Chapter Eighty-Four: Death Comes in Threes
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End of autumn's storm . . . whites that cut into the room in quick deliberation; and he stood by the door, tight-lipped, watched as the man looked over his shoulder to him; and he returned the gaze, eyes upon the darkness that buried the man's features under black hair, indistinguishable from winter's night, and a malleable expression.
Then the man called the boy unto him. "Sasuke," he spoke, deaths in the eyes asleep like winter's dream, summer's night.
The boy, more happy in heart, went to him, sat by his side, said not a word. The man was painting, a hobby he cherished. "I inherited it from my oldest brother," he would often say, but the child had never seen the oldest—was he gone? "He is with Kami now," he would reassure, upon seeing a curiosity blossom on the child's face, and move the brush again to paint . . . something? What was it that he had painted? It was so long ago, and without Sharingan, his childhood was a passing melody.
"Teach me," the boy wanted to say, "Otō-Sama . . . " Heavy the heart for a little entreaty? Yet the father had spoken of the older son, a son that he loved ever since his eyes had opened to the world and filled it with a wonder that it had not known. Ah, bewitched—his sibling had bewitched the father, taken him under a false promise from where there was no escape. First death—was this the first one?
And on a night like this, watching his father whose bright eyes had not yet lived life's agonies give comfort to the sibling's pain-rangled limbs, he had run out into the evening when the sky still bore the lacerations that bled; and he remembered, and he remembered well, his sibling sighing in pain, purple patches about the eyes, body distorted in ways that frightened him.
"Did you take the moth's . . . again?" his Otō-Sama had asked of something, working on the arm that was terribly swollen, muscles stricken with purple veins. Oh, what a sight that was? What did his brother say . . . back then? For the life of him, he could not remember. Lost—like the forest into which he had run.
Only little but not free, inured to lonely nights, his steps tread across the beds of leaves the forest had cast off, Leaf's senescence; and he looked up, greeted by a passion-wreathed evening, behind whom night was a shy pursuer; and he wept as he went, his hiccups growing louder in the tightest place between trees, all bowing to listen, yet none was brave to offer him a kind bosom.
"O-Otō-Sama—" the boy said, a bit stressed from having walked for so long, "—don't—don't you l-love me?" Grasping at his little breast that heaved under the black shirt, he looked down at the purple lilies that smiled by his feet—happy . . . what a time to be full of joy that waited in winter's arms, only a death away?
"O-Otō-Sama—don't—don't you l-love me?" a voice from behind him spoke, like an imitation of his softer tone, though it was not as sweet as that of a child's. Perplexed, even frightened, Sasuke shrunk away from the nearest tree, eyes on the black mouth that existed at the tree's foot.
Up above, sky turned ink-dark, and night was upon him like the wayward Shinobi out to kill. Oh, how the little body shuddered in affright, but the boy had learnt to be brave—braver than men; so straightening his body as though he meant to take the animal on, he faced the black gash, anticipating a monster full of teeth to come forth.
And an odd thing it surely was, and it came from the darkness, black plumage covering its form; white face crowning an evening shroud that was its body; and it was tall, tall as a tree to the little boy of three, for he had to lean his head back to ascertain the difference that existed between their stature.
Dignified—it stood in silence, back straight and obedient as though it awaited a command from a meaner man, moon-face and eyes sober, downward slanted . . . as if it was looking at the boy very intently. The child, Sasuke, could not tell what its eyes were like, so he tip-toed, mesmerised by the moonlight that tipped the feathers with argent fires.
Sasuke backed away, and his little foot crunched a leaf; and the creature almost snapped to response, ready, face a test of emotions, melting from a mean ghost about the lips to a resignation in the visage as it contended with the process of . . . strangeness. Then it spread its arms wide, wings wider than sleeves, quaving in air, and its body, an instrument of sinister music, susurrated.
Sasuke looked on whilst its neck escalated slowly in his direction, arching voluptuously like night-mounted hills, and as its countenance drew near, he could not help himself from thinking that the bones of its face . . . were moulded in his sibling's image; yet Itachi was a boy, but this one—this creature here—would be what his brother would grow into when he became a man. Oh, what a startling discovery!
"Nii-San!" Sasuke said, a breath-like laugh slipping from his lips; and the creature backed away, its long hair framing the face like flowing paints his father worked with; and its face was so white—not even his brother was this winter-like . . . not yet! And wind moved past, plied the swells that grew from the creature's bosom, manipulated them down to the ribs that came up to the skin as ridges. Was it like a mother, too—his Otā-Sama? What a strange creature?
Its shadow—his shadow upon the child, and the world above him had turned to the blackest black, an exsanguination of the cerulean morn; and when the creature brought the vast feathers down, he looked no more than a man dressed up like a crow. An actor? He played the part well, for he did fool the little boy. Then he shrank back into the cave to slumber, and Sasuke, too curious to let go, went in after him and sat down between the wings; and the creature . . . almost wildered as though he did not know what to do, smiled a wretched smile, a change in its beautiful physiognomy, for the lips tore up at the corners, revealed a beak-like structure; but then it went quiet as night, features sublime, sheltered from the storm outside that fought on.
