This chapter is way, way overdue.

There's no excuse. I wasn't quite satisfied with the beginning of the chapter, which is why I focussed on reconstructing that part, and, as a result, failed to finish it. I may or may not have multiple copies of this on my computer. And after a while, I just gave up, because I was convinced that I could never finish it. I nearly gave up on this story, dear readers. I have no clue why I decided to revive it.

The plot is moving extremely slowly. This chapter doesn't portray even half of what I had hoped would be accomplished in this. Nevertheless, I assure you that the next few chapters will clear up this part and will see real, true plot development. And character development, too. The setting might remain the same. I'm afraid Itachi and Konan are going to be spending quite a bit of time in their little cabin in the woods.

Enjoy! If you can. I'm fairly sure that nobody remembers this story now, and if they do, they've left it in disgust. Erratic updates and abysmally average writing don't make for the best cocktail, I know. However, if by some miracle, there are still a few readers left, I hope you enjoy this chapter, threadbare as it is. :)

Chapter 4 – Estranged

"Fate always loses hold, like electric sparks in my heart."

- E. S. T., "White Lies"

Her pale fingers were wrapped around the wooden banister, the harsh wood leaving splinters in her callused skin. She leaned heavily against the wall, long hair dark and undone as she swayed faintly, the effort of remaining upright clearly beyond her capabilities. Her feet fumbled for purchase against the rough, uncarpeted floor.

She could not sense him.

It was sad, he mused, when someone who had been accustomed to being hypersensitive had lost that ability. They may as well have been robbed of a limb, or a sense. For a shinobi who could not sense the presence of another, could not feel the light pressure of chakra, may as well be blind.

He stepped out of the shadows, careful to step deliberately so as to make her aware of his presence. In front of him, she stiffened, bent back arching slowly, deliberately, stiffening, worn fingers burrowing still deeper into the wood. She heaved a deep, measured breath. "Konan-sama."

In his hands, he carried her lunch: plain white rice, boiled until it was just a little watery, and a bowl of listless miso soup. An assortment of brightly coloured pills lay beside the shabby meal, their garish colours startling against the staid fare, intended to prevent infection and reduce pain. It was by no means an appealing meal.

She heaved out a sigh as she turned, and he could see the effort that it took her to merely remain on her feet. "You should not be upright," he enunciated slowly. It had barely been a week since her operation.

She conscientiously avoided his eyes, instead choosing to focus her attention on picking on a wayward thread on her sleeve. Briefly, he wondered if her aversion to looking at him was the result of some deep fear of the Mangyekou Sharingan, or if she simply disliked him intensely. He suspected that it was a combination of both.

"It was nothing." Her voice was defiant, firm. She was warning him not to probe the matter further, to refrain from reprimanding her for her carelessness. In effect, she was reminding him of the fact that she was, strictly, technically, his superior.

What a joke. But he was a gentleman; he would not trouble a lady when she wished to keep her secrets, even if she happened to be his de facto ward. "Come, then," he said, eyeing her with masked bewilderment. He balanced the tray on one hand as he grasped her arm with the other, gently steering her towards her bedroom.

Her hand left the banister, and she promptly collapsed, folded in on herself like a house of precariously-balanced cards. He swooped to catch her, the tray crashing to the floor in the process, the porcelain bowl holding the rice cracking and breaking. The miso soup stained the tatami mats at the entrance of the room, seeping quickly into their depths.

He kneeled on the floor, barely holding onto her with both hands. Her entire body sagged, and for a brief moment, he wondered if she had lost consciousness again – but no, there she was, her weak hands pushing against the floor in a futile attempt to push her body up. She was panting heavily, each gasp drawing all the breath the thin air could possibly offer. In his arms, she was as heavy and lifeless as a log of wood.

"Come on," he muttered, trying to draw her up, curving an arm around her torso, but she pushed him away, insistently trying to raise her own, unresponsive body. He felt a brief flare of irritation, and roughly pulled her up, tired of having to wait. Holding her upright with one arm, he stepped into the room, and promptly deposited her body on the messy, unmade bed, noticing with barely-contained frustration that he needed to change the sheets again.

