Reign of Red

Chapter 2: Turquoise Night

The sun had long slumbered by the time Shisui joined Kakashi at their usual table.

With a pensive sigh in his chest, he navigated through the crowd with distracted ease and lowered himself before the kotatsu. It was difficult to alter the surely gloomy look on his face, but he tried his best.

For his friend's sake, at least, he wanted to be in a good mood.

"Sorry I'm late," the Uchiha greeted with a reticent twist to his lips, taking care not to kneel on the hem of his light brown hoari.

Kakashi tucked away Icha Icha and slid a cup brimming with saké across the table. He had already made his requests, and now said table was covered with their usual fare. Something, however, was noticeably missing.

"No tea tonight?"

The one-eyed warrior shook his head and sipped at his own rice wine through his mask, "I thought this night called for something stronger."

"Ah . . . congratulations. I heard that Sarutobi-sama granted you more land. Sorry I missed the ceremony, by the way; I had to take up an escort mission over in Tea Country," Shisui lowered his eyes as he said the word "land," and shifted uncomfortably. He adjusted his haori's collar.

Kakashi eyed the clothing with mild distaste, "I don't mind. Frankly, I already have more land than I know what to do with, but I suppose it would have been an insult to refuse—you're still wearing that old thing?"

"Hey," Shisui released a meager grin, and shoved a sliver of carp into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully and his smile grew, genuine this time, "I'll have you know that this was prime silk when I bought it."

"Heh. Certainly. But wasn't it originally grey?"

Shisui jabbed his chopsticks towards his friend's face, prepared for a rebuttal, then reeled back in confusion, "You know something? I actually don't remember."

"How old was Itachi when you pawned it off on him anyway?"

"He must've been twelve or thirteen. Damn." the Uchiha shook his head sheepishly, eyes glossing over as he stepped back into the past, "I remember it was his birthday. It was obviously too big for him, but he still wore it all the time. Guess he didn't want to hurt my feelings . . ." his smile fell then, muscle by muscle, until twin dimples disappeared into his sun-tanned cheeks. He had once been as fair as the rest of his brethren, but years of odd jobs outside the village had since darkened his complexion.

Across the table, Kakashi wanted to kick himself for even bringing up Itachi at all. He had essentially just sentenced is friend to a night of sentimental melancholy.

And he should know for, more often than not, he found himself dwelling in that exact same state.

Across the room, someone too drunk for company dropped his bottle, only to fall over when he bent down to retrieve the cracked porcelain. His friends erupted into raucous laughter and did their best to pick him up.

Distracted despite the uproar, Shisui flexed his hand and ran his fingers over the worn silk on his arm. Calluses snagged on the fine fabric, making his strokes stuttered and lethargic. His voice was just as illusory, just as wistful.

"I just couldn't bring myself to get rid of it, you know? . . ."

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Having finished her food, Sakura rolled her eyes as she left her oh-so-loyal palanquin carriers to finish their evening meal in the tea room. They were being loud and far too eager to share her traveling plans with the other patrons, and she was relieved to escape them.

A man passing out news flyers stood in the doorway that separated the restaurant from the back of the Tokida inn.

"Would you like a handbill pamphlet?" he grinned at her, ruffling the stack of light sheafs in his hand. "Interesting articles, especially after the ceremonies yesterday."

"No, but thank you," the kunoichi shot him a tired smile. She followed her stooping attendant outside and along the maze of engawa paths. Once they reached her room, however, she wished she had taken the papers when she had the chance.

Her quarters were rather high-end, as was the rest of the inn, but all Sakura wanted to do was kick open the nearest futon and throw herself on it. It was only her clothing that restricted her from doing so.

She sighed. Used to the freedom of loose-fitting shinobi garb, she hated formal kimono; they were too complicated for long-distance travel in her opinion, but her father's letter insisted that she wear something nice to mark her first arrival home in years. And he certainly would not appreciate it if she showed up with her finest kimono covered in wrinkles. She looked down at herself.

She supposed it was extremely pretty, but that realization only made her feel even more awkward and out of place.

Trying to keep from fidgeting, Sakura glanced over her shoulder with a nervous smile, "Um, thank you, but I'm sure I can handle it from here."

"Nonsense," the elderly maid sniffed and continued manipulating the brocade of her obi. "I can tell you're not used to such finery; you'd probably just make a mess of things."

When she glimpsed the dejected look on Sakura's profile, her visage softened, "Now, I didn't mean anything by it. You're a very nice girl. It's just that most women who can afford to stay here don't even know their heads from the tabi on their feet."

Sakura smiled fondly, "My father says things like that."

"You're a pretty girl too," the maid soothed, taking note of the young woman's alluring green eyes. "Strange hair though. Is your father's hair that color?"

"Somewhat, yes," self-consciously, she brushed the rosette tufts out of her face. "Actually, obaasan, I've been meaning to ask something. I've had kind of a long day today. Will there be anyone else in the onsen?"

The next tug loosened the obi significantly. Sakura instinctively reached around to massage at her back, but the woman swatted her hand away, "I'll make sure you're left alone if that's what you're asking. We seem to have more hot springs than customers around here anyway. I always thought they should lower their expenses, but do they listen to me?—Never."

Sakura flinched and wished again that she was alone in the room. This was not an uncommon occurrence but, as a ninja, she had always been independent out of necessity. Only her mother had ever helped remove her clothing, and that was exactly why she usually forewent the more complicated designs.

Still embarrassed, Sakura allowed her eyes to wander about the room. They skimmed her freshly unfurled futon, the clean tatami mats, and the large kotatsu at the room's center. A bundle of those news flyers languished on its surface. Curious, she squinted and leaned closer.

Her maid, ever dutiful, must have noticed because, before Sakura could protest, she had hobbled passed her, snatched it up with a huff, and shoved the packet into the medic's hands. Secretly, Sakura was grateful for the distraction.

As soon as she glimpsed the first page, she laughed, "That's my sensei."

The obaasan peeked over her shoulder.

"Never heard of him, but he looks impressive; don't know how I feel about the eye-patch though. And my husband says you should never trust a man who wears a mask."

As she fell back into her work, untucking the intricate folds, Sakura immersed herself in the portrait of Kakashi in his modest shinobi armor, and then the smeared print below. It was far from an accurate depiction, she knew, for her sensei refused to pose for anything that lasted longer than two minutes.

The article commemorated his courageous acts as a war veteran; apparently, the Hokage was awarding him more land to add to his already expansive property.

"Good job, Kaka-sensei," she murmured under her breath and shuffled to the next page.

Her brow furrowed. Gut awareness heightened in tangent with her breath. She blinked in confusion and scanned the bolded kanji twice more.

"Haven't heard about that, huh?" the maid took note of Sakura's tensed posture and circled around with the extricated obi folded neatly in her arms. She casually observed the headline Sakura was gaping at, giving a weary nod, "Some lunatic dressed as a tengu has been harassing the government officials. Stealing things, sometimes killing the guards—mind you, I hate the council as much as any good citizen, but it's a foolish venture if you ask me."

"Tengu?" Sakura traced her finger distractedly over the sketch of the criminal. A raven-like mask completely obscured the bottom half of the face, revealing only eyes hollow and black.

The way they depicted him—he looked almost inhuman.

A subdued chill rattled her spine from neck to back. Dilated eyes froze over the print, her exhale emerging stunted. Her fingers felt cold, chilled to the tips.

Why did they have to draw him like that?—Like he was not even . . .

A wrinkled hand suddenly plucked the paper out from under her nose, jarring Sakura from her hazy thoughts, and she realized she was now free to shrug out of her kimono and underclothes. It was like the room had been twisting inwards until an outside voice had shattered the illusion, sending her mind careening back into reality quickly enough to make her nauseous.

