours: his brother had probably doubled the dose of the sleeping draught on purpose!
After wiping the eyes furiously, Sasuke looked at the Hyūga girl who was still terribly struggling against Neji: Jūkenhō: Hakke Rokujūyon Shō—if she did not learn that in time, he might as well just forget this whole thing; and he watched whilst Hinata thrust her arm forward, missed, slipped. Neji, suppressing frustration, helped her up to her feet; and he had been growing distant—little by little—a freedom the vanishing mark ensured.
By a cluster of bowing trees where fog rose breathily, Naruto stood with Sakura; all smiles, he was a proper fool, a dreamer with more past, less future; his naïveté formed the seed about which his story grew; sometimes, he was convinced that Naruto, Minato's last heir and his last attempt at salvation, was too far gone—too far . . . there was only so much you could do to save one man . . .
Naruto looked a bit better than last time, but he could see doubt cast fears across his eyes that were blue as summer rivers, a father's gift—or his curse? Perhaps there was not a difference between them, after all: one and the same, they haunted men forever, even beyond death . . . for you are what your fathers make of you . . . his Otō-Sama had said—when? For the life of him, he could not remember, but there were many things he could not remember—many. You could only carry so much from the past—man, a child of past's burdens.
A pleasant wind came Sasuke's way, and he took deep droughts of the air that sang of Autumn's pleasures—flowers, rain, storms and all. Who knew that the season of death could be so lovely? Lifting the eyes, he looked at the sky that was being devoured from all sides, but he could tell that this storm was gentle, less angry than before, almost desperate; and desperate times meant desperate men and measures.
Almost against his will, the eyes wandered to the older sibling who stood with Kai and Serizawa: he was speaking to a man from Shikamaru's team—a matter of border security? He could not hear much for the air was thick with sounds, languid, but it did present an . . . opportunity. Itachi, who left the place with Kai and another masked Anbu-man, had lead them all a merry dance, but two could play at this game—he bent his head down, smiled, pre-occupied himself with the grieving yellow poppies who awaited a very sad death—right by his feet. How sad . . . ?
Then Sasuke heard a whisper he did not like, and he spoke before he could sway his heart: "Why don't you come here and say that to my face?"
The man in whose body insects swarmed turned where he stood, and his eyes showed an expression that was part wariness, part irritation. "Sharp ears," he remarked, almost smiling afterwards. "I'm not looking for a fight."
"Aren't you?" Sasuke said and stood up and walked, albeit he stopped several steps short of the Aburame man who was accompanied by the usual riff-raff—two Yamanaka men and one Aburame man looking for trouble.
"Heard rumours," he said, agitation changing his posture that was no longer relaxed. "Nasty things. You're famous in Root."
"Tell me, what have you heard," Sasuke said, lips twisting with a smile that was less than friendly.
"Sasuke-Sama, you—"
"Stay out of this," he warned and Neji fell quiet. By his side Reo stood, quietly observing, ready to spring forth.
"So easy to anger, huh?" The man, whose name the Yamanaka man whispered out, was Karu, and he was here to make trouble!
"Less easy than your mouth," Sasuke said, though his voice was rougher than before.
"Sasuke, what are you—?" Naruto stopped and looked at the men who were more than ready to respond—not with mere words. "Hey, man, woke up at the wrong side of bed? We don't need this here."
"Ask Sasuke," Karu said, and from behind his back, the men came forward and stood on either side of him as if in a battle formation. "He doesn't like people talking."
"What are you—?"
"You think I killed Toruné?" Sasuke asked, forestalling Naruto, hearing the crunch-crunch of feet behind his back, but he did not bother himself to turn and see who that was. "Heard someone made short work of him. Poor bastard."
"You . . . " Karu hissed, and for a moment too long, teeth showed unpleasantly from between the sickly lips; his body had jerked just a bit, but he clenched his fingers in time to control the temper.
"Sasuke, let it go—come on—what's got into you?" Naruto reasoned and placed his hand on Sasuke's shoulder; and anger passed—for a brief moment—and Sasuke turned to leave, but Karu was persistent.
