Chapter Three: There Was Such a Thing as Trouble
She sat alone. It was a routine. Shadows were laid on thick by the evening sky. A dull sort of somberness had permeated the air of the moors. The wind was cool, a little cold. Autumn was upon her.
Getting up slowly, she snatched a quick breath, and a listless sigh escaped from within her, forming into a small, shallow breath that clouded her face. Beyond the window, beyond the trees, and beyond the walls of mist, there was nothing but darkness.
There was a dull red hue a few moments ago that lingered around the subtle bend of the darkening horizon; it was gone now. She took two slow steps and shut the window. The scent of freshly cut grass wafted in. She remembered that she would have to tend to another patch tomorrow.
The house was a little creaky and always made odd sounds, fighting against the assault of mild winds and gentle rains. It seemed to be steeling itself, bearing the burden Nature had wrought.
Slowly backing away, she turned toward a pale shaft of light pouring out of her room at the end of a quiet corridor. The house was steeped in darkness, and it sobbed often in a melancholy voice—its veins were frozen by cold. She could turn on all the lamps, but it didn't matter today.
Her steady footsteps creaked on the floor, and it protested in its old age. She remembered that this house was a gift from her father-in-law: one of the many things he had given her in dowry, several moons past. This house had become such a lonely place now. Years had made it weary, like a man; some of the beams were cracked and bent, their old bones left fragile through the years.
She was still young - a white blossom in the cracked mound of dirt. How long would a flower last under the uncaring sky? She drew a sharp sigh that moved her breast, then walked into the room. A wave of warmth and light washed over her. The fire was still hot in the hearth, and it spilled a red glow over the paintings she had abandoned only a few hours ago.
A lit yellow lantern sat quietly beside a few brushes scattered across the white scroll. A flower that lay tucked under one of the pages looked dried out, like it had endured the scorching heat of summer—a pinkish one, and the fire had drained it dry.
She dragged in a warm breath, almost smelling the burnt scent of the flower's petals in her breath. Looking around, she saw the room in shadows. It had been that way ever since she stopped lighting any more lanterns. She looked at the large shadow that lay like a sleeping figure on one side of the bed: it was Naruto's side.
He often slept on his left side, with his back to her. His snoring was an intermittent affair. He always let out whistling breaths when it got too cold, and then he would flop onto his belly with a sudden, convulsive movement and emit gurgling sounds into the pillow. She was forced to get up, make haste towards their small kitchen, and prepare a warm herbal tea to ease his suffering.
He often slept on his left side, with his back to her. His snoring was an intermittent affair. He always let out whistling breaths when it got too cold; and then he would flop onto his belly with a sudden, convulsive movement and emit gurgling sounds into the makura . . . till she was forced to get up, make haste towards their small kitchen, and prepare a warm herbal tea to ease his suffering.
Its scent always reached him faster than the sound of her uncertain and creaking footsteps. When she stepped into the room, spilling tea on the floor in her rushed state, his warm smile always greeted her, accompanied by the slow, upward movement of his hand to stroke the prickly blonde hair. His face then lit up with a soft delight.
These were the good old days—the early months of her marriage. Over time, the shadows just grew thicker. There was no form to them, and they just lay there like large, shapeless things across the futon. Sometimes, the white sheets bore stains of red, but that did not happen often. Her body was cold; it did not enjoy ceding to the act that brought her misery . . . shame, too.
Blood roared in her breast, and she stopped her ears to listen. It was the sound of shame, her world crumbling around her and flying away in wisps. Her vision was invaded by something wet; white eyes brimmed with fear. She took one step, then two, and sat down upon a cushion before the hearth.
Its heat went through her skin, and the pores involuntarily expelled beads of sweat, brought on by a different kind of longing. She placed her chalk-white hands upon her thighs and watched them tremble beneath a watery film. From somewhere, and she did not know where, wind had let itself in to touch the sluggish trails of her shame and honour. They were still busy tracing her changing contours.
Blushing beneath the tingling sensation on her skin, she didn't know how to feel. Her fearful eyes, which welcomed the invasion of a new emotion, fell upon the red coals burning in the hearth. So many of them had turned black, like ash at the edges. They were crumbling away. So was she. So was her honor. It had died brutally in the hands of her desires and under the spear of her lust. The spears had glided through her flesh, embedding themselves cruelly into her soul, and it was relentless.
Outside, a storm raged on. Hours passed by, and she sat blinking away the signs of her shame, not caring about the quivering tears on her guilt-ridden hands. The flame guttered in the lantern, and the coals turned cold. Her breaths came out white, but her eyes couldn't leave the crimson stain. It was soothing, enchanting, bewitching . . .
--‐--
Quiet steps followed a long, unrelenting shadow that lay undisturbed on the floor. As he drew near the dark door, the wood gave out a subtle creak with every step. It was a ponderous place, now that it had stood the test of time through many generations. He stopped for a moment before the closed door and took in a quick, nervous breath. The exhalation came out louder than he had expected.