And Sasuke sat like this for so long, convinced that the creature could not see. What a poor creature who had lost its way? thought the boy in dismay, watched the man's face that existed on this peculiar organic structure. Cast away from his mother, the crow-creature would surely die; but the boy, overtaken by fatigue, fell asleep, heard the man's heart beat in the crow's breast. Thump-thump-thump—it bellowed against his ear, battled against the rumbling and tumbling thunder in vanity.
"Sasuke—Sasuke!" Sasuke heard a boy speak, and when he came to, he looked upon his brother's mien, serious yet child-like. "Where did you go? I've been looking everywhere for you!" Itachi drew Sasuke into his arms, and when Sasuke looked back, he saw a black mass, like sludge, where the creature had rested.
"T-The . . . crow . . . ?" Sasuke asked, casting a suspicious glance on his brother who appeared very sober—very suddenly.
"What crow?" Itachi asked, looked about, and steadied Sasuke in his arms. "You had a bad dream. Come, let's go home. They're worried sick."
And Sasuke, looking upon Itachi with a countenance that did not hide his doubt, curled his arms about the brother's neck, rested his cheek against the shoulder, eyes on the blood in the cave that could not hide the crow's death . . . his brother was a mean little liar!
"Liar!" Sasuke spat out, and in one swift motion, sat up on the bed—heart a cave of riot. About him, the room was warm, golds on the wall from the brazier that still burnt hotly. And when he looked at the window, he saw the crow-creature stare at him with an affection that added character to the terrifying lineaments about the eyes. Oh, and then it was gone—just like that?
Sasuke got up from the bed and looked outside at the forest that thrashed at storm's mercy (wind had forced open the window). Nothing—in the white's wake, a fleecy grey appeared in the sky that sharpened night's dulling face. There was nothing to see out there but be enamoured by a night that had armed itself in secrecy—a battle it had begun; a war it wished to win . . .
He closed the window, heart taking a flight to stranger places, and went back to bed. By his side, Hinata slept, calm as a babe—sometimes, he envied her peace; and it did not take long for the night's crow to lull him to sleep—a friend and a foe that was tirelessly vicious . . .
Yellows, frazzled by night's end, emerged about the sky, a new morn, another burden. The window was left open by Hinata, and a colder draught came at him from the forest that the storm had exhausted the night before. Now, its most delicate parts abounded with a quietness that would prevail . . . till the next storm.
He lay on his stomach, felt the winter's omen-bearing air affect the body unpleasantly. The brazier had gone cold, but he had not asked Hinata to kindle it again: a marriage gift from Minato, it was her house, not his. She toddled in and out of the rooms, mumbling about things, which he only half-heard—things about father, sister, and the man who was to die at winter's start, she was sure. He would not have stayed had the desire to spite his brother not been on his mind (and Tsunade's favour, which Hinata enjoyed, was instrumental in prolonging Itachi's trouble); and she had insisted so pitifully . . . he could tell that she was lonely . . .
And he had to be patient—wait; an important man was to come from the Capital, and his brother would be gone to the outpost to meet with him. How he hated this hide and seek, this children's play? Even Kami would not dare to measure his anger. Then the sweetest melody filled the room in intermittent waves—a sign of good things to come? He smiled, craned his neck, and went back to the business of making the perfect origami crane; he was not successful . . .
And the music grew, and a beat later, the snowy hawk landed on his shoulder, excited. "Back from playing? I'd take that you had a good time. Did you make friends?" Sasuke asked, reached his hand to the back to grab hold of the little hawk, but it was playful. "Give that to me. We can play later."
At Sasuke's disinterest, the hawk, fluffing out the sun-brightened plumage, bit into his ear. "Ah, that's my ear. You're mean," he said, taking Kirin gently into the fist. "If I got something good, I'd get you a better treat." He got out the little message from the tube and let Kirin go, who bounced about the room, chasing after some pink moths that had snuck in to find refuge from the night's terror.
"Don't make a mess," he reproached when Kirin knocked the tea-cup over; Kirin screeched indignantly in reply, mouth full of pink-wings that vibrated to and fro with the brutality the little hawk had showed them, voice mellowing down to gentler notes immediately afterwards as it settled itself inside one of the empty shelves to catch sunlight.
The reply (in the message) was most helpful, and Sasuke, letting out a breath of flame, burnt the message; and it curled, crinkled, and charred between his fingers, breaking away with the breeze that passed over his head. Now, he waited . . .
Hinata walked into the room, carrying a tray in her hands; she looked from Sasuke's muted white back to the brazier, from which two washed-grey plumes rose up and twisted about one another like a delicate wreath. "It's cold," she said, placed the tray, on which two tea cups and fried onigiri sat, down on the low-table, and sat down by the brazier. "Y-You could've told me, and I would've—" and she did not say anything more, still hesitant around him; he made her nervous, anxious, shy the way girl-children felt.
"It's your house," he said, quite lazily between two long sighs—still quite busy with that crane Origami, and still quite unsuccessful . . .
Casting one look outside at the sky that was disheartened by Leaf's suffocating autumns and searing winters, Hinata lit the fire, and the coals flared bright red at the edges; she let the window stay open as Sasuke had opened it in the morning. He was strange . . .
