Chapter Eighty-Five: The Village Hidden in Frost
Part IV
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Light was fresh on the horizon, a lively pink; from the mounts that touched the horizon's arc came a chill that fondled their souls; and it was winter now that was distant, out to hunt, a fierceness in a sky that had only begun. They sat like quiet monks in the living room, and upon them, the valley's going sun cast a demure light, bore a wound so deep that from it flowed upwards strokes . . . like lambs taken out to slaughter.
"Fuyuhiko, you came alone? Otō-San said that he'd come along," Yukime said, her eyes on the young man who had come all the way from Kusa Village to meet with her. She had known him to be a bright boy—shy around her, he often hid away amongst the shrine by the lake when he came by to visit. A marriage between two families . . . Time had changed so much . . . and so had he . . . so had she . . . maybe.
"Konoha might strike. It is not safe. He stayed behind at Kusa," Fuyuhiko said, and he looked bold in a way that she did not understand—right about the eyes that hid away a fire she could not see. Oh, naïve—so, so naive. Where was the shy little boy she had known? Ah, times flies, but here, winter was forever!
"The birds . . . they haven't come by in weeks . . . do you think he . . . ?" the man called Masayoshi said, his bearing that of a warrior who had braced many winters; stout, bulky, tall; he looked more an ox than a man; bushy brows half-concealed the twinkle in the eyes, a trickiness Fuyuhiko did not miss. "They must have . . . " and he said no more as this winter's bite was harsher than the last; and you could not always bear winter's designs—things were meant to perish at its feet, an inevitability you could only lament.
"That's . . . unfortunate, but I . . . I won't give up hope. Kami is on our side. We'd . . . get through this," she said, emotions betraying her tone of voice which was sweetly girl-ish, despair's shade enveloping the eyes, rendering the winter-loved light gloomy. "Maybe you should send out a sign—anything! We mustn't sit like this!"
"I . . . haven't received any missive," Masayoshi said, greys and yellows illuminating his withered visage, his mouth turning down.
"Did he—?" she stopped, looking at Fuyuhiko now, terrified, lantern's light dimly going along her contours—and she was young, too young, perhaps, to see the Devil that had snuck up to her shadow; wings, a delicate trick, bearing sensations dangerous; and in that rapture this place would wither, red its rot.
"He was safe," he assured, a smile radiating through, like a forgotten promise on his moon-begotten face.
She smiled, almost in spite of herself, noticed that he'd changed . . . in many ways: no longer a child, he'd grown, youth defying the remnants of boyhood's mirage that still remained with a great brutality . . . about the eyes, she thought—oh, his eyes—his pretty, pretty . . . pretty eyes; and she could scarcely recall the boy years had left behind . . . many moons past; and all morphed into dreams you dreamt—no longer real.
"You would stay . . . for some nights . . . ?" she said in a manner as though it was an entreaty, hesitation evident in her speech, eyes on his that left unsaid more than they said, blacks into which reds pitiless had congealed, ". . . till Otō-San comes back?"
"We should head over to the northern outpost—contact Cloud Shinobi—send them a warning," Masayoshi suggested to Yukime, who was caught up in silvered gossamers, a fool's paradise, in a voice that was peculiar, his words falling, a leaden object hitting the wooden floor, walls, and furniture in insistent beats; but her mind was reticent, hardened to his voice.
"Perhaps we should wait . . . for a day . . . two maybe? What do you say, Fuyuhiko?" she asked, eyes on Fuyuhiko's face, his countenance about which the air was ambrosial, discordant about him this sun's death across sky's veils.
"Whatever your ladyship decides," Fuyuhiko said, eyes creating a mimic smile, lips sober. Hide the eyes; hide the heart—what pleasure to sink . . . only sink . . . did you drown in fearsome agonies?
And at this, she had exhibited a shyness befitting a young bride; and together, she thought, they would take over the world, battle it out till the bitter end, come out on the other side . . . into a winter that would endure Leaf's may, devour it to its hollowed heart, and satiate the flesh in spring's desire—mock Leaf in ways that it would blush in autumn, and in death, with streaks running along its streets like children out to trick.
And just like that evening was lost into the night, its celebratory hues a terrible omen; at night the valley was colder as though it was suffocated by a shivering Kami's hands. From the north came soul-leeching winds; and they wailed like children's ghosts that had come forth from the crevices in mounts . . . to haunt the living.