She dismissed it once her vision righted itself. Her nimble hands darted down to untie the inner sashes. Her fingers became little but peach blurs amidst the motif of blues, greys, and reds.

She shrugged her shoulders and allowed the heavy garment to fall around her feet. Figuring the exhaustion of her journey was finally getting to her, she closed her eyes until she felt them moisten and alleviate the dry sting.

Her maid held up a bathing yukata, and Sakura slipped her arms through the sleeves, eager to hide her nakedness. The obaasan averted her gaze, scanned through the article with distaste.

"It's got a lot of the more superstitious villagers frightened. Some say it's a real demon bringing judgment. They say it's a sign that war is coming. But then some say it's Uchiha Itachi come back from the dead."

Sakura whirled around, eyes wide. Mid-turn, her swift movement lifted the light-weight cotton of her yukata and momentarily exposed her breasts, but she barely noticed, "Who said anything about Uchiha Itachi?"

Bewildered by Sakura's sudden outburst, the maid shrugged. If she found her customer's scars, agility, and obvious muscle tone to be unusual for a civilian woman, she made no attempt to pry.

"Well, nobody. Except maybe fools who insist the Council made a big mistake in dealing with that clan, but that was a long time ago," shaking her head, she billowed Sakura's kimono up in her arms and turned to leave. "Now go take a bath and stop worrying over things you can't understand."

"I understand plenty," Sakura whispered.

But only the empty room heeded her words.

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When the woman returned, hands now free of her charge's clothing, she seemed more than eager to gossip about the two Uchiha cousins despite her earlier reservations.

Sakura bore it with a kind of sad grace, wandering dazedly after the obaasan on their way to the hot springs. She could not stir up any resentment for the old woman. It was not uncommon for civilians to be extremely mystified by their military counterparts; their craft, after all, was still conducted in relative secrecy. Especially where regional politics were concerned.

Although revered ninja like Kakashi served as stalwart authorities in the village, it was no secret that most shinobi were still hired in secret, conducting dirty work for many less-than-honorable clients. Some clan pockets had even yet to descend from the mountains since being ill-used in the last war.

"—just gets to me the more I think about it."

Sakura glanced up in surprise. She had been staring retrospectively at her dirty toes as they peaked in and out of her hem with each step, and had not noticed that she was tuning out her maid's curious ramblings.

But the woman kept speaking unhindered, not noticing the lapse in her charge's attention, "It's the saddest thing, those two boys living up there all alone. I've never seen that compound, but my husband did once while he was out hunting last summer—told me it was the gloomiest, most run-down place he'd ever seen."

Discomfited by this turn in the conversation, Sakura swallowed and turned her weary eyes askance.

She knew. Of course she knew.

All too vividly, she remembered being nine years old and wanting to bring Sasuke a basket of nashi pears for his birthday, only to turn away at her mother's insistence, for the compound was buried so far up in the mountains that she would have easily lost her way amidst the trees. Nevertheless, she had spent hours decorating the basket, fingers tying an indigo cloth about the rim and threading purple primrose blossoms into the hemp.

She remembered all the naïvety that had preoccupied her young thoughts that day, the way she had settled on decorating with the sakurasou blossoms, rather than her own namesake, for fear of being too bold.

Sakura scoffed at herself, the reprimand soft and bittersweet. In retrospect, her reservations had really been so futile.

"Such a shame," the maid repeated her sentiments with a shake of her silver-laden head. When they reached the spring she turned around, and held the door open for the tired kunoichi.

She peeked conspiratorially down the hallway, as if the Hokage himself might be listening in, and leaned closer to Sakura, "The Council still has their main compound—the newer, bigger one—boarded up just outside the village. Our customers talk about it pretty often; they say the elders should either give their land back or just tear it all down, turn it into farmland. The council is claiming they don't know what to do with it, but I think they're just afraid to disturb the temple. The last battle was fought there—I'm sure you've heard. And who knows what kind of vengeful spirits are still lurking in that place? People say they didn't even bother to clean up the blood."

Her interest was comical, but all the kunoichi could do was slowly turn her face away, focus on the steam rising like meandering ghosts from the water.

Eyeing the sad frown scarring an otherwise attractive visage, the maid shrugged and turned to leave. The screen rumbled a soft thlick behind her.

Those words had hurt, wrenching and aching in the core of Sakura's abdomen. But she could not hold it against her; there was no way she could know how closely the kunoichi was involved.

Used to be involved.

Used to be. Somehow, that stray thought hurt her even further.

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Finally, the heat of the steam began seeping into her bones. The water was hot, just short of scalding. Eyes closed, Sakura heaved a pleasant sigh and sank lower into the bath until the water level rose just below her nose.

"Good evening. I take it you had a pleasant journey."

Green eyes snapped open. Water sloshed into the air.

"What the hell are you doing in here?"

Her screech must have echoed throughout her entire wing of the inn, but no alarmed footsteps could be heard outside the springs. No one came to Sakura's aid. This alone was a great cause for suspicion, but she was already preoccupied with dragging her yukata down into the water and draping her naked form with the drenched fabric.

A man stepped forward, his steps calculated and slow, as steam parted around his approaching figure, "Relax."

He crouched down at the edge of the onsen, wearing a soft smirk that by no means reached his eyes. Sakura backed herself into the opposite end of the spring. Hot stone collided with her back, but the pain registered little.

It was not uncommon for men and women to use the same hot spring at times, but the kunoichi had been under the impression that she would be left quite alone. And most shinobi were suspicious by nature. The only hidden weapon she had brought into the bath was the long senbon currently holding up her mass of hair; her mind spun, already charting the best path needed to embed the needle into this stranger's neck.

"If you don't leave, I'll call for my guards."

Rather than turn and flee like she had hoped, the intruder only shook his head. He openly mocked her with a piteous frown, "I'm afraid that would be vain effort on your part, Sakura. I paid them to leave, you see, and they were surprisingly willing to comply. Your father should be more careful when hiring men to transport his only child."

The smooth tone of his voice crawled along her spine, raising gooseflesh despite the heat of the water, "How do you know my . . . Who are you? Tell me."

She leaned forward in her anger and the yukata slipped low. Her hand darted out to pull the fabric back up.

His dark eyes clung to the movement, narrowing when she glared at him, "Don't you think it quite redundant to hide yourself? After all, I will soon be your husband in a few days' time."

Sakura's breath froze. Her lips parted and her eyes widened, revealing their full spectrum of beryl emotion. She had seen that face before. In an aged portrait, intricate and accurately colored, but without the glasses.

"You . . ." realization swept over her, made her brow furrow, "you're Yakushi-san."

He smiled, "You're sharp, I see. Just like a fellow medic should be. I'm very pleased."

Sakura had already been in a bad mood. Fire blazed over her expression, lighting up her visage until her skin practically glowed with a brilliant, teased ire, "I don't care if you're a general or the Hokage's lead retainer; you should not have come in here uninvited. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Yakushi-san, but it's been a hard day, and I asked to be left alone."

"Don't be so formal," he peeled back his kimono sleeve, then dipped his hand into the water. "Call me Kabuto."

As if testing the temperature, he pulled his hand back out, flexed his wet fingers in the humid air. His eyes never left hers.

Still marveling at his intrusion, Sakura glared. It would be more than inconvenient to wound her betrothed—that is, if he was even who he claimed to be.

Unfortunately he seemed to read her mind, and turned momentarily to the side, flashing her the Yakushi clan symbol on the back of his clothing.

Her shoulders sunk.

He must be telling the truth, she reasoned despondently. If he knew who she was, then that meant he had watched her, which left few other options. Her eyes searched his face, trailing with questions and green-tinged curiosity.

