Vehemence
When a clan is massacred in the wake of suspicion, Sasuke leaves his childhood behind and vows to find the truth, putting everything at risk for the sake of vengeance.
But, between mischievous seduction and a tug of war between clans over the mystery of the massacre, who will fall and who will stand victorious? Nothing in the shinobi world is won without a price. In time, Sasuke will learn how dangerous such games can be and how powerful blood-ties are; and once you go down such a path, you can never turn back, and truth cannot always set you free...
Chapter One: The Scarlet Harlots
Sticks and leaves were swept over the spillway, carried by the force of the water behind. The sun was strong today; it was probably the last of the snow melting on the cold mountains up north. Once the wind turned cold, there was no going back to the warmth of summer. Summer would return next year—an eternal cycle.
Judging by the bitterness of the wind, it seemed as though autumn had arrived early, and winter would be particularly harsh this year. Konoha's higher-ups would have their work cut out for them; crops were dying, wilting, and upland rice production was non-existent. If the burden of war and famine fell upon them, they would find themselves in dire straits.
They would just have to beg before the Daimyō to grant them funds for more supplies. Tsunade's reign was going smoothly, but it was not as though she could control the weather.
He found it hard to stand still against the wind; his feet were firmly planted on the ground. As the wind turned cold at night and gained speed and strength, he remained steadfast. Leaves blew and whispered, rustling and swaying, creating a cacophony of sound around him.
Dark clouds parted; the wind lost its strength suddenly, as a glare of the half-moon bathed the lake. Choppy combers on its surface rolled in, making a dull sound that came throbbing through the trees. He could barely hear it. Standing before the meadow, he gazed, mesmerized, at the delicate stems that burrowed out of the ground. The petals began to open. There were so many. He pulled out his Sharingan, but it was impossible to count them all.
Lilies—purple Lilies! Beautiful. Wild. Immortal. There was nothing like them in all of this world! Tempting, food, lure for the Devil Moths—silent, sweet, sublime—deadly, so deadly . . .
They shone like chariots, trying in desperation to catch the slivers of white light. Above them fluttered the Autumn Moths: they were purple, too, with circular black lines painted by nature to create an odd eye shape upon their wings. When the eyes glowed, they turned into rosy devils—devil moths.
He moved his head back and caught sight of one fluttering just overhead. He moved swiftly; it tried to flutter away on a current with haste, but he was too fast. With a single leap, he grabbed it out of the air. It struggled with near-futile attempts to get out from between his fingers. He stared down at it with a curious disposition, as though it had aroused something in him, something long forgotten and ancient.
"Still chasing moths, huh?" Naruto asked as he emerged from the shadows of the trees to the right. "They're waiting ahead for the mission."
Sasuke let the moth go, his face as cold as the winter wind. He did not say anything and started walking ahead.
—--‐—--
The incense and mist-laden air . . . that was all he could see and smell. Without his Clan's gift, it was a vulgar seduction to entice the flesh. He did not enjoy coming here, not unless it became a necessity for his flesh. It was a slave to few things; he never denied that. He fed it when it starved and bore the bouts of a delightful sensation, an itch, as he trained it daily to wait for the melody to rise from within to a crescendo. Then the release was . . . almost sweet.
He felt pride in the fact that he had conquered his flesh, his worst enemy, and tamed it on his own terms; the man struck the gong, a wordless song blaring in their direction. Harlots swathed in red decadence glided over to the center, their hair inky in the white light spilling from overhead.
The drum pounded louder and louder until the sound vanished, absorbed by the walls that drank it with greedy gulps; they simply could not bear the blush of a drunkard upon their facades. They stood silent, listening, waiting, sleeping.
The harlots leaned forward, and their pliant backs formed an arch like a taut bow. Runs of sweat ran between their breasts, squeezed together, spilling over from between the collars of their kimonos. They folded into a sudden dance: hips swaying, hair whipping, patient feet kicking up the small amount of earth there before they stamped it down and sank to their ankles in the soft ground. It was a cheap trick of the Doton users in the near vicinity. A Genin could produce the same results, but this was not about the child soldiers; it was about molding the flesh into the demanding form of desire.