When night deepened, cut open by whites from the growing moon above and the mists below, Fuyuhiko saw Yukime wait at the village's edge, a place where a Kami stone-child sat, buried deep in snow. By its feet, she had left a little flower that had withered away at the touch of a wind that knew no mercy. Grey and rotten . . . what love had it promised in its petals? And the moon laughed, a cruel child in him joyous at the victory that was too delicious—a taste that was spirit-tempting.
Her kimono, white as the snow about her, merged with valley and world, flowed in careless waves upon the air; and it was hard to see where she stood . . . as a little woman who was all alone; and night after night she did the same, and the moon above grew, to devour what little of her heart remained—mind, a toy in its hands.
The next few days were spent in leisure; it was as though a mirage had come between her and the world beyond; and Fuyuhiko was all that she could see—nothing more! Oh, what joys she would reap at their union . . . a tale of maidens and princes—of loves? He was like a dream—no, he was the dreams she dreamt, her prince!
She took him to various places in the valley, her hand in his whilst she led the way. The shrine by the lake was lovely, a quiet place, a still lake. Wind burred as it ran through the rimy waves, stones, boughs; and there they stood by the wilder mists that rose, roiled, ran amok, a place where all ends would meet, a parting of a lifetime for this . . . little woman.
"You used to come here as a child," she said, a giddiness in the voice, breaths barely discernable from the whitest veils that had enveloped the valley to the last bits. "There—you hid there!" she pointed to another kami stone-child whose broken smile was stuffed up with wispy snow; and it seemed as if it had choked to death, turned to stone, become too still to be seen.
"I don't remember," he said in the most honest manner that her smile changed . . . almost immediately. Was she disappointed? A little sad? Poor, silly little girl; and she was almost a woman, too, ripe and ready to be knifed by his chilly love.
"It was . . . a long time ago," she said, almost sighed, looked ahead, faced the snow that fell sideways at wind's mercy. He did not say a word, less lost more curious, looked at the girl who stood at womanhood's door. How sad that her tale would be at an end . . . at the cold valley's foot?
The rest of the day was spent under nigh joyous sun that had come out . . . to look down on the valley with a gold eye; and still, flowers could not bloom, buried deep under the unifying grave this season had dug up . . . very kindly; and more were on the way, red and rotten. What joys would winter bring, rosy blotches like parting flowers across the valley's graveyard? Silence was forever, too!
"I want to show you something!" Yukime said, happy and careless, dragging her beloved to the little factory by the pathway's end—a reluctant Masayoshi in tow, whose guarded features, washed over by morn's curious yellows, exhibited a fierce appearance.
When Fuyuhiko looked up, he saw smoke, thick as ropes, climb the air's unrelenting garment; he smiled, felt her squeeze his hand tightly, went inside—right behind her. The inside was warmed by fires, and men toiled away at the large sieve, collected from the funnels a red mineral that was ground into dust.
"This came from Rain," Masayoshi said from behind him, his voice booming in all its unnaturalness against the grind of the machine. "Cloud has been most generous in offering us this machine. It removes the impurities without affecting the mineral."
"Kami's Stone," Fuyuhiko said, more like whispered, looking at the dust that was more liquid than grain—as though Kami was bleeding out, and its life-blood was being poured forth from the machine in rivulets.
Yukime started walking, going through the sun light that had been lightly rosed by the mineral's dust, which floated in the air, lighter than dust motes. "Our men have been working hard," she said, looking back at him, smiling ear to ear. "It'd take time to send this out to the nearest outpost, but Cloud Nin have aided us."
Fuyuhiko stopped, a smile decorating his features, lips amber upon his milky face; in the sun, he looked beautifully ghoulish, like a daemon let loose upon men. "Have you done it?" he asked, heart a little rowdy in anticipation.
"Y-Yes!" Yukime exclaimed, springing forward to grab him by the hands, cheeks radiating in delight—and naïve love. "They helped us. We've trapped the power in the Kinjutsu! Now, we can carve out mountains. Leaf won't terrorize us anymore!" And now, she was furious—happy but furious; and when she gazed into his eyes, her heart sank in tumultuous pleasures, from which she would never wake . . .
Then another morning fell upon this valley to die in evening's embrace; and from outside, winter gasped, a mist, ghostly, climbing against the paper window, upon which cranes ran in solicitude.