He was handsome in a subdued, almost soft way. His eyes, dark and admittedly striking in comparison to his hair, peered back at her through expensive spectacles. His white hair hung loose around his shoulders, the locks indented halfway up as if he normally tied it back.

The man smirked placidly, noticing her anxious perusal, and descended to his knees before the onsen. His movements were smooth, almost calculated.

The mark of a shinobi.

Most obvious, however, were his hands. Dainty, but strong. Sakura noted them from the first moment he had trailed his fingers through the water, for her own hands were much the same—a medic's hands.

Furthermore, from the look of his resilient fingers, he was even adept at surgery and probably combat. Now their seemingly arbitrary match made more sense.

"Does my father know you're here? We weren't supposed to meet until later."

Kabuto stood with a smile, "I'm afraid, Sakura-san, that you misunderstand my reasons for coming here."

"Obviously. You haven't told me of them yet," she did not even bother to disguise the bite in her tone.

Kabuto merely narrowed his eyes. He did not seem particularly angry, just beset upon by her lack of cooperation. Sakura was kind by nature, but never overly sweet and certainly not unassuming. However, now that she was less shaken by his sudden intrusion, Sakura could feel the more accepting part of her personality resurfacing.

She sighed and pulled herself out of the water. Although she turned her back for modesty's sake, she kept her eyes glued to him from over her shoulder. A clean yukata sat folded by the wall, and Sakura slipped it around her shoulders before dropping the water-logged one to the floor. She turned again to face the bath, an expression of stone gracing her face. Thankfully, he had not moved from his spot.

She plastered on a fake smile, one deceptive enough to make even Sai proud, "Alright then, Kabuto-san, why don't you tell me why you have come to . . . visit me."

"I have a proposition to make—" he raised his hands in reassurance, "purely professional, I swear."

Her eyes narrowed, betraying her suspicion. She barely knew him and he wanted to present her with a professional proposition?

"I'm going to be very honest with you, Sakura-san, and you mustn't be too offended. Originally I was wholly uninterested in the agreement our fathers made at the beginning of their separate business ventures; and, since my parents are long dead, I considered retracting our promised betrothal," he took a step forward, prompting Sakura to step back along the opposite edge of the onsen. Unfazed, he continued, his soft voice frightening and eerie, "You see, I have acquired access to a potentially unlimited supply of medical stock, a supply that just might interest you given your family's occupation. I can procure any number of medical supplies, antidotes, medicinal herbs—even medic-based weaponry—if you only asked for them."

The more she heard, the more Sakura grew suspicious. Her instincts pleaded archly with her to keep herself away from him at all costs.

"And," she asked slowly, "you still want to marry me?"

He nodded, almost too eager. His eyes lit up with a bright gleam that had nothing to do with his glasses. It was unreasonable but it frightened her, "I've been in Otogakure for a long time, and just learned more about you recently."

"Oto?" Sakura gaped. Oto was a well-known hell hole. A battle ground of old. A modern haven for the criminal and the dissenter.

"Yes. And you have trained under Lady Tsunade of the Senju clan for many years, have you not? I will personally see to it that our union becomes even more profitable than your mother and father originally hoped. If you agree, I will bring the Haruno clan great success. All I ask is that you marry me and, in doing so, partake of the research I am conducting alongside my master."

Silence filled the rift between them before Sakura found her voice.

"What kind of research is it that you could possibly need me for?"

This time he did not deign to answer.

"Well, then. If that's all you have to say, I want out," she pushed her shoulders back, proud of the strength she managed to infuse into her tone.

But Kabuto did not seem overly concerned. He shrugged, "That is your decision. Although, slighting your parents' carefully orchestrated plans for your future security is unlikely to be received well, no? Think of us as business partners, Sakura-san. Perhaps that will ease your misgivings."

Only when he ceased speaking and turned his black eyes to her expectantly, did Sakura realize how heavily she was breathing. Her fingers shook and so she clenched them into fists.

In defiance not unlike that of her famed mentor, she raised her chin, "If you are so eager to know what Tsunade-sama taught me, I'll impart one of her favorite sayings onto you. I've heard it every day of my life for the past six years: No self-respecting medic ninja prioritizes self-gain over duty. And I'm afraid, Kabuto-san, that that is all I have left to say to you."

She tore the senbon from her hair. It perched threateningly between quivering yet strong fingertips. Long rosette strands tumbled down her shoulders and face, hiding both her fear and trembles of anger.

Kabuto shut his eyes. He seemed as though he was resigning himself to leave without whatever it was he had come there for. He sighed. The muscles flexed along his jawline, indicating that he was gritting his teeth, and Sakura could practically hear him counting down to zero in his head.

"Very well, Sakura-san."

She arched a brow when he bowed stiffly before her. When he straightened up, his eyes snapped open and that dark gaze barreled straight into hers, "See you soon."

Sakura swallowed, felt gooseflesh prickle against her hairline. Regardless, she refused to waver, and stared right back at him until he stepped into the hall and shut the shoji behind him.

Long after his shadow had disappeared from the screen, she still stood there in suspended shock, fist clenched around her senbon. The shaking in her fingers increased until the small weapon slipped and clattered onto the floor. The sound of the collision made her wince and flex her bare toes as the adrenaline in her veins burned away.

She worried her bottom lip. They were chapped from six years spent in Suna's arid climate.

Her nerves were a wreck. Everything about that day had shattered years of dispassionate routine and homesickness. She had certainly been through worse ordeals, but such threats had been direct, immediate. Now in a matter of mere hours her future had suddenly become uncertain and, ironic as it was, the kunoichi was not sure how to approach the implied danger of the unknown. Something was happening, building unceasingly to a crescendo. The very air of her homeland hummed with it.

Never before had she been so eager to run towards the Haruno compound and fall into her parents' embrace. But she could not deceive herself.

There was work to be done.

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A high pitch, the sound of sharp metal singing through the air, had Sasuke ducking beneath the guard's katana before he even turned to face his attacker. He spun on his foot with one leg extended, prepared to trip his opponent, but there was a bright blur, and the guard suddenly dropped to the floor with a groan. A large figure stepped out from the darkness.

"Jūgo."

The man bowed his fiery head in greeting, rubbing at his bruised knuckles. A third intruder darted out from behind him just then, large sword raised over his head.

"Suigetsu," Sasuke snapped.

He paused, blade halfway to the guard's bared neck, "What? What is it now? This bastard just tried to kill you."

"And now he's unconscious," he stepped forward and wrenched Suigetsu's arm back by the wrist. "Only kill when necessary. I won't repeat myself."

Sighing dramatically, Suigetsu yanked his arm away and re-sheathed his sword. He stormed down the walkway with a huff.

Without needing to consult Sasuke, Jūgo picked the unconscious guard up with one arm, bound him, and rolled him beneath the engawa. His manner was almost gentle.

"Hurry," Sasuke muttered over his shoulder, "Our time here has just been cut in half."

"I'm sure they won't notice he's missing for at least one hour. Shall I check the council retainers' rooms with Suigetsu, while you search Lady Koharu's quarters?" Jūgo readjusted his cloak, his face stern beneath his bright mane.

Sasuke nodded and turned towards the gardens near the back of the inn, where the more prestigious rooms were located. He walked quickly, but with rapid steps, reducing himself to little but a flickering shadow, just like Shisui had taught him long ago.

His mind wandered in dark corridors, never ceasing its rampant pace, and proved itself a direct contrast to the peaceful, moonlit night surrounding young Uchiha Sasuke.

Nevertheless, he had always found himself drawn to things so different from his nature. And yet perhaps they were not so different from him; he did remember a time, a time when his brother still lived and his family flourished, that he had been happy. But that was long ago.