"I . . . " Hinata began, picking up the tray, walking to the bed on which he lay as easily as a care-free child (he had not bothered to cover the torso), ". . . are you hungry?"
"No. Are you?" Sasuke asked, reached to the back of his neck, and messaged the skin that turned pink readily; and in the midst of the wistful spring's tinge underneath recreant gold, she noticed three black mole-like pin-pricks at the point where the curve of the cervical spine ended; and packed closely together, they appeared no more unusual than little blemishes; but her Byakugan, which she had called to her eyes in curiosity, told her a different story . . .
"A little," she said, like an afterthought, eyes on the marks, barely visible under his hairs that always had a mind of their own.
"Nii-Sama has called for me," he said, letting out a long breath as though he was weary. "Something important. I don't feel hungry . . . "
Hinata did not understand what one had to do with the other, but she nodded, albeit she wanted him to stay for one more evening . . . his heart was not in the love-making last night . . . distant . . . how hard was it to win his heart? She had never thought it would be like this . . .
Relaxing her eyes, she sat down by his side and, thoughtlessly, touched the dip at spine's end, and the skin, white yet warmed by his may, shivered. "Your fingers are cold," Sasuke said, a smile hidden in-between the words, though one that she caught easily this time.
Moved by the heart's joy, Hinata tossed herself on him, tea forgotten, and lay prone on his back; at which, he released a breath of amusement, but did not say anything more whilst he worked on the Origami, pressing the folded part down. It looked fine to her, but perhaps, he wanted it to reach a state of perfection . . . an odd habit, but one she did not think he would ever give up.
"You . . . " Hinata breathed out, pressed a kiss to his neck that was warmer than her lips, playful in spite of the shy-hearted spirit, " . . . wouldn't stay?"
"No," Sasuke answered, though, to her heart's ease, he did not seem angered by her persistence. "I'd come by some other time."
"I . . . I want you to stay," she insisted again, turning the head, hair unfurling across his shoulders, a maze of night-shaded gossamers.
"Greedy little girl," he said and only smiled a fugacious smile, one which was boyish, and love-struck like hopeless girls, she could not help herself from kissing him, flourishing the whey parts with bold pinks.
"It looks good," Hinata said, shy and bold equally, in a hope to ease his frustrations.
"I can never get this right," Sasuke said in a voice that was affected by a child-like frustration, folding and re-folding the paper, trying. "Nii-Sama's good at this. I want to be good at this. I can be good at this."
She listened, a little hopeless for he sounded akin to a busy little boy who wanted nothing more but to beat the older sibling at his own game. "What's that m-mark?" she asked, unsure of her voice, tongue faster than the mind. Itachi had not been wrong in mocking her mistakes . . . curse him!
"What—here?" he said, touched the back of the neck, and returned to the task in which he had no heart. "Birthmark. I'm sure you've got one or two . . . somewhere."
Leaning her head down, Hinata hid her blushing face, watching the hair spread across the tatami mat in tangling waves. She searched for the words to say to him, but found none for that was not a birthmark, but wounds that went as deep as the chakra veins. What was used to make them? Senbon . . . but that would require a hand that was unnaturally precise—one slip, one careless slip, and that would injure the veins in ways that would be terrible . . . no Medic possessed a hand like that, not even Naruto's beloved . . . strange . . .
Stopping the thought, Hinata calmed the heart that stayed in an unfriendly state, worried for him. "I . . . " she sighed, all forgotten, but for a moment; she would tell him of this, but not now—not when he was sweet as yōkan her Okā-San made.
"Say it," he said, smile visible in morning's gleaming sliver, and pointed at his ear. "Whisper it in my ear."
Hesitant, heart in the mouth, Hinata gulped down the ambrosial air that fulfilled the house's ache—was it him, Autumn saccharine, lilies like which he felt? Hinata did not know; but hopeful of the love he could give to her, she leant in, said what she wanted to say, and ended her entreaty on a kiss, as though that was meant to soothe whatever irritation he may experience.
"Is that it?" Sasuke asked, laughed a little, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye that caught the sun for the littlest moment. "Thought you were going to ask me to murder a bastard."
Backing away, Hinata hid her face behind her hands, cheeks furiously red; and Sasuke, laughing that soft laugh which tamed her spirit, rolled onto his back and sat up. "You don't want it?" he teased, and she fell back on the bed, hair flying up and falling all about her.
Then Hinata pulled the hands away, eyes on the horizon which was upside down, head half-hanging from the low-bed; and when she felt his lips touch the place between her thighs, saw the sky fall in a luscious swoon, she was . . . content. Vain the spirit—vain the heart . . . her Okā-San would say, but she was quiet and at peace and trapped in the earth; but so was she . . .
Today, sun rosed the arc's edge diligently, a shimmering morn. The window was open, and from the bed, he saw the forest that wore Autumn's careless mottles. Leaning his head down, he sighed, eyes running about the toes pinked by breeze. "You're a cunt," he whispered to the woman who stood naked by the bed, Shinobi attire in her hands. "I love you, and you're a cunt."
"What was that—say it again!" she said, angry, but she got on his nerves often.
"I said I love you, a'right?" he said, raising his face, showing her the mustered sincerity in the eyes.