The brazier gave off a murky glow whilst a meek gloom danced about her father's sword . . . left in the shadow . . . forever, for Fuyuhiko knew that the man's return was not certain; and in the alcove, a scroll hung that showed a Devil's Moth that had come this way to haunt men to their deaths; and hidden by night's wings, it flew from house to house, stole sounds—thief!—left men, women, and, children . . . in splendent reds.
What an odd little painting, he thought, but did not say a thing for when he looked at her, he noticed fire's glow mounted on her throat, displaying a shade where fire was at its deepest, like an omen.
"Cloud hasn't sent us any missives. I worry that Leaf's dogs have sniffed us out," Masayoshi said whilst he sat upright by the fires, his shadow was like a beast on the wall.
"If all fails, we can leave here by Namida Lake. It's frozen, and the rocks are treacherous. It would take time for the Anbu-Nin to find her," Fuyuhiko said, his voice unusually calm for a man who was a year shy of nineteen, a voice Masayoshi did not like. There was something strange about this boy, he often thought, but when he faced the young man, his mien leeched on the mind . . . till he was forgetful. He would remedy that—he had to!
"They're not children. They'd pick us off one by one!"
"This winter is too harsh for Leaf Shinobi. You'd have to place your trust in me. The Miran Pass is our only way out from here. We can slip out and take the Kinjutsu with us. That way, no one gets it."
"That seems to be the only way," Yukime agreed, much to her caretaker's dismay; it's as if she was bewitched! "I pray to kami that Otō-San . . . that he . . ."
"Meru-San hasn't come back. I fear that there are snakes among us," Masayoshi pressed on, stealing a harsher glance at the young man he knew to be trouble. "That blood-sucker Ieyasu. He wouldn't let this go. He'd hunt us down. We have to make it to Cloud's outpost before dawn—warn them of the coming attack!"
At his voice that was heavy and came from the heart, she looked down, wore fire's hues on her visage, and nodded; and after a beat, Fuyuhiko nodded, too, a hesitation Masayoshi did not miss . . .
Night came slow and sleepy and sober; in red's wake it had waged a silence to hide beneath its terror a sepulture; and she was still shy, something that was expected of her; and she stood on the terrace, by Fuyuhiko's side, hand in his hand, heart in his other hand; and she looked down upon the lovers, naked like babes among the sere fields, splashed by a moon that had gathered fury tonight.
"This will bring our crops luck," she said, leaning against his taller frame; and when she looked up, truly looked, she realized as to how white he was . . . like a brighter malady upon the sky.
"Tradition?" he asked, not looking to her, listening to the night bird's peculiar song. They did not sing that way, but now, they sang for him—a sign most grave.
"You don't remember?" she said, laughing, and her laugh rang out against the quiet of the night, tumbling in its hollows.
He did not answer, listening to the songs that came from the valley's heart that was deepest; and it was black, a forest full of horrors that haunted men in their sleep; at its verges, snow shone pristinely at moon's playful veils; it was a moon that was growing bolder, still a night away from bedecking itself in Fire's armaments, a shield impervious to pity.
"Well," she began, almost squinting the eyes to look closely upon his that, for a beat too quick to be felt, appeared red, "it was a long time ago . . . too long . . . " and as if a sleepless wish returned to her heart, she breathed in deeply of the forest's dying breaths, for this winter had smothered it too keenly.
"Come with me," she said with a sweetness, grabbing him gently by the hand, leading him inside to the living room that was warm. "I have been making something for you."
"You have?" he said, a bit playfully as if he was speaking to a child.
She laughed a little, nodded, pulled out a scroll from her sleeve. "It's a picture of you . . . " she said in a tone that was softer than before, unrolling the fine paper-scroll, showing the paints to him that had dried up in the finer pores . . . frozen.
Before Fuyuhiko could say something, his attendant appeared from the shadow's grip, obedient. Startled, she looked to him and then to Fuyuhiko, a little indignant that their talk was interrupted.
"We should check the borders. Something doesn't seem right," he said, a tall blot in black's lighter side.
Fuyuhiko turned to him, his fine clothes and finer face absorbing moon's abundant lights; his back to her, throwing a black on her form that was most distinct.
"We haven't received any news. Should we . . . ?" Fuyuhiko asked and looked down at her; and she, up at him, cheeks pinked by the cold and her heart's fearless summer.
"No, we should wait—at least till morning. Otō-San would want us to," she said, gazing down at her feet, eluding his eyes.
