Milk and Red
Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Masashi Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.
Warning: Violence, Sex, and Language. Reader Discretion is advised.
AN: Written in the vein of works like Carmilla and Blue, the story offers me a chance to shake off my abnormal habit to stop writing for months on end.
AN: Reposted for my own convenience. The usual editing process; hence, if you've read it this far, you can forgo it as nothing has changed.
Part I: Suspension
1
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Roots ran deep, caused the forest to stand tall, breast storm. Man fell. Trees stood. Holy as Time: roots made the difference, made men.
The sword stuck between the jaws, teeth locating grip, chinked like old keys in the pocket . . . a mouth the fat priest could not close. When the good end stuck out the back, it was red everywhere, a hue he was as familiar as a babe was with milk; but he had not tasted milk in years . . .
His garments, bedecked with shiny religious accoutrements, could not conceal the belly's distension; and in agony, on the knees without a prayer in mouth, he thrust it forward, still trying his hardest to make the teeth meet, eyes rotating about extremities, limbs tightening in convulsions; and he perished, mouth wide as hooked fish's . . . even after he had pulled the sword out.
This was it. Done. A blot on the picture ended what was real . . . to the holy man. Yet the tongue tingled, a mark he wished he could chop off, cast from himself—forget. Up above, blackness had come; and bedevilled by a willful night, stilly as morning beasts whilst shades drew on, he dreamt . . . little—too little. There was milk and there was red . . . one long drop, shiny about the brother's mouth, that went drip drip drip, pink after a lost red.
Hallowed eyes, haunted vision—dressed with consummate grace, his night had fallen to a disquieting despair, into leaves by the forest's feet, mellow fruits on boughs bountiful that trembled against summer's beat. Leaf . . .
Yet he saw . . . a nacreous visage against a morn's fervour.
I miss . . . thee, darling brother . . .
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