Men sat idly on the mats all around, eyes watching the rippling young flesh, mouths slavering at the corners. Their wait was a test of patience; their pockets were full of coins—buyers and chattel. As long as there was a buyer, every willing body would be bought. They had to yield to their demands, cringe in servitude.
A soft sigh passed his lips, and the mist parted in the exhalation. Next to him, his shy subordinate sat with his head bowed. He did not want to lay his eyes upon the enticing temptation. He was married with a child, and his vows mattered to him, though the moans coming unabated from plump lips were testing his resolve and loins.
The women turned on their heels fluidly, and their shadows ran about the room. Bits of earth floated up and went away. Water rose up in its place and soaked through the silk garments; their sartorial brilliance was rendered almost obscene. Cheap. You would not need a Sharingan to see their inviting miens, the sweet sheen of their skin, and the flare of their thighs and tight buttocks. That drew such excited groans from a few men: they had already decided to spill between their thighs tonight.
With their arms hanging loosely at their sides, they allowed the kimonos to fall down to their waists, revealing beautiful, plump breasts and flushed skin—tight crests beaded with pearly droplets of sweat and water. It was such a show for hungry eyes and heated groins that throbbed with anticipation. Then they jerked their heads back, and the hair flew behind them, lashing their spines like whips and propelling the water away from their crimson-stained prints—crimson against white. And now his Sharingan flickered to life and counted the drops in the distant lull only his eyes could grant him.
They floated there amidst the blushing skin, going slowly . . . slowly down through the mist, making little holes in the faint light from the lantern that had suddenly turned purple and then red around the edges. The mist fluttered there like wings of an autumn moth. The stone-cold chill went through his skin and rippled there, as if the air itself were disturbed by their chaotic dance; it overpowered the red, cooled it down, and it went to sleep again, enjoying its slumber.
The drums beat louder and louder, reaching a frenzied crescendo of music. Distorted voices from men sounded as though they were chanting in a choir. His head was pounding, so he raised the glass to his lips and took a small sip to cool his temples. He sighed, and the drumming sound rose in response; the dancers' song reached a high wail and then sank back to a low moan. The music ebbed away into a kind of comforting silence he welcomed.
The girls in red scampered away laughing into the shadows behind the partition screens, and the light overhead turned white again. A drunkard tried to grab one girl's leg, but he missed and fell face-first to the wooden floor. The floor stopped moving, and music rose with an exquisite and resonant chord once more.
He took another sip—the spectacle was over. The mist cleared the area, and the good aristocrats showed their approval in a polite, efficient manner, with faint gestures of their soft hands and well-mannered smiles. Clever raconteurs.
A woman clad in a dazzling kimono emerged from behind the richly painted partition screen. One corner depicted a scene of battle while the other showed a wild storm. He thought it looked odd for such a place; it was probably a gift from a wealthy customer. Shadows of girls and men slithered across its rippling surface.
The woman daintily crossed the room, a fan held tightly in her right hand. Bowing lowly, she settled herself down before him and pulled out a scroll from her sleeve. A smile forced itself onto her red-painted lips; they were like a stain of blood on her powdered face.
"Uchiha-sama," she said in a lilting voice, "they used the caves."
She held out the scroll, and he took it from her hand. This would do. He rose to his feet, and his subordinate scrambled to stand up as though he had been knocked over by a heavy blow.
She bowed again and placed her forehead and hands on the floor. "You aren't staying, Uchiha-Sama?" she asked, but when no reply came from him, she spoke again, more sweetly this time. "I shall give the money to Hanakoto-San. Have a safe journey."
She wore his shadow for a few seconds before it was dragged off her body. Finally, it disappeared from over her, and she raised her head and shoulders, breathing in a loud sigh as if an impossible burden had been lifted from her body . . .