"You know, this is pathetic—even for you," she said, tone hard. "It's never about us, is it? Last time I came to you, you were crying about your mother. How's that supposed to make me feel?"
"Fuck off!" he shot back, sprang to his feet, turned to face her. "I miss my dead fucking mother. Does that piss you off?"
"I . . . I didn't mean it like that . . . "
"You're right . . . I am pathetic," he said in a manner as though it was a heartfelt confession and grabbed her by the arm. "Out!"
"Shin!" she protested as he dragged her to the door, the flak jacket slipping from her grip and falling to the floor; and he threw open the door, felt the rush of autumn hit his head like a blow, pushed her out.
"Shin—fuck you!" she shouted, nearly in tears, expression of bewilderment and shame, nakedness apparent in the sunlight that was stark against the sooty pleats in the sky.
"Get the fuck outta my house!" he growled this time, and unmoved by the teary pleas that brightly mapped her face, he grabbed the jacket from the floor and tossed it at her and shut the door with a force that moved the hinges.
She tossed off many obscenities from behind the door, though, to him, she was as good as dead; love and death came easily to him; some days he was in love—some days, he was not. Ah, Autumn, a time of beginnings . . . he smiled, sat down on the bed, watched the sun rise against red, a visitor to a place of murders!
And he sat like this for hours till the peak's drape turned bolder. Wiping a slow hand across the face, he rose up for there was no rest for the wicked, wild, and weary. It took him some moments to find the shirt she had forced off his body and the common white jacket, worn by Anbu and Root men alike, that lay in the room's grey corner. This was a small, stuffy house: one room and one window to squeeze the sun inside; and in winter, it was like a grave for the undead.
Ready, he stood by a set of drawers and took out the wolf mask from the top one, with double red lines that ran round the eye-sockets and snout. This was a new one with a powerful seal—Danzō had told him; he never believed the crooked old man for he was born lying; and one day when his throat met the blade, he would be lying still.
Maggot! he often thought of Danzō, and he was like that, wriggling about Leaf's underbelly, terrified of daemons that would come for him someday surely—not all men were terrors that troubled the dreams; and one shade, eagerly attired as Commander, and his little child had become more alive than the mind's misgivings . . . he could hide, but he could never run.
The smile crinkled the eyes in the sockets; and he made hand-seals and appeared at a shrine, lonely under the foliage, dimpled by nature. There, he knelt by the stone, took out a Kunai, and carved words into the stone's side. He must've seen it! he thought, desperate for a sign, but the silence was worrying. Quickly, he slipped the Kunai back into the sheath, listened to the crunches approach him from the west.
"Toshirō?" a voice said, and it belonged to a woman. "You're up early. Do you enjoy being sickly punctual?"
"Yes, Sakura, I like to fuck with you," Toshirō said, crouched by the shrine, eyes on the markings left by another man years ago—boy children made of stone and their miens had faded, too. He could barely read them . . .
"Prick," Sakura mumbled, scrapping hair back behind her ear, looking up at the yellows penetrating from between the branches overhead. Autumn was kinder this morning . . .
Then, without saying a word to her, Toshirō started walking to the east; and even though Sakura did not want to, she followed. "Where are we going?" she asked, terrified as all hell of what Danzō had asked of her this time.
"Some Shinobi are hiding it out not far from here," he said, walking through lustrous stripes that went through gloom, calm. "Their leader is missing. We need to talk to one of 'em. Hear 'im out."
"Shinobi—what Shinobi?" she asked, and in spite of her best efforts, her voice came out weak.
Toshirō stopped and turned around and showed her his rain-washed eyes, bright and virescent. "Rock Shinobi," he said, and she could tell that there was a full smile on his face; then, after the release of a short breath, he turned from her and resumed his walk, unconcerned of the fear that had cut open her heart in threes . . .
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Hours had passed, and standing by the open window, which looked out onto the Autumn-forsaken forest, he gazed at the sun that was caught in a state of setting, sky rosing over with evening's fright; and when he looked on the left, he saw his sibling's face experience the slightest change with the brilliance of some curiosity. He had grown stranger in the past few weeks . . .
"Do you have to go somewhere?" Itachi asked, aureate light on his winter-cared cheek. "Your feet do not like treading the house any longer. Does your room bite you?"
Sasuke said nothing, unconcerned yet seething, a state his mind could never get accustomed to. "You seem to have lost your way. Have you lost your tongue, too?" Itachi asked, though his tone had not altered even a little, smooth and latently threatening.
"I told you," Sasuke said, irritated, turning to look across the lights, bespeckled with shimmering motes, at the brother, "I want the seat 'cause I want it. Nothing more to it."
Itachi smiled, gave a little tilt of the head as though he wanted to laugh, cast the sun a quick glance. "You are not a good liar."
"I'm learning," Sasuke returned, and he smiled, too. It was war now!
"A cause for celebration when you attain that perfection," Itachi spoke and rose up to his feet and walked around the table to stand fully in the sunlight; and dusk was kinder to his frigid bearing, imbuing the physiognomy with a balmy calm.
"Tell me, did Otō-Sama teach you nothing but mockery? Nomura-San tells me that he was a great fucking guy, but looking at you, I'm not convinced," Sasuke said, and the bones in his face worked harder to hide the ire.