"Is there any safe way to contact him. I might—"
"It's fine. I'll deal with it. You're my guest. You should rest. This isn't your burden," she said, not looking up, rolling up the picture she had drawn of him. "Taku!"
"Yes," said a small boy who had come running.
"Show them their rooms. The night is harsh and long. We can talk . . . in the morning," she said and turned away, from the moon and from him, painting clutched in her hand . . .
An idle night awaited the young man and his quiet attendant; and when he looked out onto the forest from the little window, he saw Masayoshi rush into the darkness; but the moon saw it all, and its nature could not reconcile the night to the valley of murders below . . .
And deep into the night's death, Fuyuhiko heard loud knocks on the heavy door; he wore the haori, which the attendant brought to him, and opened the door, greeted by Yukime who was distraught, tears shimmering in her eyes . . .
"Is something the matter?" Fuyuhiko asked, opening the door fully, letting the white light in.
"Masayoshi left, but—" she stopped, clutched at her breast, gulped down a mouthful of frost-drenched air, "—but he hasn't returned. I'm afraid that something—something—" and she bowed her head, hiding the tear-streaked face in shame.
"Spies?"
"No—never!" Yukime shouted, snapping her head up as though he had insulted her greatly. "Cloud promised us that we'd be safe. I'd send in good men to look for him. I fear that Leaf must've got to him!"
"Do not worry. I can go out and look," Fuyuhiko assured, smiling now like the full moon, resting his hand on her shaking shoulder.
"But . . . what would you . . . ?"
"I may not look it, but I can guard my life . . . and yours," he said, still smiling a tempting smile. "Tadashi here is a good Shinobi. He would come to you if need be."
"I . . . " and her voice, beaten down by anguish, lost its strength in the night that was dying—faster and faster!
"Send your men with me. The more the better," he said to her, assuaging her worries, and looked at the attendant who nodded at him.
And when the night was young but breathing its last at moon's door, Fuyuhiko took up his father's sword, and went into the night with the ladyship's men . . . and what a night it was, led astray by moonlight's beguiling dances? Then he stopped by the flowers, the last in bloom amongst the withering land; and the sword rose and then it fell, with lightning precision the men could not see; and one by one they dropped into vibrant gushes that had run out from them.
"Habiki," the young man spoke, voice smooth, slipping along the air as if it was not there.
"Yes, my lord," Habiki said, obedience seeded into the voice, and helped the lord take off the sublime garments and put on dutiful ones, burdened by Fire's decree.
Then Habiki gave the white-faced lord a white hannya mask, a complimentary instrument, with two horns that pierced the air more sharply than the cold; and the young lord placed it before his moon-bleached face and looked ahead, his visage that of a daemon night had angered.
"Call them," he spoke, voice deepened to a fury-seduced noise by the clay mask's barrier.
Habiki nodded and mimicked the night birds' sounds; and within a moment, masked men dropped down, their posture obedient, shadows long and solid behind them.
"What are your orders?" one of them who wore a frightening mask into which a deep smile was carved asked; the spreading lands behind them whispered, wind whirring in muted tones from the valley's deeps.
"There are outposts nearby. Carve out a path. There ought to be nothing but silence in their wake. Peace," the lord spoke, and the words rang out into the night stilled by this fiend.
In complete silence, the man nodded; and then they slipped away, vanished in every direction, clay mouths ravenous, starved for a little red.
Then the lord looked at his attendant, his mask carved out of Fire's whitest fury, eyes burning through in rotating flames . . . of punishment that he had come to deliver. "Be swift. Be silent. Reserve your mercy," he spoke in the honeyed tongue of a monk resigned, and down he looked at his whiter than white arm, mask sorrowful; eyes, drenching in a martyr's farewell, slanted in grief.
And he wounded the pristine arm, and from the gash, pleasures came out in hot streamlets; and in their wake, black ink emerged on his pretty skin; and as it fell into the soil, each assumed a soul, body, an eye-less face that looked just like his; and all four of the night-robed creatures let out shrieks, hungry . . . so hungry . . . vanishing with their Lord towards the valley that still slept under a spell . . .
Heart, terror-bound, Habiki stood at the cliff's edge as he looked down on to the valley for which this night was the beginnings of all ends . . .
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From the valley's laboured whites, its bowls, came beasts; night-lured and moon-loved, they emerged by the little boy-deity's stone-statue, guided by a young man, upon whose mien white was brightest, fiercest, cruelest; and at their backs, the lake sighed . . .