Regardless, Sasuke had to fight the temptation to slow down and breathe in a crisp lungful of the night air. His gaze remained idle on the task at hand, but he could still enjoy everything else from his peripherals.

The garden was large. An expansive bridge sloped over a pond occupying its center, separating a grove of trees from the more delicate plant life that had been carefully tended and pruned for display. He saw the surface of the water disrupt the moon's reflection into ripples at random intervals, betraying the presence of koi fish below. The noise of crickets and the gurgle of the brook emptying into the pond dominated the night air.

Turquoise nights, he remembered. That was what Itachi used to call nights like these.

Sasuke recalled being sick, confined to his bed for two weeks. Every night Itachi had come into his room to sit with him until he fell asleep. It had been the beginning of spring then, the nights clear. He remembered Itachi gazing out the open shoji screen, pointing out stars and the silhouettes of slumbering birds that he had not been able to see before.

Suddenly, the pleasant hum of nature hushed, and Sasuke knew he was no longer alone.

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The two men waited for their host to reach the kitchen before they picked up their conversation again. They had already been there for over an hour.

"Have you dug anything else up yet?" Shisui leaned close, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Both knew just who he spoke of. Danzō.

Kakashi shook his head, "Nothing new since last time. Except that he's pissed he couldn't frame Sasuke for that last break-in. As usual, though, Tenzou is always watching. And as you well know, they had kept their security tight right after the Siege happened; now they assume people have forgotten, so they're finally starting to let their guard down. But those robberies now have them in an uproar, especially since they don't know who is behind them—Tenzou's never seen them in such panic."

Shisui only frowned. Tired eyes blinked blearily at the unfinished platters. It took a lot to get him drunk, but he had managed to get slightly tipsy—not enough to slur his words, but enough to singe a pleasant hum into the ends of his emotional synapses. He could never bring himself to speak so freely of the past otherwise.

"Hey," Kakashi reached across the table and clasped Shisui on the shoulder. "You look exhausted. Stop leaving the village so much. If you need work, just tell me."

"Even if you asked on my behalf, you know very well that no one would trust me to do any work for them."

Kakashi promptly decided to try and change the subject. While his mind searched for one, he took up his chopsticks and finished the last of their flaky carp. Shisui had seen his face once, but still made a point to look to the side whenever he slipped his mask down.

Kakashi noticed and hid a wry smile, "And how is my diligent student?"

"Ah . . . Sasuke?"

Shisui blinked the sleep from his eyes and closed them. He scraped both hands down his face, then back up to twine into his messy hair.

"I don't know what to do, Kakashi."

"Did you have a fight?"

"We always fight. You know that."

"Hmm," the veteran nodded sagely. He stared down into his saké before taking a contemplative sip, "I suppose part of this is my own fault. I was too indulgent as his teacher."

"Yeah . . . and why did you have to make him so damned good with the chokutō, anyway? Nearly sliced my ear off last week."

Kakashi shrugged, "Itachi was a good friend of mine. I guess I was too eager to train his brother. But then it's your fault that he's so fast."

Here their conversation waned a bit. It was Kakashi who finally broke the silence. When he did, his voice had taken on an entirely new layer of seriousness. He readjusted his eyepatch.

"Shisui," he waited for his friend to look up, paused before forging doggedly ahead, ". . . did Sasuke commit that robbery?"

The color drained from Shisui's face at having been caught in a lie. A corner of his mouth ticked downwards.

"I thought as much," Kakashi glanced to the side to make sure no one was eavesdropping; he and Shisui made quite the intimidating pair, however, and all but their host had chosen to keep their distance. "You should have told me."

". . . Sasuke is . . . impatient. Impatient for answers and unwilling to strategize. I'm sorry, Kakashi."

Kakashi merely waved his hand away and pushed the remaining food in Shisui's direction.

Another blanket of silence fell over their table, thicker and more suffocating. Kakashi was a genius, but did not have to be one to discern where it was that Shisui's mind automatically drifted and spiraled.

The Uchiha spoke fast, agitated.

"If only—if only my team had not been ambushed, we could have gotten back to the temple on time. Itachi never blamed me, but I could've done something—" Shisui ground the heel of his palms into his eyes, fingers threading through his wild hair. "I still can't believe it. Sometimes I think I even hear voices back at the old house, but it's nobody. . . . Who am I fooling? Not even Sasuke can stand to be there, much less my family's ghosts."

Kakashi had been observing him attentively all this time, tuning out the sound of laughter and the odd bursts of drunken singing echoing in the restaurant around them. In all the time he had known Shisui, he had never seen the younger man this discouraged. In the end, Kakashi picked up the saké bottle and upended the last of their wine into Shisui's already full cup, "Have some more. Morbid humor doesn't suit you."

The younger man laughed, "Fine. When you're right, you're right, senpai."

However, once the floodgates of the past opened, it was difficult for the two nostalgic friends to force them shut once more.

"And then there's something else that Itachi told me . . ."

Kakashi practically finished the thought for him, for Shisui had spoken of it often across the years, never quite able to let it go, "Ah. About Sasuke reigning—strange word to use—reigning. I still can't figure it out."

Shisui leant his cheek against his fist and shrugged listlessly, "He's the last heir. But there's nothing left for him to preside over. Except me, I suppose, and an empty compound we don't even own anymore."

"Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on his part. He was probably delirious with blood loss when he said it," he would never have dared to suggest such a thing before, but years of friendship had eased down the barriers somewhat.

The Uchiha merely shook his head, eyes trained on the wall over Kakashi's unruly hair as he remembered the details of that terrible day, "No. Itachi wasn't like that. You know that as well as I do," he brought his cup up and tilted his head back, let the wine run slowly over his tongue. When he released a heavy breath, a pink fluster began to tinge his cheeks and swell in his lips. He reclined back on his hand, eyes cast to the side and uncaring of maintaining posture, "He knew he was dying. He wouldn't have wasted his breath on useless wishes."

Kakashi nodded slowly, "And where is Sasuke right now?"

". . . Back at the compound."

In warning, Kakashi's eye narrowed, "Shisui."

"Well, he was there when I left. That's actually why I was so late tonight. Sorry about that, by the way."

"No need," to tell the truth, Kakashi truly had been worried. Shisui was nothing if not punctual, and it was not exactly safe for an Uchiha to walk the streets alone. People were afraid of them, and sometimes fear breeds violence. Kakashi knew that from experience. "At least you weren't as late as Obito would have been. Besides, I was late getting here myself."

Shisui chuckled, "Of course. But I'm surprised; it's been a long time since I've heard that name," suddenly, his mood sobered again and he leaned forward with tender concern. "You've been getting better, haven't you? At forgetting? I only hope I can become as fortunate."

"No," Kakashi shook his head. A wayward lock of silver fell over his eyepatch. He looked down at the table, and a distinctly grim nostalgia entered his gaze, the same kind that had overtaken Shisui when observing Itachi's old hoari earlier that night, "not forgetting. Just remembering the best parts. That's the only thing that helps."

When Kakashi snapped out of his reverie, he found his friend giving him a gentle smile, "I suppose you're right, Kakashi. Forgetting is impossible, yet it's remembering the good things that's still the most difficult. Thanks."

He graced Shisui with a familiar eye crinkle, then suddenly slammed his palm down on the table with a hearty thwack, "Now, enough of this bullshit. We're acting like old men, but we're still young yet! Another bottle of saké. I insist."

"Alright, but let me pay for this one."

"Nonsense."

Shisui grumbled, his pride hurt, "We may not have all the Uchiha wealth anymore, but I'm not broke."

Kakashi, however, was too busy flagging down the proprietor of the teahouse.

