BOOK II : FIRE.
CHAPTER I : There is an ocean of silence between us… and I am drowning in it.
Sasuke wakes with a start, fear lodging itself in the space between his ribs, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears. The cool darkness is almost a welcome sight after the red - all that red ( all he can see is red — the red of his nii—of That Man's sharingan; the blood and viscera splattered on his anbu uniform ). He takes a breath, slow and shaky, and squeezes his eyes shut —
— and he's seven years old again, sees his father's throat slit so deep that the white bone peers out from beneath the gore, the cloying scent of death lingering in his nose. He's seven years old again, and the sticky warmth of his parents' blood seeps into the spaces between his toes ( Tears spill from his charcoal eyes as he scrubs the blood from his feet, from his hands, from his cheeks. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs but the red stays on his hands, in his nails, in between his toes. getoutgetoutgetout ), the metallic stench burning in his nostrils. He turns towards his brother, dark eyes meeting his glowing crimson eyes ( yokai eyes, strengthened by the sacrifice of their kinsfolk and the hate in his heart ) and flinches at the hatehatehate.
( Foolish little brother — cling to your wretched life ).
( Itachi's sword swings through the air, blood splatters, a body falls to the ground with a thud, blood seeps from the wound on his father's neck —
His mother doesn't scream when he pierces her with his sword, careful to only stab her in the chest below the heart and at the bottom of her lung and she falls next to her husband. She has five minutes until she spends eternity in the Goddess' embrace ).
When Sasuke opens his eyes again, he's twelve years old and he's alone in the cold, emptiness of childhood home. Alone with ghosts of his murdered family, with their empty sockets and wailing mouths ( Sasuke, why didn't you save us? you should have saved us ). His vision blurs with tears, and his chest heaves with his stuttered breaths, the sour aftertaste of a bad dream in his mouth. He focuses on every breathing technique he's ever practiced as he tries to slow his racing pulse and swallows back a sob, nails digging into the sheets beneath him. Yes, he can feel it, he can feel the soft cloth beneath his sweat soaked skin, the springy mattress, the soft pillow beneath his head. This is reality. This is no dre—
Foolish little brother echoes in his ears as he stumbles to his bathroom, the taste of vomit in his mouth.
( Get out of my head get out of my head! I hate you! I hate you! i love you i love you — whywhywhy )
He arrives at the training grounds a few hours early, senses clouded by exhaustion. It's a tiredness that he's well acquainted with — nights like these are a common occurrence; he can't remember the last time he slept without seeing red , without choking back bile, without screaming. Some days are worse than others, but somehow he manages to stumble through training, through the endless D-rank missions. His sensei doesn't say anything, which he's thankful for. But he can feel the weight of her golden gaze upon him, assessing him, watching him and it reminds him of the way his mother looked at him when he returned home from training too hard, bone weary and caked in dirt.
No one's there when he arrives. It's far too early, even for shinobi standards. The old grandfather clock in the hallway reads 4:30AM when he glanced at it before he left, but he needs to train — he needs to do something to wash away the red. ( No matter how hard I scrub, the red never goes away ). He found that routine helps with the psychological trauma; it's not a quick solution, but it helps prevent him from slipping into a dark void of negativity.
He twists and turns, flinging the kunai at the targets with deadly precision. The kunai lands on the targets with a metal shhink that cuts through the quiet training grounds (two in front of him, three behind him, one behind the human sized rock some feet away from him — child's play). He breathes heavily, hair sticky with sweat against his skin, sweat dripping down his back like water, clinging to his high collared shirt.
( You promised you would help me with my training —
not today Sasuke )
He grits his teeth, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to shake the memory of That Man out of his head ( not now, please not now. no, no, no — ). His skin tingles, heart beating against his throat and angry tears gather at the corner of his eyes. There's something digging painfully into his sweaty palms and he can't breathe. He can't — he's gasping for air, panic crawling into the spaces in his ribs. It hurts. He falls to his knees and then — and then — He is there, mouth twisted into a sneer, cold red eyes staring down at him. Weak, foolish little brother, how pathetic you've become ( pathetic, you are so pathetic. you can't even train without falling apart. Why did He keep you alive? ) —
He releases a shuddering breath and thinks of the golden yellow of Naruto's hair, the brilliance of his smile and how it lights up the room; eyes bluer than the ocean, and the warmth that spreads through his body when their hands touch, and when he pulls away the warmth of his touch ebbs away like the tides upon a shore, weaker and weaker until he can no longer feel the inferno of his touch.