She sat sullenly, untrustworthy legs dangling lifeless below her, refusing to meet his eye. He could feel her silent reprimand, feel the anger that raged beneath her pale skin. She bit her lip until it lost what little colour it did have, her tooth threatening to draw blood.

He would have pinched the bridge of his nose, but he refrained, choosing instead to box away his frustration. With no sound of acknowledgement, he turned and strode away, pausing only to gather up the remnants of the ruined rice and the many pills that lay scattered on the floor like tiny gems. The miso soup would require more effort, energy which he was not prepared to spend right now. Swiftly preparing another meal, he made his way back to her room and placed it on her lap, looming over her.

Eat.

It was the most frustrating thing in the world to take care of somebody who does not want to be taken care of. Konan's refusal to comply with his demands resulted not only from a burning shame and anger over the fact that her body was unable to follow the simplest instructions, but also of a deeper apathy. He had seldom seen people with such little interest in themselves. It was as though she had quite consciously chosen to neglect what little spirit she did have left in herself.

Of course, it did not result in some kind of detachment from reality. No, she lurked underneath the surface, tense and angry, ready to lash out at the smallest provocation, and often when no offense was given. It was worse than living with a tiger; it was attempting to care for an irritable, injured tiger.

He had no experience with this situation. The last time he had been responsible for another human being had been with Sasuke, and he remembered little of what had transpired then. Konan was ill and injured; he had to help her with every task, take care of her every need, few as they were. It was exhausting, to say the least. Every day felt like another eternity, trapped with the rain pouring outside, isolated from the rest of the world, his only companion a woman whom he would rather avoid. Kakuzu had left a few days ago, and since then, Itachi had had no communication whatsoever from outside, not even from Pain.

He longed to go out, longed to feel the rush in his veins as he fled swiftly from tree to tree, longed to savour the heavy scent of the crushed pine-needles, the aroma of the earth after a fresh bout of light rain. His skin tingled for the sensation of moisture-laden wind, itched for the coolness of rain. His mind craved the cool focus which he cultivated while on a mission. He had not been born to remain inside.

His eyes stared intently at his companion, trying to gauge whether she could eat or not. If she could not balance the delicate chopsticks, if they clattered to the floor, then he would be forced to utilize the extra pair that he carried in his pocket to feed her himself. He fervently wished that the need would not arise; the antipathy that he generally felt from Konan intensified tenfold whenever he attempted to force food down her throat manually.

Her hands trembled as they lifted the first bite, but held, and he heaved a silent sigh of relief, gratitude for small mercies coursing through his blood. She chewed determinedly, swallowed like a bird, and promptly dropped the chopsticks on the tray. The message was clear. I'm not hungry.

Struggling to control his dismay, he bent down until he was crouching on his knees, looking up at her and forcing her to look into his eyes. In the dim light, she seemed paler and more washed-out than ever, straggly hair hanging in her face, which was slick with sweat. Her lips were parted, eyes dull and listless, but there was a frown on her face. A small grain of rice was stuck on her lower lip, and it hung precariously, quivering with each breath.

He did not need to say it. She knew what indignities lay ahead in case she defied him. Rank or no rank, the situation had warped, leaving them with reversed positions. Neither of them liked it, but it was obvious that she was at his mercy now.

The knowledge of her utter lack of power did not please her, but she complied, sullenly eating until just few grains lay scattered at the bottom of the bowl. This was her tiny rebellion, her little defiance, the only sign that she was unwilling to give into his every demand. He felt a great surge of pity.

It had been a week.

A long, torturous week. A week since he had become aware of the fact that Orochimaru was watching them. His little parrot still lay in the kitchen drawer in which it had been ingloriously dropped, the wings crushed and the neck twisted. He had taken it apart and attempted to study it, to glean what little knowledge he could from its construction. His efforts had been in vain. He may have been brilliant, but he was no Sasori, who's mind seemed to have been made for the delicate complexities of fine engineering. The mechanical construction of the bird had been too complex for him to replicate, and the damage performed by him had been too severe for an amateur like him to undo it. The bird was, for all purposes, not in working order. He had been relieved to see that it consisted of only a recorder, and did not carry any explosives. He did not have enough energy or time to break through Orochimaru's fire seals.

