Kabuto had been plagued by nightmares those first few years after the Fourth Great Ninja War. Fragments of memories of all the people he had been. Sometimes he would wake himself up screaming, sweat drenching his clothes and bedding. Other times he would find himself with bloody knuckles and bruises, fighting some imaginary foe whose face eluded him in the morning. Then there were the times when he awoke shuddering and breathless, gripped in the throes of ecstasy. Those were the ones that had haunted him the most.
He and Orochimaru had been perfect synchronicity in everything they did. One glance and two bodies moved as one. They had been unstoppable. A force of nature. A whirlwind of malice and cunning that laid waste to everyone and everything around them. They had brought down entire clans. That intensity had been no exception in other areas of their relationship. Perfectly in tune with each others' desires and needs. Earth-shaking. Volcanic. A hurricane blur of limbs entwined. Of tongues and teeth. A flood of every unspoken and unspeakable emotion. Pure devastation.
Kabuto had believed himself purged from these thoughts. His sleep had been untroubled for so long he had almost forgotten. He awoke in tears. Mourning a part of himself lost.
That life was so long ago. These hands which healed and comforted had once been stained by blood. So much blood. They had moved like shadows in the night, stalking, terrorizing, pillaging. Vivisecting, dissecting, experimenting. Testing the limits of the human body. With Kabuto by Orochimaru's side, spirits and minds broke long before hearts and lungs gave out. He had followed him to the darkest of corners and had emerged from the viper's pit. Alive but not unscathed.
That person was not me. He was a mask. A costume I wore out of necessity.
Yet he knew that was a lie. He had accepted responsibility for his actions and the truth was, may all the gods forgive him, that he had loved every dizzying second of it. Reveled in the chaos of his otherwise controlled and analytical world. He had craved it like a drug. Infected himself. Poisoned. Broken down cell by cell and reshaped into something entirely other. It had been divine. Rapturous. Madness.
He felt a light tug on his sleeve, breaking his reverie. He opened one bleary eye to see the concerned face of one of his youthful charges.
"Father?" she asked, worried. "Are you alright?"
He'd fallen asleep at his desk. Pouring over the work he had abandoned before Orochimaru's impromptu visit. The candles had burned themselves out during the night, wax dribbling onto the sleeve of his robe. He sat up and forced a smile.
"Suzume," he replied. "Yes. Everything is good."
"Then why were you crying?"
"Just a bad dream. Nothing to be worried about."
Suzume threw her arms around his neck. It was an action that never failed to take Kabuto by surprise. So accepting. So unafraid. She had come to the Orphanage at such a young age, barely able to walk or talk. No one knew who her parents were nor what clan they might be from. She had simply been dropped off on the doorstep one morning. He had named her after the sparrows of the field. A fragile, spindly-legged creature that had a voice like a songbird. He wrapped his arms around her, ever cautious of being gentle. She looked as if she might break at the faintest of touches.
"I'm feeling better now," he said. "Thanks to you. You should run along now. Kojiro will be starting his morning lesson soon."
Suzume's whole face seemed to light up as she smiled.
"We're learning medical ninjutsu," she said, softly, as if imparting some huge secret. "I'm going to do my best to find out everything there is to know about it. One day, I'll be just like you, Father."
No. You'll be something much better.