Once he caught the shinobi's eye, the elderly man grabbed another bottle from the kitchen and headed over. Before he could reach them, however, he paused, head swiveling towards the entrance in surprise. This move was mimicked by nearly all the establishments' guests, for a large mass of shadows had just ducked beneath the welcome banner.

Everyone fell silent.

Heaving a sigh, Kakashi readjusted his eyepatch so he could rub at his forehead, "Shit. Something must have happened. It's one of Danzō's squads."

Shisui merely snorted, refused to look up from his wine, "Believe me; I know them when I see 'em."

"Good evening, Daichi," Kakashi glanced briefly over his shoulder at the small squadron.

Daichi, the head of Danzō's guard, fidgeted and rolled his shoulders under his senior's passive hostility. Deciding to forego all niceties, he ground out, "Utatane Koharu has been murdered."

A blanketed hush fell over the already quiet room.

Practically inflating at the attention, Daichi leered sideways at the other shinobi seated at Kakashi's table, "Where's your cousin, Uchiha? That ought to make our jobs a lot easier."

"That's enough," Kakashi stood in a regal dark blur.

Contradicting the swiftness of that first movement, he ambled forwards from the kotatsu, lazily fixing the folds of his blue yukata.

"It's alright, Kakashi," still refusing to stand in the guard's presence, Shisui continued to eat. Unfazed, he spared them a brief glance from his peripherals, "Sasuke is at home where he belongs."

Daichi only sneered, "We'll just see about that—"

"For the life of me I don't understand why Danzō-sama sent you here first. Why don't you follow your actual leads before throwing yourselves forward headlong?" still slouching, Kakashi approached the squad captain until they stood toe-to-toe. He ignored the anxious gasps from Daichi's men and eyed him with barely-veiled distaste. "And isn't it fortunate that you are so concerned? Lady Koharu—rest her soul—happens to be immediately found, while some impoverished goat herder could have been murdered in the mountains months ago, with no such uprising from the kind authorities."

Shisui listened to the exchange with an amused but somber half-smile. Only he, and perhaps Sarutobi, knew why such blatant favoritism bothered Kakashi so much. And it most likely always would. If anyone besides Sasuke could understand Shisui's sense of loss and betrayal, it was Kakashi.

Daichi winced yet, rather than a direct blow, it appeared more like a crack in a portrait of anger, "Koharu-sama was a member of the Hokage's court. You can't possibly expect us to know everything—"

Kakashi waved his hand sideways in dismissal, "I know, I know. Where was she killed?"

"On the road to Iwagakure."

"Iwa?" Kakashi frowned, "I was told she was staying in Tokida."

"She was, but she left in the middle of the night to attend a meeting with Iwa's council."

Kakashi hummed and peered for a moment at the ground, completely silent. Even though he only had one eye, the obvious intensity of his thoughts made everyone nervous.

"Well, now that you've told me, you'd better leave. I doubt Danzō dispatched you to spend the whole night with me. Of course, you're more than welcome, but I'm afraid I don't have enough wine to accommodate all of your fine men here."

". . ." the captain managed a shallow bow. He peered up hatefully through his lashes.

Sudden, veritable lightning shadowed Kakashi's features, a silent challenge if nothing else, "But not before you apologize."

Behind him Shisui was fumbling to put down his chopsticks, "Hey, Kakashi—that's not necessary."

Kakashi merely continued to stare expectantly at the captain, "I'm waiting."

Daichi hesitated for a moment, lips pursed, before granting Shisui a stiff bow, "My apologies; I was out of line."

With an angry tilt of his chin, the captain dismissed his entire team, then swept the inn with one final glance before turning on his heel and following behind. Satisfied, Kakashi returned to the table.

The team had not been not gone two minutes when Shisui suddenly dismissed himself, nearly jolting the table with his shins when he jumped up. Kakashi started.

"Where are you going?"

Unusually frazzled, Shisui bowed to his friend, knowing full well that Kakashi hated whenever he did that. "I'm sorry, but," he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, "I just have a bad feeling about all this."

The one-eyed warrior blinked slowly, noting both the urgency in Shisui's face and the tension visible throughout the rest of his wiry form. Uchiha Shisui had always been known for his reliable instincts, and Kakashi was loath to question them, for they had saved his own ass more than once.

He nodded grimly, "Take the back exit in case Daichi left someone to trail you."

"Tch. As if they could catch me."

He was already halfway to the alley before Kakashi could release the worried chuckle residing in his throat.

"Hatake-san?"

"Hm?" he turned and saw his host standing by the table with a fresh bottle. His hand had already darted into his sleeve, retrieving his favorite orange novel.

"Still care for more saké, Hatake-san?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

His gaze slanted sideways to entrance. The night was dark, bereft of any clouds to exaggerate the moonlight. He saw it in the navy sliver between the floor and the frayed cloth of the welcome banner. An easy gust drifted in, unusually chilly for this time of year. Through his mask Kakashi puffed a burdened exhale.

.

.

.

Sakura crept through the garden on bare feet. The moon shone full and would have given her presence away as it gleamed upon her pale flesh, had she not shrugged earlier into her shinobi gear. She rarely wore the dark blue clothing because most shinobi disguised themselves as civilians when operating in plain sight.

Tonight, however, called for utmost secrecy as she followed the path she had seen her betrothed take after leaving her in the hot springs.

She winced as her feet came in contact with cold, moist earth. Unfortunately, her shinobi footwear had been sent ahead to Konoha with her other belongings, and stomping around in her wooden geta was out of the question. Besides, she was in a hurry.

It only took scant seconds to spot Kabuto's glaring white hair under the moon as he emerged from his room and stepped onto the engawa.

A large stone shrine, stained green and overgrown with moss, sat in the midst of the trees and carefully-pruned plant life. It looked like one of the guardian lions she had seen Sai paint so often.

Staying low to the ground, Sakura sprang forward and ducked behind it, her movements graceful like those of a wild cat from the island mountains, a dusky night creature, sporting eyes flashing and immeasurably bright.

Suddenly Kabuto froze, glanced behind him and into the shadowy eaves of the garden. A ray of moonlight glanced brightly off his glasses as he scanned his surroundings with furrowed brow. Sakura winced. Her breath seized in her throat as time elapsed.

Finally, Kabuto turned away from her hiding place and shut the shoji screen behind him.

Molding her curves against the shrine, the kunoichi peeked out from behind the stone. Moss pressed back against her hands, damp and spongey. If her betrothed still sensed her presence, he showed no indication. He merely ambled leisurely towards the tea house, where lights, gleeful conversation, and the soft trills of a shamisen still streamed from the windowsills. If he was going there to drink and eat dinner, then she should have at least fifteen minutes to scour through his room.

Sakura's brows furrowed in determination. Judging by the content of their impromptu conversation in the bathhouse, he was elbow-deep in something unknown yet definitely unsavory. A lot of expectations—from her father, primarily—were laden upon their marriage. But she would never enter a union with this Yakushi Kabuto unless she could learn more about him and somehow ease her suspicions. He had spoken of a colleague. She needed to find out who that person was, and what they planned to do.

Righting the dark hood that hid her hair, Sakura ducked down in preparation to leave her hiding place—

"Jūgo. Hey, Jūgo, get over here."

Faster than the wind could rustle the branches overhead again, Sakura had darted in the opposite direction of the stranger's voice, ducked under the banister, crossed the engawa, and pressed her body against wall paneling. Verdant eyes gleamed, alert and seeking the source of the voice—so sweet was the adrenaline. Undeniably she had missed this, having seen more medical scrolls than shinobi field work in the passed six years.

There was silence for a long while afterwards. Then a flash of bright orange from behind the trees, before a large shadow disappeared within an open room.