A shepherd with a flock, he had returned with a purpose, hollow their breasts; in his hand, love-streaked and cold, winter's love-letter to the village—its last death. How fast they slumbered, naïve men?
And when night dreamt a devastating dream, he came at the village, creatures in tow, whose hunger had only begun to tempt their maws; and into the whites that draped the grounds they went, one by one—each a blot, a black terror.
And that demon, that youth, descended upon the village like a plague; house to house he went, and passions gurgled out into the whites, a stain that grew—his father's sword drenched in the hand's sin.
Soon, scream clove the night's breast, valley's heart bleeding out. Habiki ran to the village that was red and all flames. Children dead and crying—limbs upon limbs, bodies at the village's square; primal odour upon the air, moist with blood most fresh.
Sick, he pressed his hand to the nose, stomach retching at the sight of one beast as it feasted upon a child's corpse; the creature's pretty mouth, now, torn up and sharp, like a hot knife; and over and over again it stabbed the little one's breast till it was sundered from the half below—he could no longer make out the child's face . . .
Embers from the factory rose, and up and up they went, soot rolling, a hell-fire roaring, raking night's peace. From the burning factory, out came men, chakra-touched sickles in hand; but his young lord was swift and without heart. He went through them, cut them open at the neck, clean and fast his hand. Did they see when they died . . . ?
Habiki was horror-struck . . . fear, a thief, that had robbed him of the breaths; and he only stared as a little babe, with a wooden toy in hand, toddled to him, wailing; its sweet face, hands, and dress, mottled with the mother's signs . . . his lord had shown her no mercy . . .
And it still looked at him, eyes shimmering with the fire's glow and many tears, hiccupping, shaking, falling down into the snow—it did not have the strength in the little feet to rise again; there must have been signs of milk about the mouth, shaped like a flower pinked in bloom . . .
"Habiki," his lord spoke his name, and the soul could only shiver in answer, his deep and slated shadow upon the little one . . . girl or boy?—he did not know—two—three maybe—? And he felt the heart burn into his eyes, crawl down the face to the beating throat—slow his grief, so slow . . .
"They decided the child's fate. Do not let your heart wander. End this," the young lord spoke, his voice of the surest tune.
And Habiki, still looking, shaking, moaning, raised the hand that held the blade; his heart, a noise that terrorised him senseless . . . the tears kept coming, grief running to-and-fro, wildling in the veins. At last, his hand fell; he could not do it—he could not do it—he could not—
Sudden—a red streak, deep and clear, carved across the child's little throat; and its tiny features almost froze; grief-affected face softened; and light, its fire, dimmed in the eyes as though a candle had gone out . . . then, with the most beautiful naiveté still upon its face, it fell sideways, a vividness gushing from its neck and going up the snow . . . and the realization had made it clutch the wooden toy with a strength that it was cracked in two between its plump fingers.
It was as if Habiki's spirit gave way, could not brace winter's apathy; and with a hiccup that was sharp, breast-shaking, he collapsed to his knees; his mask that carried a little of the taint fell from his face . . . and he drunk the deepest breath, with a hunger he did not think he ever had, and then he wailed . . . so hard that against the crack-crackle of the flames, night could not swallow his anguish.
Habiki wept like this for what felt like a long time; behind him his lord stood, silent; his creatures had feasted, bellies fat and full; their gluttony, hunger in the pitless eyes, insatiable. Now, two of them stood by the young lord, heads hanging in obedience, faces white and pretty—almost sober . . . serene as though the primordial ache had passed; it was uncanny as to how they looked, much like the lord, bewitching, though they had no eyes to bewitch.
"Habiki," the lord spoke, and his voice was almost sweet, "do not weep. Your heart is kind. These children would have grown teeth . . . haunted you." And he looked at the little one he had struck down, hannya mask in place, spattered, akin to Higanbana's death on winter's visage. "Sometimes, it is best to spoil the seed before it takes root. An easy life . . . a short death . . . a blessing."
Habiki was quiet, shivering in the callous cold, watching the child, from whose eyes the spirit had been ripped out—many moments ago. Now, in snow and death, it had nothing left to do but to harden and undergo a slow rot. His heart could not bear it . . .