"I heard it a'right—heard that you killed him in cold blood—not far from here," Karu said, louder this time, loud enough that his voice struck the air's stillness and made it vibrate. "Fuck! You got some nerve showing your face out here. If it wasn't for your br—" And he snapped his jaws together to stop himself and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as though the sun's glare had hurt them.
"Keep talking and you'd get in trouble," Sasuke said, a threatening note swelling in his voice that was less than calm.
"Toruné . . . Fū . . . they were on to you—you killed them with your dirty hands, didn't you—huh? You—you son of a bitch!" Shaking with fury, he pointed at Sasuke, hand instinctively going to the sword.
And Karu did not know what occurred the next moment, only that Sasuke's fingers, steeled by Raiton, had stopped a mere inch short of his heart—his wrist in Itachi's grasp, who stood between two men like a tall, curiously pale, deathly spectre freed by winter's promise.
Gasps rose from Shinobi and spread about the little clearing; and Sasuke, trembling, Sharingan bleeding out into blacks, looked up at Itachi with a gaze so hateful that it surprised Serizawa. For a moment, Itachi just returned Sasuke's gaze with eyes sheltered by an emotion Sasuke had come to despise, did not intensify or loosen his grip, Sharingan answering to his younger sibling's angered eyes.
Then, after a moment's silence that felt heavier than autumn-afflicted air, Itachi spoke, eyes on Sasuke's, unrelenting: "Stand down." He turned his head a bit and looked at Karu's face and the shock that had permeated it to its last bone.
Flustered, Karu gasped out several breaths, heart pounding along the veins in his neck with feral desperation. Sasuke's body was still thrust forward, though his muscles had relaxed quite a bit; a missed attack—had he meant to kill him? Karu looked up at the Anbu Commander who was quite intimidating up-close; an expressionless and unnaturally white-looking man, his countenance exuded a petrifying quality that was troubling.
"I-Itachi-Sama, I—" Karu stopped, looking up and down several times, barely able to articulate his words.
"You have come out here to make trouble?" Itachi asked, though, as always, his words had more command in them than anything more, twisted Sasuke's wrist gently that the Raiton about his hand fizzled out into airy tendrils; and Sasuke backed away, eyes and all their murderous nature still on Karu, rubbing at his wrist with aggressive thumb movements.
"N-No, I—I was just—" he stopped again, bent his head down, unable to say anything more.
"Leave here. You are dismissed from duty till you do not offer a letter of apology . . . to Sasuke," Itachi spoke and turned away from the man who was suddenly very much livid!
"Sasuke—he—how can—?" And Karu could not speak anymore when Itachi turned his face to him and glared. Defeated, face soaked in fresh sweat, he bowed again and went away; but the men who were his companions did not follow—they had their own duties in the forests to the north.
"Has the show not come to an end? Do you all have nothing more to do?" Itachi spoke and the men who had gathered round dispersed and went away from the place; and it was quiet again save the whistles that came to them all from the forest that was half-dying in agony, awaiting a death that would be more complete.
"The man is a fool. He will be dealt with. You do not have to answer to every little thing," Itachi spoke at length as he fully turned to look upon his sibling whose anger had yet to leave—Karu's choice of words for Sasuke's mother would have been the death of him.
"I was only going to zap him a little—set his head straight," Sasuke said, almost chirpy. "Even Sakura can take this." And then he looked at Sakura who, under his profound gaze, stiffened like a cold dead root in place. "Come here, Sakura," he said and held out his hand; Itachi was quiet. "She's a little shy." And when he moved a bit, Itachi grabbed him by the arm.
"Stop," Itachi spoke, his voice a heavy whisper in the air. "Do not do this. Do not quarrel with me."
"Why don't you mind your fucking business?" Sasuke hissed and jerked his arm free and walked away into the forest.
Itachi stood quietly, watching Sasuke leave the clearing; but after a moment or three, he went after the younger sibling into the trees, too, that entwined; and Sakura, who was watching all this, followed the older one . . .
