these_lines1 (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} these_lines1) wrote,@ 2007-11-12 21:52:00 |
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Naruto. Yugito Nii. 005. Outsides.
Title: The Price of Power
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Yugito Nii
Prompt: Outsides
Word Count: 762
Rating: PG
Summary: As the gates to the shrine closed behind them with a thunderous noise, the weapon within locked outside of life, outside of history, outside of love, he flinched, and steeled himself against what he had done and what he would do.
Author's Notes: None.
“Here,” the medic-nin said, gesturing to the rotting building. A temple to a deity forgotten long ago, it sulked underneath the spreading branches of pine trees, a stagnant river winding around its walls and underneath the bridge they stood on.
“It’s far enough outside the village to prevent any assassination attempts?” Kohaku asked, tucking his hands inside the billowing sleeves of his robes.
“Yes, Raikage,” the woman said. Kohaku winced mentally at the title, still unfamiliar after a week of hearing it with every breath. ‘And I’ll hear it every day until I die, I suppose.’
The child was sleeping in the medic-nin’s arms, its chubby face scrunched up in something resembling pain, the new seal around its neck still an angry bright red. Kohaku stared at her, lip twitching, his fingers itching to wrap around the child’s- no, not a child, anymore, not even human- neck and feel the splintering of bones.
“It sleeps well,” the woman observed wryly, her face pale and still. She held it with the competence of a nurse, but somehow, the distance between the weapon and her was as obvious as any chasm.
“Yes,” he said. “Have we found a wet nurse for it?”
The medic ushered him into the shrine. The foyer was a mockery of its old grandeur; aged wood creaked underneath their feet, dust thick on every surface. “No,” she said, opening a shoji screen with her foot. The screen rattled as it moved in the railings, and Kohaku followed the woman down the narrow hallway.
Faint afternoon light filtered in from the courtyard. The air was still and silent, and old masks glared down from the walls. “We can feed her formula,” she continued, directing him into a tiny room at the back of the shrine.
“Here. It’s far enough away from the rest of the shrine that whatever caretakers you appoint won’t have to interact with her regularly, but it also has one of the few locking doors.” The room was barely eight feet square, and windowless. Kohaku glanced at where the crib had already been moved into the corner. ‘Ironic how much it resembles a cage.’ Although, in truth, that was what it was: a cage for their new weapon, now slumbering in the woman’s arms, unaware of its pathetic fate:
To live outside the village for fear of assassination.
To live outside the embrace of family because of what it had become.
To live outside the entire human race, unwanted, alone, because of what it was.
He wondered if the weapon’s father, his brother, had wanted this for his child, but squashed the thought firmly. The man was dead, a sacrifice upon the altar of death, and all that remained of him was his offspring, the one who walked in the valley of the shadow of death.
“This will work,” he said, turning on his heel and gazing out through the open doorway into the barren courtyard. Footprints still traced over the sand, and dead flowers trailed over the flowerbeds. A scummy pond bubbled in one corner, thick and green and foul, while a leafless tree, white and bare, jutted against the specter of living foliage outside.
A place of death in the midst of life. He smiled, his chest aching with sorrow for his village, for his brother, who had condemned his child to this.
“Leave her there. The caretaker will be here shortly,” he said, and left the shrine, passing by old hallways, carpeted with dust, old paintings peeling off the walls, old swords and pottery and relics that no one had cared enough to take.
The squad of ANBU detailed to guard the shrine saluted as he passed, the medic-nin trailing in his footsteps. He could hear her sterilizing her hands.
As the gates to the shrine closed behind them with a thunderous noise, the weapon within locked outside of life, outside of history, outside of love, he flinched, and steeled himself against what he had done and what he would do.
The medic-nin was sobbing softly to herself, no tears left in her, as she scrubbed at her hands with steel wool, lacerating her skin into shreds. Kohaku said nothing: in the aftermath of the Nekomata, of loved ones’ bodies clawing from the earth and walking once more, everyone was insane in their own ways.
The weapon began to wail.
One of the guards clapped his hands over his ears and hunched against the scathing indictment of its voice.