"Cast out the grief and come to me . . . " the lord spoke again, softness in the voice giving way to a dry command " . . . before the moon gains its full height. Mind before heart, Habiki. Mind before heart." And with that, he left in the direction of the main-house, creatures by his side, moving in a manner as though they were floating; and behind him, Habiki bowed, as though under the flames' weight, wept by the child . . . left broken by his lord's artful winter . . .
. . . hasty, fingers trembling with a fear she had never tasted, Yukime rummaged the drawers; eyes on the window, she saw smoke and soot furiously rotate against the valley's natural stillness—forever a quiet land, it had paid the price in blood and bones.
Who? she wondered, weeping. Who would do this? Surely Fuyuhiko, her Fuyuhiko, had fought hard for their honour. Was he really gone . . . to the world beyond? Her heart sank like dead shoals in poison-laced waters . . . and she sat on the bed, head leant down, tears ruining the paints that had soaked through the scroll hours ago . . . "Fuyuhiko, I will remember you," she whispered, raised the scroll-paper, and looked at the unusual red she had filled in his eyes . . . why . . . why was he like this here . . . now? Oh, Kami, save me . . .
Then Yukime saw a shadow lying on the bed; deep, as though night had ripped it out from its veil, it stood against the moon that was full to-night . . . of all nights . . . she looked up, and for just a moment, saw a demon. A little yelp escaped her lips, and then the red mask and its dangerous eyes caught her eyes . . . in a primal trap; swollen the spirit, her heart a maze where desire ran amok—each, a dead-end; each, a place for slaughter.
"Fuyuhiko, you came . . . " Yukime said, rising from the bed, holding the scroll-painting tighter in her hands, " . . . for me . . . you came for me?".
He looked at her, a demon in the other eyes, and saw in her heart all that was to see; and her spirit swooned, a body in waiting. Quick—a white blink in the sky, and she felt her throat sliced into two; breaths stopped in the natural path, blood filling up her lungs to the top in streams . . .
. . . love you, she wanted to say, but something like a jumbled sound gurgled in her throat, and she fell on the bed, blood spattering onto the many scrolls that she had taken out from the drawers. Her limbs twitched, blood and nerve-signals going like tiny shoals in disarray through the veins; but after a few moments, she was dead, drained, and done.
Habiki came running, his shadow a cold dust that marked the walls; his eyes fell on the boy servant first; dead, toes barely touching the floor, he faced the wall, a kunai stuck in his neck; his lord had pinned the boy to the wall, and florid stream came from the wound, though with less intensity than it must have before.
Habiki stopped, looked at the lord once who was too-quiet, his body's presence a charcoal on the poor girl he had slaughtered. "She does not have it on her. Not at this moment," he spoke, sheathing the sword, looking back at the moon that looked at him. "Burn the house. Little secrets they kept . . . turn them into soot."
The lord made to walk, but he stopped to look at the painting of him, upon which a solid stream from her veins dribbled. "Fool," he spoke, voice a smooth breath, and then he left to the lake . . .
Habiki, unsure, afraid . . . a little lonely, looked about at the room that was lovely . . . decorations and all; and with a heart that had known grief, he let out a breath of flames that sat on all pieces of furniture, paper, her body—blackening the features, eating through. Soon there would be nothing left of this place . . . of her . . .
And he turned away from her charring face that had lost all its features—just a lump of sooty bones; and met his Lord at the quiet village's square, who had picked up a flower and was observing it keenly. "It's Kan-botan," he spoke, turning the flower's soft-grey petals between the fingers. "Without the straw-roof, winter has silvered it . . . a little sad."
Then the Lord released the flower, and upon ivory winds it rode through another death; and to lake Yukinari they walked, a place where the first settler's boy had drowned—many centuries ago; Miran Pass was named after another boy who got lost in the snow and died; the valley's gorge, they said, was haunted by his moans. Superstitions . . . Habiki wanted to say, but when he cast a frightened glance on the Village that burnt, he was not certain . . .
At last, they stopped by the lake, its waters indigo underneath the bone-like layer. Habiki helped the Lord take off the dirtied sandals—jacket, shirt, and mask that was red as youth's blood; and the Lord walked barefooted to the lake that had been unyielding to all; and beneath his feet, milk-like and indistinguishable from snow, snow simmered, diluted, and slid away. Then they touched the solid sheet of water; and first it cracked into jagged bits, and then it broke away into pieces, each a blinking crystal against the moon; and such was the heat from the Lord's chakra-quickened flesh, that the lake, forced against its will, moved . . .