It took her a while to locate the brothers, albeit their chakra was powerful to sense, but her sight failed her: chakra breaths had come out in great numbers, obscuring her vision, producing vibrations in the air that scarcely moved. She could not hear a thing but their excited dances; and they seemed to almost originate from the place where the siblings stood. She did not understand . . . why . . . ?
And when Sakura found them, standing in the air salved by Autumn's fragrances, she looked intently at the manner in which Itachi spoke: no, she could not hear him, but only half-see the visage that was less prideful more soft; and he was reasoning with the younger one who was not calm, but angry. What had happened between them? She strained to listen, but the breaths, perfectly round and bright against the gloom, made strange music that buzzed in her ears. This was hopeless . . .
Itachi looked about at the breaths, a bit strangely, and then at Sasuke who opened his jacket at the front and let loose five orbs that had turned deep red—as if engorged with his chakra. They could barely float from his body, and he had to push them away with a lazy movement of his hand. He could . . . touch them so easily . . . ? And one of them suddenly popped, too full to float, a sleepy child. She had never seen them do this before . . . what was this . . . ?
Sakura looked down after she felt something brush against her feet: lilies had come out laughing, each moving to and fro, growing in the wake of the path the brothers had trodden on. She did not understand . . . and when she looked harder, she noticed some growing about Sasuke's feet . . . what was happening . . . ? Sakura felt lost, confused, alone—Sakura thought she knew the man she loved, but he was more than Danzō let on . . . much more!
Exhausted from arguing, Sasuke sat down on the fallen tree, one of the many Autumn ate away at and left as refuge for animals; and to Sakura's immense surprise, Itachi went down on one knee and tightened the strap of Sasuke's sandal that had come loose and brushed dirt away from the bottom hem; and given Sasuke's lack of reaction to these actions, it seemed as though he was used to this—a habit?
And Itachi said something to Sasuke with an expression that was the softest she had ever seen on his face and rose up; but Sakura was anxious, eager for more; and in a moment of carelessness, she moved her foot, beneath which a dead leaf crunched so loudly that its sound almost rang out as a violent note in the forest.
Surprised, Sakura looked down and then up and saw the siblings gazing at her; and by the Sage, Itachi's countenance had assumed a sinister expression at her audacity. Sasuke looked at Itachi once and left—to Sage knew where; and hopelessly, she watched as Itachi walked to her, but did not stop and went back to the clearing . . . her heart a place of riot as she gazed at his back, shadowed by trees . . .
From behind the hills, evening came in luxuriant waves, and outside the window, sun reddened the leaves that had lost their vitality to a careless time—a murder most foul. Sakura stood by the window, washing her hands in the sink, watching as blood floated away in long stripes down into the drain, another life gone. It was easy to die; hard to live . . . as Shinobi. Isn't that what you'd say, pa? she wanted to say out-loud, but he was gone . . . and she could not save him . . . nor herself . . .
Turning off the faucet, she wiped her wet hands down on the apron's side that was clean; the rest was spotty, deep pink and dull red in places, each stain a farewell. This hospice was once Hashirama's home, but Tsunade modified into what it was today: a place to treat patients that required special attention, delicate cure, and experimental treatment; everyone else was kept at the Medical Centre that was the old Anbu Building.
She adjusted her white cap and took out laudanum from the cabinet: this was processed, a reddish brown liquid, and safe for use in small doses; but her patients abused it, preferred the euphoria to another drug's sweetness, and died from addiction—or suicide. It needed more processing, but the pain-killer properties were vital for operations . . . Tsunade-Sama would have to do more . . .
Turning around, Sakura walked to the Shinobi who moaned in distress; evening lay along his bed like a grey attendant, and it would only get darker. She stopped, and he looked up at her from the bed, a shine in his eyes at the sight of the vial—he had developed a taste for it . . .
"This isn't the whole thing, Kaichi-San," Sakura said, showing the bottle to him, clucking in irritation. "If Itachi-Sama found out, you'd get me into trouble."
"He wouldn't care . . . " he said in resignation, and she could not help but feel remorse. "I've hurt my foot—I'm done for . . . no one would take me back into Anbu . . . "
She bent down and placed her palm on his brow: he was burning, as expected. Sweat droplets silvered against the rough-red sunlight, lit up one half of his face as though he was a saint about to taste martyrdom. Then she looked at his foot that was crushed—ruined—under the bandages, a mangled stump of bone, muscle, skin; he would never be able to walk as a man again, much less run as a Shinobi.