Bunching his fingers into a soft fist, he raised his hand to knock upon the door. A voice came from the room before his fist could collide with the wood. "Come in, Sasuke," it said in a manner he always found a little foreboding.
Sasuke breathed in and out once, resolutely, and then slid open the door. A subtle smell of incense crept up his nose, and he flinched in response. The room was filled with harsh light from numerous lanterns and seemed to be fighting a war against shadowy corners.
Gold lanterns sat on the desks and in the alcoves. A few scroll paintings still bore the shadowy remnants of the thick beams overhead, but the light was bright enough to illuminate their beautiful patterns: kirin dancing in the dull colors of autumn, and a few crows perched and cawed in a dry tree. He couldn't understand why his brother was so fascinated by these odd displays of melancholia. It was just one of those things . . .
His thoughts were cut short by the jagged blade of silence. This room was so quiet. One would imagine that the flames would make some sort of noise on the wick, but it wasn't so. The brush was loud; it had conquered the struggle and was mighty in his brother's long fingers. A dry sound of its movement rose into the air, and he was almost forced to shut the door behind himself to break the excited vibrations it produced in the air. Everything was just so eerie around him.
He had raised his shadowed eyes briefly to look upon Sasuke's curious countenance, only to go back to the mundane task of writing—whatever leisurely task he was preoccupied with before. Sometimes, Sasuke just wished his brother would turn on his Sharingan so his eyes seemed apparent to him, but he was the secretive type.
He approached him, a little cautiously, shoving his sweaty, unwilling hand into his pocket to pull out the official report on the messy Rock-Spies' affair. Then his feet stopped of their own volition, his eyes looking to his brother's hazy face. He could not see it clearly. He was sitting crossed legged behind the small table. His spine was straight like steel; his eyes were only subtly downcast to look at his fingers as they drew words on the scroll.
Tonight, his brother wore traditional clothing—a black haori thrown over his shoulders with such delicate, meticulous care that he could have sworn there was no difference between the lengths of the sleeve tips dangling above his knees. Everything was arranged neatly on his desk. Not a single scroll or stray ink blot marred its surface. And it made him feel a little unnerved, suddenly sapped of courage.
A loud pop from the fireplace momentarily distracted him, but his brother's voice drew his eyes back to his face. "Sit down," he said, and Sasuke obeyed.
The scroll was clutched tightly in his hand like a weapon. Itachi continued to write, his eyes moving with the smooth and slow movement of his fingers. The dry sound was louder up close. It was as though something small was being dragged across the rough surface, but the sound was muffled by the wind.
"You should know how to manage your team," Itachi spoke almost suddenly, and Sasuke dropped his eyes in an apologetic manner, looking at a dry brush that lay abandoned next to a scroll; an inky shadow clung to its smooth wooden surface. His eyes seemed to linger on the momentary distraction.
"An inquiry is a terrible affair," Itachi paused and so did his hand in its smoothing motion, "if your team had died, it would have been so dreadful for you, Sasuke."
"I'm sorry," Sasuke barely managed to choke out, his eyes welling up, "Nii-san, forgive me. I was..."
"Why do you want to take on this Hyūga matter?" Itachi asked, and the dry, invasive sound of paper rustling stopped. "It is not wise." There was a trace of curiosity in his brother's voice, and that compelled Sasuke to steal a quick glance at his face, which was still cast in grey shadows, invading his mien, as if he enjoyed their company. Then Sasuke lowered his head and nodded.
How fortunate for Neji that you want the best for him, even though it is not your place to meddle in his affairs," Itachi spoke, a little coldly, and something inside Sasuke rose in ferocity to defend himself.
"He's a good man," Sasuke said, raising his eyes to where his brother's should have been. "As a Captain, I—"
"It is not wise," Itachi cut in, his voice heavy and commanding.
Sasuke could not see his face, and it was so bothersome. He lowered his eyes immediately, and his face fell into a look of child-like worry and anger.
Sasuke heard him breathe out a sigh but did not have the courage—nor the audacity—to look him in the eye. "But knowing how you cause trouble when you cannot have your way, I am allowing you to see the evidence—nothing more." The soft sound of Itachi's clothes rustling filled the room as he placed the scroll on the table.
He did not say anything more, and Sasuke saw this as a sign of approval. Sasuke put the scroll he had in his grasp on the table and grabbed the other one with a rather quick movement of his hand.
His brother remained silent. Thinking that this was enough, he rose to his feet, gave a little customary bow, and turned around before his brother's words stopped him. "I want no trouble from you, Sasuke," he said, and those same dry sounds began anew.
Sasuke did not turn around to look at him and left the room with sure, quiet steps . . .