"Am I in a temple confession?" Itachi spoke, unmoved by the younger one's outburst, simmering to an anger that was sure to follow.
"You turned out great—Otā-Sama's so proud that I can almost hear her sobbing," Sasuke pressed on, mouth working into a sneer, which passed for a sour smile. "Don't make that face—tears of joy!"
"Impish child," Itachi spoke in a disarmingly soft voice, grabbed the sword from the table, returned the attention back to the sibling. "Help me understand . . . you."
"Help you? It's all just a game to you, isn't it? Fucking liar," Sasuke said as spitefully as he could, no smile on his lips now.
"I am doing this for you . . . for your—"
"Sage—fuck! No—no! You stay out of my business," he flared, face furiously battling with fury and something else that was akin to disbelief.
"You are my business. You want to make trouble for me. This seat . . . why?" Itachi asked, and sun reclined voluptuously against the planes of his features that eagerly awaited a reunion with winter's way.
Sasuke Laughed a little and looked at Itachi as though he was looking at him clearly for the first time, a beautiful innocence in him snapping into focus. "I'm not doing this—not again. Tired of playing your games. I'm taking the seat, and there's nothing you can do about it." And with that declaration of war, Sasuke left the office without looking back.
"May I . . . ?" Serizawa asked, always hesitant to interrupt their quarrels that had become routine now.
"Let him go. He is not wrong. I cannot change the Council's decision. Nomura . . . it is his doing . . . " Itachi spoke, strapping the sword to the back, standing straight as the finest arrow. "It is done. It matters not . . . for now." Then he left the office, Serizawa in his wake, Frost Village-bound . . .
The sun was behind the peaks that cast omens on Yoshiwara: a place caught between Rain and Leaf, a dream unfulfilled. "Did the one with virtue who bore you weep when you stuck it in? Not everything is a sheath and a sword, huh, Kiryū-San?"
Kiryū smiled, face half-shaded by shadows, fracturing away from the little light that existed in her room that was luxuriant, decadent against the lantern's lusterless-red. "You have a strange sense of humour, Hanakoto-San," Kiryū spoke, putting down the tea-cup on the low-table set before him.
"Your words spoil me," Hanakoto spoke, playful, moved the deep-red fan back and forth, and her eyes, like pristine black agates, twinkled in her face.
"I was honest," Kiryū spoke, expression sober. "He will not give Ieyasu-Sama the Lands. Not when the lease ends."
"Nioi, hush now," Hanakoto spoke, and the little Kamuro stopped playing the flute, blinking away sleep from her spring-sweetened face. "I did not doubt you, but," she paused to place the hand-fan down on the low-table, "how do you expect me to convince Ieyasu-Sama? Itachi is . . . dear to him. He may not show it, but it is true. You ask of me to do the impossible. I am a proprietor, not a witch." She reached to the back of the head to grab hold of the meticulously combed long hair, pulled it forward, and settled it delicately on the shoulder that was heavily powdered to an unnaturally white state.
"Gold makes men bold," Kiryū spoke, unable to conceal his amusement. "Without the Lands, his business suffocates. Leaf gains strength as we speak. It would all be over."
Hanakoto did not say anything, moving her fingers through Nioi's hair, who placed her head in Hanakoto's lap. "Danzō is a busy old man," Kiryū went on, eyes on Hanakoto's face, whose beauty spoke through the room's haze. "Night and day, he plans. The councilman . . . his dear confidante, whispers in Leaf, and you can swear on his terrible intentions. Soon, someone would listen.
"Time . . . is not something we have. It flies. You know this better than men."
A bit shaken by his comment, eyes revealing a glooming glimmer, Hanakoto sighed. "I cannot do this," she confessed, visage changed by honesty. "Ieyasu-Sama would never listen to me. He trusts Itachi more than I. More than you. You ask for a miracle.
"I sent him all your missives, yet he is . . . nearly silent. What do you hope for? I do not understand you men." And Hanakoto turned her face away, white powder greying under the shadow which overwhelmed.
"He has asked of you to become his concubine. He listens," Kiryū remarked, and Hanakoto looked at him, fury hidden by the colour's depth in her eyes. "Make him listen some more. Whisper like Itachi whispers. It is not hard to sway a man's heart.
"Itachi . . . he is cold. Winter that ruins spring. He does not love. The boy . . . a weakness that he wears to taunt your heart. He flaunts it for he likes to be the martyr. He would listen to Sasuke, and that boy does not like to share. You should not press your luck with that man. He will not choose you. A clever woman like you must know this." And Kiryū leant forward a little, picked up the tea cup that was still warm, and took a generous sip, not forgetting to smile.
Hanakoto, struggling to mollify her anger, let out a quick breath. "You know your way around Leaf . . . and Yoshiwara. Clever man . . . perhaps too clever for your own good," she spoke in a harsher tone, yet maintained the showy mannerisms she had learnt in this house as a child—a Tayū must always appear lady-like.
"Itachi-Sama!" Nioi chirped and sat up, clapping her hands together. "He's so pretty—makes the girls blush. I want to be his wife!"
"Nioi!" Hanakoto reproached the little girl who sat cross-legged by her side, a flute held tightly in her right hand. "Go and see how the preparations are going. You have been neglecting your duties. Behave."