"Kaichi-San," Shizune said in a sing-song voice as she approached the bed. "Don't be stubborn. Take what she's giving you, and if you behave, I'd write it down in your report that you need more money. A poor man like you!" She smiled, and Kaichi, in spite of himself, laughed.
"Shizune-San, you—" Sakura stopped when she heard smooth footfalls in the corridor—the place was so empty that not even a moth could fly in without making noise. Then, only a moment later, Itachi appeared at the open double-door, with Serizawa following his shadow, and Shizune almost dropped the patient-scroll she carried in her hands.
"I-Itachi-Sama! You—I—!" Shizune said aloud and took quick steps to the man who was whiter than whey, like bone-powder she used for medicine, even if the sun was going—Sakura followed, albeit her heart told her to run!
"How many men are here?" Itachi asked and sat down in the chair by the table, which afforded him the view of the large room from end to end.
"T-Three," she said and stole a laboured glance at Sakura who stood by her side, terrified of the man, bore evening's first signs.
Itachi held out his hand, a very white hand which juxtaposed itself starkly against the shadows the hospice invited in, and she fumbled with the scroll and gave it to him. "How many passed away?" he asked again, eyes on the scroll, lips pretty yet unsmiling.
"Two," she paused, mopping sweat from her brow with a clean apron (a new one she had worn), brushing hair, curled into sandy strokes by sweat-streamlets, from her cheeks. "One . . . from suicide."
"Unfortunate," Itachi spoke, slipped one leg over the other, and placed the patient-scroll on the table. "Serizawa, ask the men to bring the wounded here. Make sure no bed is left empty."
Serizawa bowed in complete silence and left; and Shizune, though she had much to say, stayed silent, as well; and Sakura, overtaken by an unease, looked at Itachi who seemed . . . paler, now that the sky was in a state of gaudy anguish the night was about to deliver.
After a little while, men came pouring into the place, carrying wounded Shinobi on stretcher-like beds (made from bamboo sticks and stretchable fabric that was durable), placing them down on the empty beds—in minutes the hospice was loud with moans, grunts, whistles . . . an aroma of medicine and blood choked the air till its wound could be topped up no more, a smell Sakura was accustomed to since she was a child . . .
"D-Did something happen?" Shizune asked, immensely hesitant, whilst she twisted the fabric of her apron round her finger.
Itachi did not answer for several moments, eyes carrying upon themselves a false red; but then he spoke, voice a steady breath in the air that was unsteady with men's grief: "No."
When the last man was transferred to the fiftieth bed, Serizawa stood by the chair on which his Lord sat, stiff and obedient, a sober expression on his young face that was hard to read. "I require a Jōnin Recommendation Scroll," Itachi spoke, and his voice struck Sakura's spirit with a violence that was unbearable.
Sakura, eyes rounding like instruments, looked from Shizune to Itachi; and Shizune, breathing in deeply, nodded and walked away out of the room. After some moments, she came back with the scroll Itachi wanted—her steps louder than temple bells to Sakura's ears; and without speaking a word, she placed it on the table and backed away, right hand kneading the left.
"Heal the wounded. Each man. One at a time," Itachi spoke, a commend delivered in a soft tone that was lovely, and placed his arms on the armrests. "Their injuries are not grave, but they do require care. You have one hour."
"Y-Yes, Itachi-Sama, I—"
"Not you," Itachi spoke, and his words put a dagger through Sakura's heart. "Just this girl."
"I—" Shizune stopped the sound before it reached her lips, face marked by an anxiety she could not control, and nodded at Sakura.
"Go on," Itachi spoke, smiling a smile that was flower-like, faint. "Time trickles by."
Though Sakura sensed a defeat attack her spirit like the plague-carrying rats, she made her way to the patient that lay writhing on the last bed to the right, walking through benign yellows that cut into two the sincere greys; and, coming through barred windows, they fell into deep stripes across old-fashioned beds, obscuring faces that were akin to twisted cloths on strained features.