Still. He knew a few facts. Orochimaru where they were, or at least, he suspected. Had he sent his little tools to follow Konan as she crashed blindly through the undergrowth, holding her guts in with one hand? Or had he simply been making a general sweep of the area, trying to discover her exact location? Did he know that she was alive? Or was he merely searching for her body?

There was a high probability that Orochimaru did not, in fact, know where they were. His little implement had only carried a recorder, implying that he was merely scanning the area. On the other hand, he could have already located their position, and was now merely generally surveying the area in order to plan how to mount the best offensive. Or perhaps he had noticed that one of his recorders had been missing, and was now able to pinpoint their position.

He gnashed his teeth in frustration. The Snake liked to play games like this, with hundreds of subtle layers, revealing one after the other with great delight. No matter how deep you delved, traps still awaited you. Itachi wasn't completely straightforward, but he did believe in a clear fight, where both opponents faced each other and utilized whatever was on their hands at the moment. This kind of cloak-and-dagger game did not appeal to him. Was Orochimaru deliberately trying to frustrate him, causing him to lose his concentration? Or was he overestimating, and was Orochimaru really only baiting Konan?

He closed his eyes, taking breaths slowly and calmly, attempting to sort out the mess that was his mind. Orochimaru had clearly played a big part in Konan's mauling, although she had yet to tell him the details of what had happened that fateful day. On the one occasion that he had carefully brought it up, she had clammed up, sealing her lips against his questions. It was clear that he would not be the recipient of any sensitive information. That honour, if bestowed at all, belonged to Pain.

And until Pain knew, he could not move. Because Pain had ordered him to stay here and guard his partner, to take care of her and nurse her back to health. And after that, to accompany her back to headquarters.

'Don't let them kill her.'

He couldn't pursue Orochimaru unless Pain gave him clearance, or at the very least, relieved him from his obligation to Konan. Pain knew that Orochimaru had been the culprit, and yet he had not given Itachi leave to track him. Perhaps he had taken the matters into his own hands, or maybe delegated it to another member of the Akatsuki. In any case, Itachi was clearly not to be the one who pursued the Snake sannin.

He was not a petty man, but he did resent this. Pain did not actually know the full depth of history between the two former Konoha nin, but the antipathy between them could not be mistaken for anything but what it was. Moreover, Pain was perceptive. He recognized more than what was let on, and far more than what could be revealed to even the experienced eye. The man seemed to be omnipresent. He would not be surprised if Leader had not surmised most of what lay between Itachi and Orochimaru. Despite that, he had deliberately ensured that Itachi could not encounter the man, had trapped him in a caretaking role he knew that the latter was not suited for. Itachi should have been relieved by Kakuzu.

Resentment did not, however, flavor his decisions. He had not spent most of his life as a shinobi without learning not to let personal feelings change the course of any mission. He needed the Akatsuki, and as such he was bound to obey what was basically their only rule: obey Leader. Nevertheless, that did not mean that he had to divulge all of his secrets. And so, he had secreted away his little bird in a desk drawer rather than entrusting it to Kakuzu. Part of it was because he did not trust the medical ninja. But mostly, it was so that he could conduct his own investigation in secret.

An investigation that seemed to be doomed to end in failure. He had reached the limits of his capabilities, and now there was nothing left to be done. He could not physically track the area for other evidence of Orochimaru's presence without leaving Konan, and then she would be in danger. Weak as she was, even a common thief could slit her throat with one fluid motion. The best that he could do was sit here and prepare for an attack that he was sure would come, sooner or later.

Invalidness was infuriating.

Invalidness was challenging. It was frustrating, confusing, unbearable, physically demanding. It was weakness, plain and simple. And she hated weakness. She hated the sensation of not being good enough.

But most of all, invalidness was humiliating.

Abandonment was what she felt every morning when she woke up, and abandonment was what she breathed in every night when she slipped off to her own little land of horrors. Pain had abandoned her. All those promises about togetherness and conquering the world side by side, and Pain had abandoned her. She had devoted her life to his cause (Yahiko's cause, her traitorous mind whispered), and now that she had lost it, he had simply lost interest in her. She was no longer an object of concern, no longer even a tool that he could move around the vast chess board he commanded. Now she was merely another burden.