"Why, O-néh-San? I want to stay! It's cold in the store, and Midori is mean to me. She pulls at my braids. I'd push her down the stairs. Hope she breaks her neck. Bitch!"
"Nioi, shame on you! Where did you learn to be so foul?" Hanakoto asked, eyes wide as a negligent monk's prayer beads, shocked.
"She is—she is!" Nioi insisted, round cheeks turning brightly red. "She threw bath-water on me and ruined my kimono. I'd worn it for Itachi-Sama. Red as Higanbana. Didn't even show it to him. I hid behind the old well." She pointed outwards at the latticed-window that showed a melancholic design: winter's killing of Higanbana, a splash of murder that went to the partition-screen as plentiful stains.
Hanakoto, tip-lipped, looked on as the little Kamuro stood up, waved her plump arms about, and pouted. "Itachi-Sama found me. I was shivering. Cold. Smelled like a sow. He bought me food and a new kimono. Told him, I'd give you twelve children—swear it! He smiled. I think he likes me!" And with that declaration of love, she crossed her arms, delicate sleeves hanging past her knees.
Kiryū emitted a laugh that went round the room. "Ah, Itachi, he bewitches everyone—even children."
Nioi nodded thrice, the ornaments in her hair clinking. "I'm learning to write him letters. Would he like it if I told him that I faint in love?" she asked, pressing a finger to her petal-like lips, on which spring was at its warmest.
"Nioi, leave," Hanakoto spoke, passed her hand down the girl's flower-patterned kimono, smiled. "I'd buy you a better kimono. You can show it to him when he comes by."
"Promise?" Nioi leant forward, eyes glinting in joy, pressing her hands together as though she was praying.
"Promise," Hanakoto assured, watching as the girl spun round, tip-toeing, sleeves curling about the air.
"Tippy-toes—tippy-toes—tippy toes. Watches them young'uns dance—that fat man with a big nose. Then he weeps and then he blows—watches them young'uns dance—he goes!" Nioi sang, passing through the lantern's light that cut the room into two darkest halves, a sign of omens.
"Spirited girl," Kiryū spoke, eyes on the door from which Nioi had left a moment ago.
"We all are at that age," Hanakoto remarked, countenance tight with emotion, though the powder hid it well.
"Itachi buys gifts for the girls? A generous man of many hidden talents," he spoke, running his eyes across the room that was suffocated to the last bits with many decorations.
Hanakoto let out an impatient sound and rose to her feet, her kimono's rich Higanbana-bearing fabric trailing behind her—like lifeblood. "He does not," she spoke, turned around, and went to the room's far corner to pour out tea from the Kyusu—a gift from her late mother. "She says this about many who come here. The girl is poor. Farmer's daughter. She wants a patron, but she is also young . . . little . . . naïve. She would learn. They all do . . . fool of a girl . . . " And she spoke no more, busying herself with the tea ritual, her garments, a stain in shadow's fabric.
"Would you like some green tea?" she asked, not looking back at the man who sat inside a dismal red hue: a memory from mother, a consoling haunting, her lantern had turned too fragile for use.
"No, I am quite content with this," he answered, raising the cup to the lips, tasting the honey in every sip of this richly brewed tea.
"This girl," Hanakoto sighed, speaking to herself, hair spilling from the shoulder to fall like a precise brush-stroke down the waist. "She did not brew this right. I teach her and she learns nothing." And she stood without speaking for several moments whilst watery sounds filled the room in the place of silence.
"I have approached Tsunade," Kiryū spoke, voice more pronounced as though he had added more force to it. "She is . . . curious."
"You need more than curiosity, Kiryū-San," Hanakoto spoke, poured out green liquid into the cup, and turned a bit to look upon the man who had brought more than just trouble to her doorstep.
"Curiosity can be a terrible habit," he spoke, rising up, silk-garments casting off the murky scarlet. "It is a seed . . . a disease. Once it takes root, it never leaves."
"And Danzō? You hope to change him with curiosity, too? You play with fire, and you want to burn me with you," she spoke, turning fully, kimono catching light to become vermeil.
"I do not," he spoke, unrelenting, countenance hardened by his conviction. "I want more from life. So do you, Hanakoto."
Hanakoto stayed silent, watched whilst he walked to her, his face a secret in the lowering sky's lamentations. "You do not want to be a concubine forever, do you?" Kiryū asked, and his eyes, like haunted abodes, awakened with the coming of Sharingan's noise; and she was rendered naked by them . . . all over again. "You can become his arm. His strength. He would grant you the honour you always wanted . . . coveted . . . deserved.
"Itachi can make promises. He does not know how to keep them. He is a liar by habit. You and I both know this to be true." And with that, Kiryū placed the scroll he had in his hand on the table, right next to the still-warm Kyusu, and left the room without another word; and in his wake, a storm gathered more fury in the sky's vibrant deeps, flashing white through the latticed window . . .
# # # # # #
He appeared deep into the forest, moon guiding the way, casting pale streaks across his face; and there it was, a place he was supposed to meet up with her. When would it all end? How easy was it to just . . . walk away? He was not the type to admit defeat, lay down the arms, run away from trouble; but something had to give—something . . .