She kneaded chakra and materialised it about her hands, and, directing a frightful glance in Shizune's direction, which expressed the secret anguish of her being, she began. The man's chest was scarred by lacerations, pinked; half-conscious, he mumbled incoherent thoughts about . . . a woman he loved. "Kasuga . . . " he would gasp between moments that were long as silences in winter; but the beloved was the lady of spring . . . a flavour of happier times . . .
. . . and time shuddered by like this, and Sakura heard beats bursting from the heart in fierce pulses. When she finished healing and stitching the tenth man's injuries, she felt her chakra slipping, and she did not know what to do; desperate, she looked in the direction of the accursed man and his attendant, a lighter shadow in his shadow.
Then she walked to the cabinets that stood tall and thick on the right-side of the double-door; but when she opened one, Itachi spoke: "Do not to use anything to replenish your chakra. Not your seal. Not your medicine." And, half-turning, Sakura looked at him, eyes catching light to sparkle with a delightful fear.
"Itachi-Sama—that—that'd drain her out!" Shizune protested, bending forward, clenching the apron in her fists.
"This is a test. A simulation of war," Itachi spoke, rested his temple against the right hand's finger-tips, breathed out a slow breath. "Things are hard to come by when many struggle to survive. She is a medic. She ought to know that . . . less is more."
"I-Itachi-Sama, she—"
Lazily, Itachi lifted his hand a bit, and Shizune fell silent, clenched her teeth together, held back many words on her tongue—she could not do a thing; and Sakura, hearing all this, went back to work, knowing what was to come . . . and time tumbled faster than children's play, and a haze developed before her eyes that would not lift; veins in her hands, going rigid as a dead man buried.
And Sakura tried and tried harder, but she could not win. Sweat poured out of her body in stinging runnels as she struggled to heal the thirtieth man . . . and Itachi watched, face beautified some more by evening's deeper tone, with eyes peculiar, shaded by long lashes.
Then tears broke free from the eyes, greens lightened by sun's last lights, and she slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, huffing, aching allover; and weeping in gasps, full of shame, she could not conceal the trembling that moved her body, her back to the man who had come to crush her dreams.
Itachi took the brush out from the inkpot, wrote something quickly, and singed the corner with the mark only he could use as Leaf's Commander. Then he rose up and left without a word to spare for either of them, Serizawa right behind him; and Shizune looked at the words he had written and the woman who sobbed in evening's unhurried shadow, crestfallen . . .
Performance: Unsatisfactory. Unfit for the Jōnin post.
Uchiha Itachi.
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Whisperings—he woke up suddenly, pulsations of the heart directing his eyes to dart about, an animal freed. The room was quiet, dark and yellow in patches, but fire burnt in the hearth—a bright fire that was warm. His heart—his poor heart—his little heart . . . in pieces; and before he knew, he was crying, reaching out to the boy that slept on the futon by his side.
He reached out, arm extending and curling about the waist, and pressed his face into the back—trembling more in spirit that was shaken. The other boy stirred and sat up and wiped sleep from his eyes. Then he looked down, too curious. "Naruto?" he asked and gently shook him. "Are you crying?"
Naruto sniffled, afraid, looked for a beast that was coming . . . for him; but where was it? He did not know and that terrified him more! "N-No," Naruto gasped a little, a sound that was compressed between the sobs.
"Liar!" the boy said, crossed his arms like an adult, and sat up straight. "See? There's nothin'. You scaredy-cat!"
"Y'sure . . . S-Sasuke . . . ?" Naruto asked, hugging him with both arms as tightly as he could.
"I'm not lying," Sasuke said in a voice that was small, sincere, sweet, almost offended at the suggestion. "I looked with Sharingan. Nothing, see?" He pointed at the red eyes that glowed prettily in the dark, a big smile on the face.
Naruto loosened his grip and turned his face a little to look up at Sasuke, blue eyes darker than omen-nurturing oceans in the boy's shadow. Then, as though something went from him, he emitted a gasping breath in relief and smiled that big smile of his; and he sat up, too, and bent forward to look keenly at the eyes that were still transformed, a tomoe in each eye.