The ice liquefied; first a trickle against the too-white breast, and then a smooth cascade; and the Lord leaning his head under the frothing water closed the eyes—his hair elongating down the spine, like an expert brush-stroke against the finest scroll-paper.
Bits of red slid off the skin, congealing in the water that was warmed by him, crawling as twisting strings in colder currents . . . further down the shore. The hair, grown to their original length, soaked up on water, pointed clumps at the end, dripping; and the back underneath the fluid black, now, bore warmth—signs of it . . . a pink that lusted after red. The illusion had broken . . .
"My Lord, it's cold. we should head out," Habiki said, holding the young man's garments in his hands, hesitant, a mixture of fear and obedience in his meekest tone; when no answer came, he walked to the water, knelt down, and washed the mask clean and watched as a rippling red cloud came up from the mask's pores, rendering it white all over again. Then he rose to his feet and looked over to his master again; at this, the young man—the young Lord—took in a deep breath that moved the sinews in his back, which was as pristine as before, as though it had never worn the hues that mocked passion's simplicity; and when he turned around, upon his countenance, tear troughs carved into the finer cheeks, mouth delicate but sharp and shapely, eyes subtly open . . . to reveal the father's legacy . . . in a way . . .
The ablution was complete; and he helped the Lord wear the garments, signs of duty; and he placed the hannya mask back on his face—white again and washed of viscera, it, to Habiki, looked more ghastly than before . . .
Then the Lord walked away from Habiki, and he followed, towards the lake's other shore. "Where are we going, my Lord?" Habiki asked—no answer, his words echoing, like the name he had taken, in the gorge, a deep slit in the valley's heart . . . Miran Pass . . .
They walked like this for a while; the Lord in front, and he, inside his shadow—not knowing why they were going to the Pass's other end. Wind moaned, dead children, anxious in death, as it passed by them. What a haunting place this was? The young Lord still did not stop for his hand had put out many young flames . . . tonight; and his hand, a piece of him, was never guided by the heart.
At last, after following a trail of straw-roofs which wore snow and sheltered Kan-botans, they arrived at a shrine. It was small, and many boy-deities sat by the steps, quiet and buried in snow like the children that were lost; and as the wind, white and whirring, gained speed, the little bell's clapper made the tiniest sound: ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . into the slit the sound moved, a beat, a valley's heart that was going . . .
All of a sudden, his lord took off the mask, and worried, Habiki said: "my Lord, why are you—you mustn't!"
And the Lord looked at him, hair curling, whipping in his direction, and spoke: "Ieyasu-Sama's orders." And then he smiled, a cast of winter on him—all of him; and soon, he was pure; soon, he was sublime; soon, he was beautiful . . . again, in this time—in all times!
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Part III
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"Fuyuhiko, you . . . " she hesitated, crestfallen. "You mustn't. Keep this. I do not—"
"I insist, Hanakoto-San," Fuyuhiko said, voice young and handsome like he, and pressed a slip of paper into her hand—a little piece that sealed his fate . . .
"This—I—I cannot keep this," Hanakoto said in a less-than-smooth voice, face beautiful, yet full of worry. "This place . . . it has eyes and ears. Keep this on you, for Sage's sake. You would put yourself in danger. Do not do this!"
"I love you . . . love you with all my heart," he said, took her hand in his, kissed it—a sincere naiveté in his gestures that she could not miss.
"And Yukime?" she asked, leaning a bit towards him, looking at his eyes that were the shade of the brightest agate.
"I . . . " he stopped, but only for a moment, " . . . I'd whisk you away from here. I give you my word! I'd go over to Botan-yuki and tell Yukime that my heart belongs to you and you alone!"
"I . . . " and Hanakoto could not speak anymore.
"Take it as a gift. You might need it someday. I know you keep a little army," Fuyuhiko said, smiling, a boy's smile.
And Hanakoto knew that this was the end for him; but she managed a smile, teary-eyed, for she, too, was sincere in her anguish. Carefully, she placed the little paper, a terrible paper, in the wooden box by her feet and locked it up with a great hand-seal. "Drink your tea. I will be back," she said, her voice unsteady, and rose to her feet—and he, out of respect, rose with her.
With steps heavy, breast heavier, she walked out, red of her kimono trailing behind; and she did not stop till she did not reach the room on the lower floor, a room where he waited for her answer. "He does not have it," she lied, flushed in the face that was terrorised by worry and tears. "Leave him be."