Ba-dump — ba-dump — ba-dump. His heartbeat is thunder in his ears, blood lightning-quick in his veins, kunai digging into his palm, until blood drips down his palm like crimson mercury. He takes a deep breath. Ba-dump — ba-dump — ba-dump. The green vines that climb up Naruto's living room walls, glittering flowers in shades of blue and white and yellow and purple scattered throughout the house, the dwarf ylang ylang tree growing in the corner of Naruto's bedroom, the smell of his cooking and the taste of spices heavy on his tongue; the chaos of the living room - brightly colored pillows strewn everywhere, scrolls on every available surface.
He takes a deep breath, already feeling his heartbeat return to normal — and when he opens his eyes, he can see the sun rising in the sky and hear the morning song of the birds. The moon shining faintly in the morning light. His palm burns from gripping the kunai too tight, but the pain helps ground him in reality — this is his reality : He is in Konoha. He is alive. He's alive. That Man is not here. He is safe. He is not weak. He survived That Night, after all, and has survived ever since. He is —
The sharp, throbbing pain originating from his palm distracts him from his thoughts, and he looks down; blood dripping from the wound, down his fingers. Life essence. His people — the Uchiha — painted ancient blood-runes on their skin to honour and celebrate their goddess, from whom all things come and to whom all things return at their end, she who gives life and takes it back into her flames. His grandmother told him of the lucky few Uchiha who visited the abode of the Great Mother and drank from the waters, bathed in her flames, and returned with eyes glittering like the stars, flecked like paint across the cosmos. Your father's mother was one, his grandma told him. Her paintbrush danced across her canvas, and you may be one as well, for it often skips a generation. He's no stranger to blood, no stranger to these rituals that were so sacred to his people; he participated in several, offering his blood in tribute to the Great Mother, painting the sacred blood-runes on his skin, drinking the fire tea, dancing the sacred dances. He isn't afraid of blood, and yet —
When he sees the colour red, he can only think of the Massacre.
A sigh escapes his lips as he reaches into his pack, digging into the mess until his fingers curl around the first aid kit, thankful that he remembered to pack it. Water. Antiseptic—he needs to wash the wound and disinfect it, then wrap it in bandages. It's basic first aid—something that all shinobi learn in the academy, but was something his mother taught him before he went to the academy. And though she was never a medical ninja, and only knew the basics—knowledge learnt from Mitsuko and Hanari, she passed it onto her youngest child. He remembers enough of her lessons to care for his wounds. He wipes down his bloodied palm with a disposable washcloth, and with gentle ease ( thank the goddess he's ambidextrous ) , manages to clean his wound—glad that it was shallow enough that he didn't need to visit the hospital and explain his embarrassing episode—and wrap the bandages around his hand. When he's satisfied with his work, he rises from his kneeling position, shaking, and stumbles slightly; knees buckling slightly beneath him as though he's a newborn faun, his legs numb from staying in one position for too long.
A curious sensation slides down his back, an itch deep in his bones, and he freezes, cat-like eyes narrowing as something in his peripheral view moves. A familiar scent of damp earth and plant oils invades his nostrils ( it can't be, can it? ). His hand slides into his ninja pack, fingers wrapping around the handle of a kunai, just in case, but it's been years, and he still recognizes the scent, and the tingling sensation that creeps down his back when it—they are near. He spins around, kunai in hand, hoping to catch a glimpse, but when he looks, he is all alone in the training grounds.
"Very well done, Sasuke-kun. We'll see you soon."
"We'll be watching you, always."
He blinks, and before he can even formulate a reply, the presence disappears, and he's left with questions. A sense of unease prickles through his veins, pooling in his the warmth of the spring morning, he feels cold. We'll be watching you — the thought of them watching him turns his stomach, though he does not know why. He knows them, yet. Yet. A quivering sigh escapes his parted lips as he shakes his head, wiping all thoughts of them from his mind, and begins cleaning up the training grounds before his sensei and teammates arrive.