"Pretty!" Naruto said in awe, crossing his legs, swaying from side to side. "I wish I had 'em. Then the monster wouldn't get me."
"You're silly," Sasuke said, twisting the little mouth a bit, Sharingan going to sleep. "No monster—I told you. Nii-San told me."
"I—I don't know . . . "
"You don't believe Nii-San? That's mean!" Sasuke said, not in anger but in shock—how could no one believe his Nii-San? He was the best!
"I . . . " Naruto paused, stole glances at the little boy who was patiently waiting for an explanation, smiled a bit, " . . . I-I believe . . . you, Sasuke. You're my friend . . . " Then he took Sasuke's lily-white hand in his, a full smile imbuing his face with summer's blush; and Sasuke, looking from Naruto's hand to his face, smiled, too . . .
A shattering sound woke him up—no longer a child, but a man, he sat in the meadow where Autumn had burnt the grass to poor-man's gold. Sky, laughing in bursts; a river yawning; it was a slow evening. The roll of the river—sere of flowers—the latter sung—former, unsung . . . its songs since summer's parting. Now, its tides were a little dull and slow, lethargic its passage and flow.
And he felt alone, thinking—only thinking of the time that had passed. Minato and Kushina: a tale of red hair and a trial created from it; dances and love-making in the rain; youth's season, the strangest time. Where was he in all this, his soul on the ground unleaved? How hard was it to stay, to live . . . to belong?
And when it whispered now, unto him, he was lost—so lost—hearing its stories of his shame at Leaf's hands. Shame—yes, shame . . . what was real—what was not? He listened, for it listened to him, listened to his heart when no one else could. Then he felt the tears and the susurration of grass and he knew who that was.
"Sitting out here all alone? You're over-dramatic," he said, his shadow falling lightly on the other man who, after hastily moving his hand across the eyes, looked up at him; his warm-blue eyes gazed from a strained brow with a calibrated expression of warmth, anguish, and something else Sasuke could not place.
"Finally remembered me, huh?" Naruto asked, happy as a child again, smile big and wide—he had always been a strange one.
"The borders won't check themselves," Sasuke said and looked at the sun that crowned the wave-like hillocks with flaxen shades.
"Sit down here—you're a complete grouch, man!" Naruto grabbed Sasuke by the wrist and pulled him down to sit beside him. Then, quietly, he rested his brow against Sasuke's back, and, after a while when the breeze turned colder, he mumbled: "I miss you . . . "
Sasuke turned his face a little to the man who was always grieving, but he did not speak. "I wish I could see you more. I just . . . " he whispered a sad confession, heart on his sleeve, as always, " . . . I feel lonely."
Letting out a long breath, Sasuke plucked a withering poppy from the ground and turned it around, its lustre lost. "We're not children anymore," Sasuke said, and thoughtlessly, pulled at the petals one by one.
"Maybe . . . maybe I want us to be . . . " Naruto said, shaking, weeping. "I-I want us to go back to how we were . . . I want us to be h-happy . . . I love you, Sasuke, and I'm not lying. I . . . I just want you to know . . . "
Happy childhood? Sasuke wanted to ask but did not say anything, watching the sun hide itself behind the peaks, letting out a purple that would go deep into the night; and time passed like this and the meadow turned dark, a place no child would wander to; and lilies came out to wait for the moon that was wintery, less giving.
"Have you dozed off? Get up. Go home," Sasuke said, voice clear in the breeze, and felt Naruto stir.
"No," Naruto said in a soft, muffled voice as though he was tired.
"Get up," he said and rose to his feet and turned around to look at Naruto.
"Asshole, can't you sit down for two seconds? I'm fucking sad, man. Can't you tell?" Naruto asked and made his eyes so big that he nearly looked mad drunk.
"It's night. Do you want to sleep here?" Sasuke said, brushing dry grass from his jacket, and watched as pearly fresh dew decorated the meadow, brightening the foliage in the moonlight.
"That's not what I asked. Fucking grouch!" he said loudly, almost in protest.