"That does not mean that he is innocent," he answered, and from behind the ghoulish mask, he frightened her.
"You do not get to decide!" she nearly shouted, fingers clenched into hard fists.
"I do . . . for now." And she could tell that there was a smile on his face; and the matter between them had come to an end; and he walked out the door; and she, in utmost despair, listened to each of his footfall against the wooden floor. There was no creak, just a thunk—thunk—thunk . . .
Then she heard the struggle upstairs, tumbling noises, and unable to bear it anymore, she ran up to the sitting room. When she arrived, Fuyuhiko was dead, a blood-pool widening about his neck, russet on the polished wood.
"Why—" Hanakoto stopped, teeth gritted, a fury she had never felt, "—why did you kill him in my room? Of all the places . . . how dare you?"
"He would have created trouble . . . and noise. It is for the—"
"Itachi!" she shouted this time, trembling all over.
"Why are you shouting at me?" he asked, almost perplexed. "Why?"
Hanakoto lowered her face and placed her hand, covered by the Kimono's long sleeve, against her brow; her face hidden from his eyes now. "Get out of my room," she said in a voice that was little and soft. "I need to clean this mess . . . "
After cleaning the room and disposing off the body in the large cremation pyre (in a village close by), it was late into the night when Hanakoto called Itachi to the large sitting room again. Women and men danced under the lantern's light—oblivious, happy . . .
Itachi sat by her side, eyes on a man who was fat and well-dressed. "Who is that man?" he asked, without the white mask, face no less white than the light the lantern exuded.
"Kuma," she said, waving the fan, not smiling.
He looked at her in a manner as though he was amused. "You should not mix with Cloud men," he spoke, eyes surveying the room as though he was restless, and rook a sip from the tea she had given him. (It probably tasted bitter as she did not put the care into it that was needed; though, if she were honest, he did not show it.)
"It comes with the place." And she said no more, bitter, angry, and terribly sad.
For some moments, they sat in silence, listened to the music and the songs. Then Itachi spoke again, and his voice was calm: "Ieyasu-Sama wants you to shift to the new Yoshiwara. This place . . . it causes trouble."
"Did he say this, or did you whisper into his ear?" Hanakoto said, waving the fan faster.
To this, Itachi said nothing. He was always this way, drawn into himself, a selfish spirit in mind, body, and heart; and moments passed and dance and music came to an end; and it was time for farewells. Now, they stood by the handrail of the terrace, a large one attached to her room. Upon it, moon shone kindly, but it was half-way there to bloom fully; and that's when she asked: "Fuyuhiko told me that his hands trembled when he touched me. Do yours do, too?" And she looked at him, and he at her.
"No," he answered simply.
"Sometimes," she paused, a painful lump in her throat, "I wish that you would lie to me . . . "
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EN: The events in this chapter, which will be in parts, would be crafted in a manner that they'd have to be read in reverse—save for the final part. You'd be able to ascertain that rather easily.
To reiterate my point on the em-dash (people, it looks like this "—"; the shorter one is the en-dash; look into them and become a responsible person whose posts ought to be readable), their presence in the dialogues is different for different characters. It's mainly used for an abrupt stop, change, or shift in speech. It can denote hesitation, anger, anxiety, etc. It's got many functions; so my point goes like this: if I use it in Itachi's dialogue, it doesn't mean he's stuttering, hesitating, or gibbering; it means that he's adopting a slightly quicker change in his previous tone. The reason is that he talks very slowly, so the em-dash shows that the shift is slightly more abrupt to the next word or statement compared to a full-stop or a comma, a pause that's usually there in his speech.
For Sasuke, as he doesn't speak slowly, the em-dash represents a markedly quick shift in his speech that's there due to anger, frustration, or grief. Hinata's different, and the em-dash in her speech is always due to anxiety, which could be brought about by different emotions; and as a result, she does start gibbering, especially if she's facing Itachi. Remember, she has a problem with stuttering—it isn't anything obscene, but it's a part of her characterization. With Naruto, it's about raving; and Sakura's more of a desperate character as she's caught up in a lot of trouble. So on and so forth.
Hopefully, this elaborates on this specific aspect. My point is, I can't hold your hand in regard to everything. For many things, you'd have to figure it out on your own. Use your head. It's there for a reason.