Kohaku marched ahead with dry eyes and a dead heart, and did not hear her cries.
Title: The Price of Power
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Yugito Nii
Prompt: Outsides
Word Count: 762
Rating: PG
Summary: As the gates to the shrine closed behind them with a thunderous noise, the weapon within locked outside of life, outside of history, outside of love, he flinched, and steeled himself against what he had done and what he would do.
Author's Notes: None.
“Here,” the medic-nin said, gesturing to the rotting building. A temple to a deity forgotten long ago, it sulked underneath the spreading branches of pine trees, a stagnant river winding around its walls and underneath the bridge they stood on.
“It’s far enough outside the village to prevent any assassination attempts?” Kohaku asked, tucking his hands inside the billowing sleeves of his robes.
“Yes, Raikage,” the woman said. Kohaku winced mentally at the title, still unfamiliar after a week of hearing it with every breath. ‘And I’ll hear it every day until I die, I suppose.’
The child was sleeping in the medic-nin’s arms, its chubby face scrunched up in something resembling pain, the new seal around its neck still an angry bright red. Kohaku stared at her, lip twitching, his fingers itching to wrap around the child’s- no, not a child, anymore, not even human- neck and feel the splintering of bones.
“It sleeps well,” the woman observed wryly, her face pale and still. She held it with the competence of a nurse, but somehow, the distance between the weapon and her was as obvious as any chasm.
“Yes,” he said. “Have we found a wet nurse for it?”
The medic ushered him into the shrine. The foyer was a mockery of its old grandeur; aged wood creaked underneath their feet, dust thick on every surface. “No,” she said, opening a shoji screen with her foot. The screen rattled as it moved in the railings, and Kohaku followed the woman down the narrow hallway.
Faint afternoon light filtered in from the courtyard. The air was still and silent, and old masks glared down from the walls. “We can feed her formula,” she continued, directing him into a tiny room at the back of the shrine.
“Here. It’s far enough away from the rest of the shrine that whatever caretakers you appoint won’t have to interact with her regularly, but it also has one of the few locking doors.” The room was barely eight feet square, and windowless. Kohaku glanced at where the crib had already been moved into the corner. ‘Ironic how much it resembles a cage.’ Although, in truth, that was what it was: a cage for their new weapon, now slumbering in the woman’s arms, unaware of its pathetic fate:
To live outside the village for fear of assassination.
To live outside the embrace of family because of what it had become.
To live outside the entire human race, unwanted, alone, because of what it was.
He wondered if the weapon’s father, his brother, had wanted this for his child, but squashed the thought firmly. The man was dead, a sacrifice upon the altar of death, and all that remained of him was his offspring, the one who walked in the valley of the shadow of death.
“This will work,” he said, turning on his heel and gazing out through the open doorway into the barren courtyard. Footprints still traced over the sand, and dead flowers trailed over the flowerbeds. A scummy pond bubbled in one corner, thick and green and foul, while a leafless tree, white and bare, jutted against the specter of living foliage outside.
A place of death in the midst of life. He smiled, his chest aching with sorrow for his village, for his brother, who had condemned his child to this.
“Leave her there. The caretaker will be here shortly,” he said, and left the shrine, passing by old hallways, carpeted with dust, old paintings peeling off the walls, old swords and pottery and relics that no one had cared enough to take.
The squad of ANBU detailed to guard the shrine saluted as he passed, the medic-nin trailing in his footsteps. He could hear her sterilizing her hands.
As the gates to the shrine closed behind them with a thunderous noise, the weapon within locked outside of life, outside of history, outside of love, he flinched, and steeled himself against what he had done and what he would do.
The medic-nin was sobbing softly to herself, no tears left in her, as she scrubbed at her hands with steel wool, lacerating her skin into shreds. Kohaku said nothing: in the aftermath of the Nekomata, of loved ones’ bodies clawing from the earth and walking once more, everyone was insane in their own ways.
The weapon began to wail.
One of the guards clapped his hands over his ears and hunched against the scathing indictment of its voice.
Kohaku marched ahead with dry eyes and a dead heart, and did not hear her cries.