"Goodnight," he said, turned around, and started walking.
"You—fuck—wait!" Naruto sprang to his feet, jogged, and threw his arm around Sasuke's shoulder. "Let's go to my house. We'd sleep together . . . that came out wrong, but you know what I mean!" He laughed a little and looked at Sasuke for an answer.
Sasuke looked at him once and then looked ahead at the trail that was overtaken by chakra breaths that glowed white, yellow, and red. "No."
"Why not?"
"Nii-Sama wants me back home. 'Before the moon gains its full height,' he was specific," and after that little imitation, he did not say anything more, quelled his resentment just enough for the Sharingan to stay sleeping—like a babe.
"Father will reason with him," Naruto said, with utmost confidence. "He'd send him a letter. Don't worry!"
Intent on angering Itachi more, Sasuke nodded; and Naruto, overjoyed, pulled him closer, grinning from ear to ear. "Remember that guy . . . " Naruto paused, rattling his brains, " . . . that fat one who always had snot in his nose? He got into Anbu!"
"Yes," Sasuke said lazily.
"Shut up! 'Course you don't. Just saying yes to everything!"
"What do you want me to say? I don't remember everyone."
"You don't remember anyone, because you have no friends. I'm your only friend—ever thought about that? You're stuck with me for life!"
"Fucking Sage . . . "
They walked, feet crunching on long-dead leaves, and in their wake, chakra breaths collided against one another, confused, unable to follow as if someone had poisoned their happy place . . .
Insistent, like a child, Naruto asked Minato to send Itachi a missive; Sasuke knew that his brother would be furious, but he did not care. That place . . . it was more a prison, less a home . . . now, he lay on his back and listened to Naruto's chattering in a room that was warm.
This was Naruto's room, and, in all these years, it had not changed much: little knick-knacks sat on the cabinet; two futons on the floor (one of which was probably Hinata's, and he prayed to the Sage that he was not resting on that one); a painting of summers, yellow poppies, happier times, that hung in the alcove. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same . . .
And he did not know when he dozed off amidst Naruto's never-ending stories, woken up by a body convulsing against his own, gasping sounds in the air, fingers grasping at his back as though finding something to hold onto. "Naruto?" Sasuke asked, still drowsy, but no answer came; so he sat up and watched as Naruto wept his eyes out against his thigh . . .
"Naruto?" he asked again, but when he touched Naruto's shoulder with his hand, Naruto's whole body jumped in surprise; and gulping air, he emitted shuddering exhalations, eyes red with more tears. Then he looked up, grimaced in terror, and pressed his face into Sasuke's belly . . .
"T-There's some—something in the room!" Naruto said, words made incoherent by what he felt. "I—I saw it! Right there—there—by the door! It's come for me—it's—it's—it's here!" And he said no more, hugged Sasuke tightly, weeping into the shirt.
Sasuke looked around . . . nothing; and he wiped his hand across his face, knowing that the seal was being weakened again. "There's nothing," Sasuke said in a voice that was calm, reassuring. "You had a bad dream."
"Sasuke, I—" Naruto stopped, pulled down draughts of air, trembled like a beaten little boy, "—I-I'm not lying. I saw it—I saw it—it—it—wants to h-hurt me. Sasuke, don't leave, please . . . please . . . "
"It was a dream," he said, but Naruto was hysterical; he sat upright and bent forward to look at Sasuke deep in the eyes.
"I—I feel something—right here," Naruto said, voice strained much by sobbing, and touched his heart. "Ring—ring—ring . . . it doesn't go away . . . it never goes away . . . it never leaves . . . " Then he bent down his head into the shadow that was quite deep, lips like leaves quivering, hair golden but dirtied by night.
"They—they're watching . . . always watching . . . hurting me . . . shaming me . . . " he went on, tightening his fists in agony, shoulders falling forward.
"They—they beat me up! T-Threw stones at me—I—I—I—" and he stopped, confused . . . lost.
"Naruto, you had a dream. No one threw stones at you. Go back to sleep."
"T-They did, Sasuke—they did!" he said loudly and showed Sasuke his blue eyes that were muddied severely by the blacks. "It told me. I-I don't remember—it told me." He nodded and wiped his eyes over and over again and made a face that was child-like—naïve.