Convinced that the large figure and the owner of the voice were somewhere inside and no longer in the garden, Sakura sped back towards the stone statue and launched herself into a nearby tree. The branches barely quaked beneath her slight, carefully-distributed weight. Not even a leaf fell.

"There you are," the same voice hissed again, louder and closer this time. "Jūgo, where the hell were you? Look, I've been finding gold and jewelry all over the place. These people are loaded."

A tense pause.

"You know he's not going to like that."

Sakura leaned closer, hands braced carefully on two diverging branches. That second voice had sounded deeper and much calmer, a direct contrast to the other.

"And? Who's going to tell him?"

"I think you should put them back, Suigetsu. We're only supposed to check the rooms of Koharu's assistants. And they'll be back soon; we do not have much time."

"And just how many times have we done this? We're never going to find those damned deeds anyway! I say we leave him to do his own dirty work; he's the one with the disguise. Now make those muscles of yours useful and help me haul everything over the wall."

Once more, the placid voice repeated, "He's not going to like that."

Koharu? They were robbing Koharu?

If this was the case, this was something Sakura certainly did not want to get involved in. She heard the impatient man heave an sigh, and then a wet sound as if he had just spit on the floor—then abrupt silence. She ceased all movement, eyes and ears straining in the darkness. Only after several minutes had passed without incident did she jump back to the ground, landing in a tight crouch.

It seemed they had opted to escape through the inn's hallways, rather than take the outside paths. Once she convinced her frazzled nerves that they had truly gone, she sprinted across the garden and sidled besides the screen door of Kabuto's room.

With nary a sound she slid it open and tucked her form inside like an indigo shadow.

.

.

.

The search proved somewhat of a disappointment.

She had indeed uncovered medical supplies, including standard shinobi weaponry and a hoard of medical books. The kunoichi had not dared search the entire stack, but a quick perusal of the first few scrolls and bound books revealed that they were not much different from her own research notes.

With a measured glance around the dark courtyard, Sakura stepped out of Kabuto's room and shut the shoji screen behind her. She turned right on the engawa to retreat back to her own room. But her chilled feet barely made it halfway down the walkway when one of the screens flew open with a restrained thwack.

Everything happened so quickly. It was as if the arms of darkness itself reached out from within the black room and yanked her backwards. It was a marvel that anyone could have seen her through the screen—much less that Sakura herself had not sensed the attacker waiting for her.

A large force—surely it was a man, for she could feel his breath bearing down on her from above—restrained her arms and pulled her inside the room. The screen shut behind them.

At first she thought this must be one of the two thieves, but he was not big enough to have been the orange-haired man, and she was pretty certain that the other one would have insulted her by now.

Then she felt the cold press of a porcelain mask against the back of her head, and reasoned that this must be the third man, the one with the disguise that his accomplice had spoken of so snidely.

A spike of fear breached her chest.

All at once she dropped her weight and wrenched herself around, freeing her body of the harsh grip and barely evading the slash of his descending kunai. The moment she saw the entire span of his regalia, her heart rate escalated. The sound rang loud in her ears, and she instantly thought back to the sketch in the news pamphlets.

Aside from the strip of skin around his eyes, the figure was clad completely in black and the darkest hues of blue. Even his eyes were pitch as pits of molten ink. Standing there in the moonlit doorway, he did look almost inhuman. Like a—her mind hesitated at the words, but found no others suitable—like an ascendant spirit.

Danger rattled her spine like a dire warning, and she knew.

She knew with absolute certainty that, the entire time she had been watching Kabuto and the two thieves, this veritable phantom had been watching her.

Her attacker instantly took advantage of her disorientation at having been pulled into complete darkness and, within the span of a second, sent her form careening into a stack of crates with horrendous ease. Her mind blacked out upon collision, and when she regained consciousness her sense of smell was the first to return. The scent of musty fabric, lye, and sweet oils revealed to the kunoichi that she had just been dragged into a supply room.

She also smelled sweat. Muted pine. And an underlying strain too base and subtle to be smoke—fire, maybe, or the lingering scent after rain.

She had just begun to pick herself up with a groan when a muffled voice deadpanned from the darkness.

"Who are you?"

Quickly, the kunoichi readjusted the fabric that masked her face. Broken wood jabbed into her skin, making Sakura wince as she stumbled to her feet. She fought to regain her breath and the voice spoke again—this time, furious.

"If I find out that they sent you—"

"Wait," she released a ragged breath, "who's 'they'?"

Her fists clenched. Giving her attacker no chance to answer, she sprang up and barreled headlong in the direction of the voice, kunai braced in her fist. Almost immediately, a gloved hand snagged her wrist, pulled her forwards and to the side. She gasped.

Cold metal dug into her skin where only fabric and fingers should have been, drawing blood. It was as if the hand bore claws. Talons.

She panicked, flashed back to the drawing of a man in tengu garb. Though her mind reeled, Sakura knew that if this was really just a man in disguise, then she stood a chance. More than a chance.

Jade eyes narrows dangerously and the medic's free palm slammed into her assailant's chest. He stumbled back but did not let her go. Simultaneously, her restrained hand dropped the kunai; her now free fingers surged forward and dug into the pressure points of his arm, points that she had spent years studying. She entrenched her fingers in harder, cringing as the claws answered by slashing deeper into her forearm. Refusing to give in, she focused her energy towards her straining fingers and tightened her grip. The man released her with a startled hiss.

Immediately Sakura backed away. She could hear him flex and shake out his arm.

Hopeful, she bit her lip; it would take a while for any feeling to return below his elbow.

They sized each other up in the dark, circling inside the small room. Like all ninja, she was used to fighting in places where there was little light, but not such pitch blackness. She missed the moon.

Her opponent, however, did not seem to suffer from such a handicap. Just what had he been doing to make him used to such environments?

When he rushed forwards, Sakura's eyes widened in alarm. She had hoped that incapacitating his arm would have bought her at least twice as much time. But he was on her already, aiming a jab for her face.

Sakura dodged to the side and propelled her knee up towards his exposed abdomen, but she only met air. The atmosphere dispersed behind her, and she spun on her heel just in time to block her neck from a roundhouse kick. Her forearm took the brunt of impact from the man's shinobi boot. Luckily, she heard no bone snap.

Once his body completed a circle from the momentum, dark cloak swirling about his form, his scent blasted Sakura's face. Time seemed to slow. It was the unidentifiable smell from earlier. Like forest, earth, and musty weather.

Something about it smelled familiar and she wanted to try and remember, but a fist, claws and all, had been hurled towards her face and all of her energy went into ducking beneath the blow. As she rose again and vaulted backwards, she plucked a senbon from her sleeve and threw it up diagonally, just as Kakashi taught her to aim at a target coming in sideways, and waited.

The immediate gasp of pain that followed brought her relief, but it did not last for long.

A gust of air rushed passed her ear. Her other hand darted for a second senbon. Before she could release it, however, her bleeding arm was wrenched back. A high-pitched clang sounded against the floor—her senbon meeting wood—then she was kneed viciously in the stomach and thrown backwards once again into the remaining pile of crates.

This violent response from her opponent had not even been calculated; it was almost like a well-honed reflex that had elapsed before she knew what had happened. Never before had she faced an opponent with such an impenetrable self-defense.

Something hot and wet dribbled down her forehead. Everything ached. And although the room was dark, she could tell that her vision had gone blurry. Her mind urged her to move, but her body refused to respond, and she lay prone on her back amidst the splintered wood.

Then she heard it. A broken intake of breath from across the room.

Several ticks of silence passed in the darkness as the dust settled. She could hear her opponent's labored breathing, could still smell him through the din and the scent of old cleaning rags.