She missed being a tool.

The dark fabric of her hair swung in front of her thin, wasted face as she poured it over her body. After weeks spent in delirium, she was hungry to open her eyes, hungry to drink in the world around her. But every time she did, she was only confronted with her own nothingness. She was utterly, completely, nothing.

A burden.

She had dedicated her life to others. She had learnt how to fight even though her hands bled and her body felt weak and sick and sore. She had learnt how to kill because she needed to take life to be useful. She had learned how to defend because she needed to protect those who were precious to her.

And now, everything was gone in a heartbeat.

If there is a god, she wondered in her despair, why did he not kill me?

Because, at least in her death, she could have been useful. Pain could have inhabited her body, could have used her arms and her legs, her lungs and her trickery with paper, all to his benefit. She had been powerful, once – he could have used that power, the power which she had cultivated in order to defend and protect him.

When she had been dying, she had hoped that he would bury her after her death. That he would garland her in the flowers that they picked together, a long time ago, that he would brush his hands over her forehead, her eyes, her lips. That he would pick her up and set her adrift on a river. That he would weep for her, for the friend that he had lost forever.

They had been fantasies, the fantasies of an innocent little child. She had been dying, and she had allowed herself a moment of indulgence, allowed herself to believe what did not exist. Because the person she wanted to cry over her grave wasn't Pain. It was Nagato. And Nagato was dead.

If she had died, Pain would have inhabited her body. As it was, she was not dead. She was alive, her lungs and liver and heart working to make her body struggle through another day. No, instead she was trapped in a fate worse than death. She was useless.

What use did Pain have of a worthless body that could not fight? What use did Pain have of abilities that had disappeared when a part of her soul had been ripped out of her body? Instead of being a pillar of support, she had become another troublesome mouth to feed, another one of his subjects to be looked after. Perhaps she would even receive extra protection. Pain was vested in her interest, in her physical comfort and care, because of a promise that a boy had made long ago. The boy was dead, but his promise stayed. She was to be looked after.

The boy would have clutched her hand and stayed beside her bedside if he had been alive today. But the greatest fates consume their instruments, and Nagato had learned this the hard way. Nagato's body remained, but the soul which had resided within had fled, hatred and grief paving the way for the hardness that later became Pain.

And Pain had abandoned her.

Oh, she was well-looked after, that was true. She did not lack in any creature comfort. Food, a warm bed, water. She should have been, for all intents and purposes, happy. Or, failing that, she should not have been unhappy. She had no reason to be.

But Pain had abandoned her, had left her at the mercy of the Uchiha. The Sharingan-wearer was conscientious, but he was still a stranger, for all of their proximity for years. And yet, he fed her, he clothed her, he washed her. She was dependent on him for everything, from eating to something as small as easing the tangles out of her rough hair. Her survival depended on what effectively amounted to his benevolence. And she did not trust him.

She trusted nobody except for Pain, and she did not trust Pain at all. Nevertheless, the bonds of childhood remain, and she had hoped that Nagato retained enough influence, enough of his humanity, to ensure that that what once belonged to him stayed with her. Or, failing that – his health was precarious, and his safety would be at risk here – that he would send Deva here. Then she could have them both, both her boys.

Deva came. And then he left. Instead, she was left only with the Uchiha and with the taste of rising bile. Her body felt as though it was made of ashes, flaky, and about to come apart. She would crumble any second now, the little bits of her drifting apart, until nothing but soot was left, and the Uchiha would sigh and sweep it up and throw it out with the potato peels and the egg shells.

Intellectually, she could not resent Pain. She was now a liability, and it made no sense for anyone to devote such resources to her. Kakuzu's diagnosis had been clear. She would never be a shinobi again. She was, once and for all, robbed of what had simultaneously made her and ruined her. She was now simply another one of Pain's subjects, one who he was bound to protect, but only most arbitrarily. The matters of tiny mortals did not concern him. He had a bigger game to play.

And yet. He had assigned the Uchiha to him. Tactically, it was a waste of resources, and yet Pain was bound by a promise. She had to stay alive, he had said. And Pain had complied.

If only it had been enough.