"They hate me. I—" He stopped, fresh tears glazing his eyes, touched his heart again—with more force this time, "—and you look into their eyes and see yourself fall . . . " Then, overwhelmed by grief, a child's condition the man carried, his face contorted and he lay his head in Sasuke's lap—weeping himself into exhaustion . . .
Night and its deepest part, the older one saw the world contained in glimpses . . . Lightning—Storm—come forth—bring your vengeance forth—smile—play—lie and roll . . . yet it would all end the same way. And he placed the wooden box on the table as gently as he could. "That is what you asked for, is it not?" Itachi asked, and Tsunade, almost seduced by the urge to let her anger out on him, smiled in spite of herself.
"You brought it here at last. What changed your mind?" Tsunade asked and poured out a bit of sake to calm her nerves—not forgetting to smile.
"Nothing," Itachi spoke calmly, out of habit. "My mind is the same. I do not change it, but you would have to change yours if you want to see what is in this terrible box."
"What do you mean?" she asked, rising to her feet, anger just beginning to bite at her composure in itsy-bitsy pieces.
"I do not enjoy being lied to," he spoke, voice a trouble in her mind. "If I see with my little eye that you are lying still, I will burn this thing and your wishes along with it. I hope you understand the sensitivity of the matter."
Tsunade, pursing her sake-touched lips, looked from the box to the young man who had caused much misfortune for her student, and smiled for that was all she could do . . .
And out there in the forest, night purred against the breast of a distant moon, dreamt of the older one who was beautiful, pale as death that blushed; and he pushed the boy against the tree, kissing, kneading the flesh to a tempestuous half-bloom between the legs.
"You're rough," the boy said, fingers gripping the man's shoulders, face changing from ecstasy to something less pleasant. "Stop it—Kai, stop, that hurts!"
He pushed Kai back and he laughed and looked at the boy that was terribly flustered. "Back to your old tricks? Did you get it from someone else? Kayomi, you're an easy boy. Everyone's little whore."
"Bastard—fuck you!" Kayomi spat back and wiped the spit off his lips and felt himself burn allover; he needed to tend to this . . . itch.
"What, you'd go to Itachi-Sama again? Cry? You're used to crying," Kai said, a mischievous look on his visage, and picked up the sword that he had abandoned from the ground.
"Still upset? He didn't even say anything to you," he said, watching Kai as he sheathed the sword that was clean, and adjusted his Chūnin Jacket.
"Why did you lie to him?" Kai asked, and a pain expression contorted his countenance in ways that the boy did not understand. "You shamed me in front of him—he . . . Itachi-Sama . . . why . . . ?"
"You promised me," Kayomi said, unable to see Kai's face clearly in the darkness that had all but eaten up this place to its fill.
"A place in Anbu?" Kai stopped, looked down, and let out a gasp like laugh. "Is that why you did it? You shamed me for a seat? Shamed me before the Lord that I—that I . . . " And Kai's throat closed up with passion, fury battling with ardour, a hopeless war . . .
"I'd make it up to you, I—I—I—I—" Kayomi stopped and stuttered and stopped, hand on his throat that was cut open and from where life went out. In a moment, his body collapsed to the ground, a shiver shock of loves that came from the tender neck.
"I don't need you to make it up to me," Kai said, and it began to rain; and it was a pleasant rain whilst the boy's body kept tainting the runnels in the ground with vulgarity.
And Kai, sheathing his sword, dreamt of the blood of bloods in the Lord's eye, and walked away from this place; and behind his back, Winter's first wind whistled the boy's spirit away . . .
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EN: Sokutai, a traditional Japanese outfit worn only by courtiers, aristocrats, and the emperor at the Japanese imperial court. It originated in the Heian period and consists of a number of parts: ho (outer robe), shaku, a flat ritual baton or sceptre, and the kanmuri, a cap-shaped black-lacquered silk-hat with an upright pennon decorated with the imperial chrysanthemum crest.
The reason why "were" was used with Sokutai is to give an impressed of robes.