Then, there was a panicked cry from outside in the corridor. Sakura recognized it as the voice of the impatient thief from before.

"Hey, where the have you been? Will you hurry the hell up? He's been holding them off but Jūgo's in trouble."

The masked man seemed to hesitate, boots scraping over the dusty floor before halting again. Seconds ticked by. Then two long strides vibrated through the floor boards, and the obscured figure, little more than a shadow, nudged the screen open.

There was a whispered exchange, most of which she could not hear.

Moonlight and a breeze streamed inside.

The milky gleam cascaded down the kunoichi's form, roused her gradually.

Cloudy green eyes opened, their pupils narrowing in the new light source. Sakura grit her teeth against the pain, knowing that if she made a sound she would probably start crying. Her head pounded. Both forearms stung. She could feel the bruise forming in her midsection.

She might as well have just had a fight with a natural disaster. And she grew stunned to discover that very opponent still standing in the doorway.

His face was turned to the side, but tilted down so that she knew he was looking at her. The moonlight outlined half of his form, the ominous, beak-like contraption hiding his lower face, a billowing cloak, an arm of lean muscle—still somewhat limp from her attack—and a kunai gripped in a gloved hand which, sure enough, bore a set of claws running from the man's first knuckles and passed each fingertip. The hilt of a sword peaked over one shoulder.

They observed each other in the silence. Both were mindless of the frustrated whispers calling in from outside. Sakura could not see his eyes but could almost feel that he was staring at hers.

He took a step forward.

The medic tensed and reached towards her weapon's pouch. Her vision still blurred, but she could just barely make out the height of his form as he approached. Then, in a move that both shocked and relieved her, he sheathed his kunai somewhere inside his sleeve. A sudden tear rent the air between them, and then part of his cloak was gone. He folded the black fabric into a neat square and, before she decided to withdraw the shuriken at her fingertips, he pressed the smooth cloth against her head.

That was when a final curse hissed at him from outside, louder and ruder than the last time.

"Tch," he turned quickly, hastened to the entrance, and disappeared through the opening.

It took Sakura a while to realize what he had just done.

Lips parting, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Most would have collapsed from the pain, but her honed will stubbornly overpowered the temptation. A wave of dizziness overtook her, so she remained seated until it began to dissipate. She fished around in her sleeve, withdrew a small paper packet, and brought it to her nose. She breathed in deeply, allowing the scent of ginger to relieve her panicked nausea.

Minutes elapsed. When she finally felt ready to stand, she pushed herself up and stumbled outside. Her shaky hand nearly ripped the screen off the rail. Once she returned beneath the night sky, however, the vertigo returned. Even if she managed to find her room through this haze, the authorities might show up at any moment, and she could not risk making it back unseen.

One hand securing the cloth to her head and the other holding her abdomen, Sakura limped towards the shadowed part of the engawa and reclined beneath the railing. With a trembling hand, she reached into the pouch at her leg and retrieved a grey, grainy pill.

She had just swallowed it when a disturbance in the calm beckoned her attention from across the courtyard. For a moment she wondered if the thieves had been caught.

Her gaze flashed towards the sound—as much as her heavy head would allow as it lolled against the bamboo. Metal sang through the air.

Then a limp body crashed through a closed door on the other side of the garden, completely demolishing its integrity to a jumble of fractured beams and torn paper.

And he was there, a veritable blur vaulting out of the opening he had just created by using the guard as a battering ram, who currently still laid strewn unconscious upon the grass.

Heh. He seemed to enjoy throwing people around.

Suddenly a throng of armored men swarmed after him through the breach in the wall. He only backed up casually, however, calm as he watched them draw their weapons and assemble around him in a large circle. His hand rose over his shoulder.

Clawed fingers wound about a hilt coated in dark lacquer.

There was a deft click, then a flash of silver as blade met dusky air.

A sword is a sensual thing.

A paradox, it is wrought and meticulously crafted as the finest art, yet created to bring forth blood and butchery. Even if one wielded it to protect others, that was all it could truly be capable of.

He had the majority of them killed or incapacitated within the first span of seconds, but then at least two of them ambushed him from behind.

Sakura called out and he turned.

Perhaps she had saved his life with that warning.

But she would never know, for she could barely tell which way was up, and the brutal urge to vomit forced her to clamp a hand over her mouth. She was too delirious to even wonder why she had tried to warn him in the first place. Mere minutes ago, he had been her own adversary. Was it because he had tried to help her? Had he? She felt the cloth from his cloak still in her hand, damp with blood, and tightened her fist around it.

The lone man was able to avoid their ambush fairly easily, but Sakura saw one of them swing a blade at his neck while he was preoccupied with another guard. He must have heard the noise, for he pushed his other adversary out of the way and dodged back and to the side. Still, the blade made contact, revealing pale skin as it parted black fabric and sliced inward. Sakura wondered if her damaging his pressure points earlier was still limiting control of his arm.

Despite being wounded, the tengu completed his evasion with a smooth, spinning arc around one ankle. As his body circled back in the next fraction of a second, his arm spun out, a clawed hand catching his final opponent on the ear and thrusting him face-first to the ground. There was a thud and a muffled cry. Then silence.

Another wave of nausea made Sakura close her eyes. When she forced them open again her vision blurred, fading in an out until it darkened completely.

.

.

.

Sasuke gingerly brought his hand away from his shoulder. He glared down at his fingers, the blood smeared there.

It was uncommon for him to get injured so easily. Undeniably, however, he had been distracted.

The alarm had already been raised; guests awakened by the scuffle began rushing into the inner halls, alerting their various guards and the management with indignant cries. Most were screaming about their belongings having been stolen.

Suigetsu. Sasuke pursed his lips in irritation.

Thankfully, at least, Jūgo and the idiot had fled long ago. The Uchiha's initial instinct was to follow them over the wall. But his attention was immediately drawn back to the walkway on the other side of the courtyard.

He rushed down the engawa. The vibrations of commotion echoed from within the inn behind him.

And he nearly stumbled over her body.

Next to her head, he immediately stooped down. Mindful of his metal talons, he slipped a hand beneath her nape and turned her face towards the light. A soft moan echoed from beneath the insulation of her cheeks as his warmth seeped through his glove and into her skin.

"Tch," he ran dark eyes down the rest of her form. Bitterness formed in the pit of his stomach as the destruction of his own handiwork conveyed itself in the cruel moonlight.

His attention stilled on her limp hand, the swatch from his cloak clutched between little fingers. Dainty in a way, yet callused.

Sasuke winced—a stoic downing of his brow and a deepened frown. He knew those fingers—had often been touched and prodded dotingly by those fingers.

"The rooms are clear. Check the gardens."

Footsteps thundered from across the courtyard. Only the central cluster of trees around the bridge shielded them from the oncoming guards.

Shit. Suddenly aware as the fog cleared that she might have a concussion, Sasuke applied pressure to her uninjured shoulder and shook her. She groaned, turned her head towards the sound of his breathing. Though her eyes remained shut, the Uchiha could tell she was also listening as the guards crashed through foliage and across the bridge.

Urgency overwhelmed the last of Sasuke's patience. He plucked the folded cloth from her hand and slipped his arms beneath her, careful to cradle her neck. After only a quick glance upwards, he hoisted her up into the rafters.

He climbed up after her, pushed his back against the wall where the engawa's overhang met the inn roof, and situated her limp form over his lap. With his unoccupied hand he reached backwards and pulled his sword free, sheath and all. His fingers strained to wind the ties around his waist so that the chokutō settled against his leg. The entire position was uncomfortable; he had to prop one foot on the wooden beam in front of them in order to keep their combined weight from tumbling forwards.