He ran up the peak, breeze against his face; it was colder now. Winter, slow and steady, was nearly here; and when it came, it was quick to lay waste to Autumn's leftovers with a joy that was callous. He did not have time . . . no time . . .
When he reached the cave's mouth, he saw black shiver against moon's intrusive nature . . . a barrier? "Karin," he called to her, knowing fully well that she was fooling around again: in all the years he had known her, she had not changed one bit.
"What's the magic word?" Karin said, voice lilting, concealed behind the barrier.
"Please," Sasuke said, wiping away rain-droplets from his face; light drizzle, from patches of wreathing clouds, had begun to fall down.
"You're sweet when you say please like that," she said, took away the barrier, and leant against the cave's mouth to welcome him in—all smiles.
Sasuke did not say anything and made his way into the cave that was choked with a musty smell. "Why this cave—every fucking time?" he asked in a voice that touched irritation and sat down on a large stone that jutted up from the ground. The walls about him bore deep cracks, each blacker than the other, and released innumerable streamlets that silvered against this night's moon.
"You know why," she sang, red hair flying in the breeze that blew inwards into the cave.
"Forget I asked," he said, a bit weary of her girlish tricks, and held out his hand; and she handed the fancy scroll over to him. "When did he send this?"
"Two days and one night—like you told 'im. Go easy on 'im. Poor thing—bet he pissed himself with fright," she remarked, sitting down by his side, craning her neck to look at what the young man had written in a very elaborate writing style—right under Ieyasu's nose.
"Where's Jūgo?" he asked, Sharingan winning the war against the cave's darkness, a pleasure-bitten hue piercing into the space about his face.
"Did you come here just to ask me questions?" she asked, almost irritated, chill-affected visage changing a bit.
"Karin," he reproached, casting her a gaze that was quite disapproving.
"A'right, don't get angry," Karin said, hugged his arm, leant into him. "He's where you asked him to stay. Are you really going to go and meet him? Your brother won't allow it, you know."
"Let me worry about my brother," Sasuke answer, voice a bit sharp—he was not in the mood to argue.
Sasuke sat quietly like this for some time, reading and rereading the missive as though Ogimaru, who was less a man and more a boy, had sent him a riddle to unravel. "Right under the house, huh?" Sasuke said, talking to himself, rolling up the scroll. "I need Jūgo. Can't get the runt out without him . . . fuck . . . " And then he fell silent again, eyes cooling, going into a state of sleep.
"Are you happy?" Karin asked, slightly hesitant, looked to his moon-lit countenance that was irresistible—he seemed a little satisfied.
"A little," he said, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath afterwards as though he had crossed a mighty hurdle.
"Oh, you're so hard to please," she said, kissed him on the cheek that was surprisingly warm with his chakra-roiled blood. "Fuck me!"
"There are dead frogs in here. It stinks," Sasuke said, making a face as though that was not obvious enough to her.
"I don't mind seeing you get dirty!" Karin said, voice rising in a song-like manner, cheeky.
"Reading Shunga again?" he asked, leaning back, feeling the breeze pass over his features like ghostly hands.
"How did you know?" she exclaimed, lay her head down on his lap, looked up at his face whose one half was charmed delightfully by moon.
"I'm getting good at guessing," he said, voice mellow as if he was tired, and closed his eyes, thinking . . .
And Karin kept looking at his face whilst he rested; and then she looked outside at the rain's pale-stained strings that hung from this lonely cave's mouth and said, "rain's stopped . . . " To which, he said nothing . . . sleeping with a careless abandon, something which he had not done in years . . .
Night, cracked open by storm's noise, took refuge in her office. Barely lit, his body twined with the shadow, indistinguishable to her eyes. "What are you waiting for?" Itachi asked in a voice that was unusually mellow and menacing. "A sign? Kami's miracles are hard to come by."
"I cannot arrest them," Tsunade said, hitting the table with a firm hand, making the sake tremble in the bottle. "You know how this works."
"The Mangekyōs?" he asked, still as black as night's terrors that children feared.
"I don't know where they are," she confessed, kneaded her brow, sat down to catch her breath.
"If the clan learns of this, it would create trouble for you. One which you have not seen."
"A threat?"
"Word of caution."
"You're generous tonight. What's the occasion?" she asked, absentmindedly reaching for the sake bottle—a friend to her in harder times; and this one was hard as any.
"The tunnels?" he asked, unconcerned by her remark. "You told me that Danzō made them, but your family had a hand in their construction. Okami Clan and Tobirama? A wedding for the ages. Is that not what the scroll states? The dead girl speaks, and she has come back to haunt you."
"I don't know why he did it. I don't know everything. You think I'm lying? I'm not," she confessed and gritted her teeth with great determination to keep the anger in control.
"Surprise . . . surprise . . . surprise . . . one after the other," he spoke, a note of delight entering his voice, one which she did not like.
Pouring out sake into a half-full cup, she asked: "did you find out anything more about the Tulip Squad?"
"No, I do not know more than what the scroll reveals, but Minato and Hiashi do. Danzō, their dearest friend, knows the most. You should ask them," he spoke from the darkness, eyes invigorated by the cool of the night.