He peered down through the crossbeams just in time to see the guard platoon rush by beneath them. Cautiously, he braced his forearm over her collarbone and pulled her back against his chest.

She let out a soft mumble of pain, and he ducked his head closer to hers. Her eyes were still closed. Brash as usual, he slipped the face scarf down to her neck and, for the first time in six years, he saw her face.

Her hair was still tucked beneath the navy cowl of her shinobi garb, but he did not need to see it to know what color he should find. It had been many years.

But he knew her.

Of course he did.

Languidly, he trailed his gaze from her ears down to her throat. He rarely came down from the mountains anymore and did not interact closely with anyone; therefore, he found it difficult to reconcile the annoying child he remembered with the kunoichi before him. He had not thought of her or their past in a long while. Naruto had spoken about visiting her a few times, but Sasuke's mind had been too focused on other things; he could not even remember the last time he had officially trained with Naruto, despite the Uzumaki's frequent visits.

But the similarities—voice, hair, bright eyes, scent—were altogether undeniable. In subtle curiosity, he noted the rise and fall of Sakura's chest. The distinct rhythm, the pattern.

She even breathed the same when in duress.

He only hoped that she could not recognize him as easily as he seemed to find re-memorizing her. Memories flashed grudgingly before him; vaguely, he remembered the tears on her cheeks during her abrupt departure, along with Naruto's outraged cursing—most of which had been aimed at her father. He could recall the feeling of his own mind's indifference warring with the worried ache in his chest.

Regret pulsed through him again, dry and dying leaves over a bridge railing. She had been his comrade. Outside of sparring, he had never knowingly hurt her.

He had thought he recognized one of her attacks as one he himself had learned from Kakashi years ago. Not until now, however, had he been certain. It simply had not made any sense that she would be there, here and now of all times, and so he had not assumed.

". . . You smell like . . . blood . . . or is . . . is that my blood?"

Surprised, Sasuke snapped his gaze back down to find that her eyes had opened.

"My blood," he deadpanned, "and yours."

He had spoken so quietly, and his words were further muffled by his mask. She blinked up at him, eyelids fluttering in surprise when he reached up and dabbed at her cut with the cloth. Her brow furrowed and she winced, as if she was trying her best to concentrate—in her mind's eye she was reaching for something, unable to grasp it in her present state.

The intimidating, bird-like mask should have frightened her. Perhaps it would have, had Sakura not seen his portrait in the news pamphlet. Mind fuzzy, she noted that his cloak was gone, the same cloak he had torn her makeshift handkerchief from. And his undershirt was shredded, the fabric peeling away at his shoulder—the one she was not currently using as a pillow. Every once in a while the slit garment would fall farther down, exposing more of his skin. And, every single time, he made a point to adjust it, pulled the fabric back up over his shoulder despite the fact that it was logged with his blood.

Garbled shouting grew louder down the hallway, then echoed up from below.

Both shinobi froze as more men stormed across the garden and began raiding rooms. They looked different from the typical inn guards—more well-dressed and better armed.

Sakura arched a bloodied but speculative brow. Even through her misty vision it quickly became evident that these warriors had been sent in on much bigger authority than what the innkeeper wielded. Her eyelids began to droop.

The tengu leaned closer as the men began to file by directly below them, most likely preparing to cover her mouth should she make a sound.

As he readjusted the cloth over her wound to stop any blood droplets from falling, his sword suddenly came loose from its haphazard placement at his hip. It began to tumble through the rafters, but Sakura reached down and caught it deftly before it fell into the midst of the men below them. The abrupt shift in weight forced the thief to snap his arm forward and brace his hand next to his foot on the crossbeam.

The medic release the breath she had been holding and caught his gaze beneath her lashes.

Surprisingly, he did not appear worried. It was as if he had known she would catch it.

He pushed on the wood with his hand, the force propelling them back to settle once more against the roof. It seemed he was observing her as intently as she was him, and she found it difficult to breathe properly until he leaned away, seeming to have finally reached some conclusion about her.

She felt like she should thank him, but quickly thought better of it. He was a thief. He assumed she was tracking him and had attacked her for it.

And at the thought of that fight, a meditative frown manifested on Sakura's face; perhaps she should have answered him when he had asked for her identity, rather than immediately attacking him in turn.

Without a word, she refastened the heavy blade to his waist and reached up awkwardly to replace his hand on her head wound. She made sure to avoid his gaze, to glance at anything but his face, for it proved uncomfortable to make eye contact when all she could see above his mask was darkness.

As they waited, suspended up there in the maze of polished wood and tense silence, Sakura grew more and more alert. Her medicine was finally beginning to filter through her system. The cloudy weight had vanished from her head. Awareness renewed, she found herself preparing to fight the very instant he showed signs of turning on her. She wanted to move away from him, but was unwilling to risk being spotted by the zealous patrol below, who continued to swarm like ants through the green. Besides, she still did not quite trust her legs.

The noise finally died down when the men went back inside to assure the management that the intruders had gone.

Sensing her discomfort, the thief practically hoisted her off his lap and settled her across from him on the beam. Though still dazed, she balanced herself easily, eyes glued warily to his moonlit talons. She felt his eyes though she could not see them. And a nighttime breeze, surprisingly brisk for that time of year, rushed up into the rafters.

Yet he merely continued to watch her. Several times he glanced at the cloth she still held delicately to her head.

Then he nodded once, and she realized that he was leaving.

Movements smooth, he slung his sword back up between his shoulder blades. He tugged once on the ties to make sure it was secure and jumped down in a furious gale of metal and dark clothing.

As Sakura leaned forward to watch his retreating figure, her eyes widened, the chill returning and leeching the marrow from her bones.

His feet had barely reached the ground when she saw it.

It peeked out from behind the dark, bloody tatters of his shirt like a whispered secret.

A palm-sized patch of black and green ink lines intersecting haphazardly—seemingly without sense or structure—just beneath his skin. The fragmented horimono on the back of his right shoulder, the one she had seen numerous times during her past as a young girl—a past rapidly becoming less and less distant. Surely it had faded slightly with age, had stretched as he grew and his strong back broadened, but there was no mistaking the unique pattern.

His name dominated the shrine of her mind like a resounding toll bell.

Everything—memories, the muffled sound of his voice, that familiar scent she had encountered during their fight—rushed over her with sudden clarity. And it tasted like adrenaline. Only sweeter.

But he had already disappeared beneath the eaves of the inn. His figure stole away without a word, as dark and austere as the velvet night, and the air rushed in to fill the space his presence once commanded.

A/N:

This turned out way longer than expected, but I think I owe it to you after the long wait. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that the atmosphere somewhat accomplishes a historical capacity while still retaining the casual charm of the original series.

Secondly, I am overwhelmingly happy at the response the first chapter received. Thank you, thank you.

I extend my sheepish gratitude to:

Arcireza, Chiikyuggi, Kataangforever2, LadyJaejung, ohsoblue, missjewels, Kiwako, DarknessFlameWolf, Reignashii, sasusaku dream, Cherry-de belle, meantimegirl, sadiaofthenile, HungryLemonGames, SasuSakuKawaii, Princess Ren, meg13bloodrose, Poxxy, urkbun, TsukinoSora, PandaHee, pink-strawberries, sakurarules4eternity, my lovely guest reviewers, and silent readers. And if I accidentally missed your name, I apologize. And I always appreciate your words; I read every single one.

Again, thank you, and please review.

I'm curious as to your thoughts regarding Shisui's relationship with Kakashi (and with Sasuke) and the SasuSaku reunion—unconventional as it may have been. Personally, it was interesting to explore this paradoxical line between estrangement and undeniable familiarity, which is a dynamic of SasuSaku that has always intrigued me as a reader of Kishimoto's work.