"No—not yet. I need more time," Tsunade said quickly, took a sip, calmed her heart that was in a state of unrest. "It says that the Tulip Squad had members of Mist's Elite Force. It doesn't say who . . . " she paused, drinking it all at a draught, a habit she had not given up in years ". . . goodness, was it all for so little?" And she placed her brow in her hand, the other one busy, its fingers trembling about the cup.
"What?" Itachi asked, his heart—his poor little heart—run through with a terror that had returned to bite it down to the last vein—a delicious feast for his foes!
"Mist's Elite Force? Not a very fancy name, but that's what Yagura used in the past to terrorise Cloud—us," Tsunade said, rising to her feet, gazing at him again, yet finding little but his Sharingan's unmistakable fervour. "He almost got away with it, too. If he hadn't died . . . sometimes, death is a blessing."
At this, Itachi did not say a word, caught up in a storm that was out to get him now; a memory, one which he had not remembered—no, felt in so long, running in the veins, a rush of terror most succulent.
"You're awfully quiet," Tsunade said, and she poured herself another cup of sake; but he had no words on his tongue to weave. "Keep the scroll. I don't want you thinking that I was dishonest with you."
And with that, Itachi had left her office, scroll in hand, attacked by the past he thought he had cast out . . . into the earth where it was to remain; but nothing was a secret forever . . . nothing . . .
"Itachi-Sama," a voice spoke, broke from him the thought that had besieged the spirit, trammeled it to a man who was long dead.
Itachi turned from the cliff's edge, dusk's sun brave on his back, hair tangling in the breeze that was sweeter than Leaf's. "Are we teleporting to Frost? It'd be night soon," Serizawa said, face carrying a calmer sun, pink about the cheeks.
"Is it true that dead men do not stay dead?" Itachi asked, mind adrift, tone . . . a little curious—Serizawa did not understand the Lord who was young . . .
"Itachi-Sama . . . ?"
"We shall walk. It is not far," Itachi spoke and walked from the cliff, his shadow ahead of his steps; Serizawa imagined him resigned; and he did follow, going through the forest, about which night slowly entwined. And not one to question, Serizawa followed the Lord still whose countenance was quiet enough to forsake passion.
They made it to Frost, a quiet village at this time of night; and in winter, its silence would become its noise. Now, he stood by the young Lord who was smiling at Ogimaru, a scroll in his hand.
"I would've come by the other outpost, but—" Ogimaru stopped, quite suddenly, looked at his feet as though he did not have the courage to look at Itachi.
"Does Hidetada know?" Itachi asked, smiled fully, almost a spirited smile, a spectre on his lips.
"No," Ogimaru mumbled, crestfallen—he was desperate.
"I will speak to your father," Itachi spoke, watched as Ogimaru's face changed dramatically with an earnest smile.
Ogimaru, lost for words, could only bow in answer; his joy was boundless. Then he left the office in cheerful silence, his attendant in tow.
"Did he really . . . ?"
"Of course not," Itachi spoke, walked to chair behind the table, and sat down. Outside the window, a night-scarred land stretched out to the sky, in whose fabric moon sparkled beauteously.
And his thoughts began to waver again, eyes on the Autumn Moth that was germinating into a Devil at winter's mouth; it had followed him . . . all the way here? "What a strange little moth?" Itachi asked himself, resting the head against the chair's sturdy back, watching as the spider wilted away in sooty bits at the touch of its wings. Death comes in threes—a child could only dream for winter waited; and to him it had come, a love that let his spirit out to run . . .
"Itachi-Sama, you . . . " Serizawa said, but his words, lost to moments countless, vanished—bit by bit, as though a life in them was forgotten . . .
There she sat, a girl in waiting, winter coming to her on slow steps. "Yukime," a man said, a deep white breath coming from his mouth. "It's late. You should go inside."
"I'd wait for Fuyuhiko—he never liked it when I didn't wait," Yukime said, rose up from the perch, looked at two shadows appear from the fog that floated about this village; and she ran to the young man who walked in front of the other, heart stifled by a tenderness that she was too young to know.
"Fuyu—" she stopped a step short of him, rosy cheeked and naïve, a fool in love, "—Fuyuhiko?"
The young man smiled; and a pleasure most sincere streaked through her; and he was beautiful; and behind him, dusk came and sky lamented, a simplicity that ran red . . .
# # # # # #
EN: Kamuro, young girls who attended the great courtesans of Yoshiwara. They were brought into service at the age of five to nine, and they paraded in their "older sister" courtesan's retinue when she appeared in public, ran errands for her, and attended her when she met with clients. They rose in ranks after being trained from a young age by the Tayū whom they served; hence, they were also a sign of status for the Tayū inside and outside Yoshiwara.
Kyusu, a traditional Japanese teapot; it's used in the ancient practice of the Japanese tea-ceremony that involves a ritualistic preparation of green tea.
Onigiri, a common Japanese dish, comes in many varieties these days. It can be grilled (fried), as well, and that version's called the Yaki Onigiri.
I normally don't do this, but it wouldn't hurt to throw a helping hand here and there. There's a window scene in the earlier parts of the chapter: Sasuke thinks that Hinata opened the window whilst Hinata thinks that Sasuke did. That's deliberate. It's up to you to ascertain that which character is doing this out of habit. Only one character is right here.