Chapter 1
The Union

Spring.
Pale rose-colored strands. Viridian ocular windows bearing the uncertainty of what was to become her new life. Milky unblemished skin outside of a simple pale purple mark on her forehead peaks out from the cheongsam of deep rich colors.

She was otherworldly.
An absolute nymph of spring.
An absolute contrast to the ebony strands, pupils, and pale complexion observing her with lackadaisical attempt.

Annoying.

She shifted. Ah.
Had he said it out loud?

Her brows had pinched together from uncertainty to distaste. Her emotions decorating her openly before him. He held no time for her feelings, and wants. He spoke again this time. This time he was intending to. Not to her though. Never to her.

This was war. He did not have time to play the role of husband nor the desire to do so. Her viridian never left his features as if she was digesting all that was before her.

Healer.
That was the only thing that had brought her to him.
Take her before the Senju did.
Madara had been certain of this as if it was the only thing that mattered.

They treated her immediately with subtle interest, but correctly. Recognizing her place as his wife even without question. She would adapt. She would follow without question. She knew her place beside him. The otherworldly creature before him held the recognition of her new status. She did not fight following the Uchiha he had handed her off too.

Strong.
He was told she was strong. Petite hands that held strength that shattered fields and yet hands that could bring forth recovery should she so wished it, and wished it she did. The tales that had been spoke among his clan weaved themselves into a design he could not understand. These tales had come to the forefront of this marriage. The word was bitter, and so very unloving.

This woman did not see sides. She did not recognize Uchiha from Senju. She only recognized the need to heal. She had healed the enemy. She had healed the friend. She had healed the bystander. She had healed in her unknown village, that held unknown clans of no importance in this game of politics and power.

She would know now.
There would be no Senju here for her to give her kindness too.

Their marriage would be dealt with properly upon his return. It would be but simple paper till then.

Stepping softly down the long open hall the painted sky graced his home with colors of reds, and yellows, pinks, and oranges, his home quieting in the wait for nightfall. His steps falling off to gaze at his open garden teasing him with his cherry tree in bloom.

His next mission already given, and set to begin in the early morning—set to begin only half a day after meeting her.

Madara had insisted "She is of convenience and nothing more."

Her muffled cries did nothing to raise empathy within him. His fingers grasping the door as if ready to slide it open at a moments notice. Only hours had transpired between their meeting and when he had casually handed her off to his subordinate, Hikaku, before heading to his mission briefing.

He held the smallest of interest in giving her, her solitude. He found he cared little for such things though sliding the door open. Those viridian eyes find his instantly and he finds himself taking her in once more. Bloodshot, and strained glassed over viridian hold his gaze, as he recognizes their color seemingly brighter in her sorrow. Her rose-colored chin length strands darkened with her tears sticking to her cheeks as the full length spilled around her, and her cheongsam twisted around her form.

He does not waste his time with words—its easier to avoid such things. He was not a man of many words to start. It would be best for her to realize this now. She has now placed her arm in front of her eyes as if to shield her face from his gaze. He takes it from her form giving her as she desires. He could not give her love. He could not give her compassion. He could give her this, though.

His disrobing begins and he hears her shuffle behind him. He holds no interest in this woman to dare look back at her as she begins her own. His sleeping robe settles onto his shoulders as he sets to tie it wrapping it only once before tucking in the fabric. His ears pick up the delicate sound of her shuddered exhale as she slides herself into the futon she had sat upon in her sorrow. He takes his place into his own that is settled next to her. His eyes fall upon her form as he slides himself in. She has brought those long locks to settle in front of her giving way to her neck that dares peak from her robe. He closes his eyes settling on his side to face the wall then to eye the woman who will now become part of his life.

It's not as though he'd be sleeping as it was.

The household is in full life as the sun basks it's rays upon them giving good fortune and hope for success. His armor and honor on display across his being as he prepares for his departure. He finds her at the door way among her handmaid and his comrades. She is held together in more deep rich reds and whites but has taken their fashion in, making it all her own. Her kimono long and detailed showcasing her almost empress status, those long locks braided and tamed no longer spilling from her in waves, and those eyes enhanced and bold with thick liner, and thicker lashes. Their eyes meet as his focus is only fleeting upon his newly acquired wife. He has a victory to claim. A mission to accomplish.

His comrades, those he trusts to help him acquire such victory, seem to share his fleeting focus on her, and grip themselves for their departure. The maid gives her farewells in proper account his wife doing none of the sort. Her viridian showcasing her disdain for the him as he walks past her without a word.

He could care not what the spring nymph holds towards him.

He was there one moment in time and then gone again the next, and yet she could not find it in her to care for the man who had obtained her. Her gifts, and abilities were sought out and now officially acquired, and not by the side she would have foreseen.

The girl could not understand the power struggle of men.

Could she have put up a fight?
Yes.

Would she had lived when Madara Uchiha had come to claim her?
No.

A faint smile decorates her lips as she wanders her way from the door her husband and his comrades have left through. The painted smile is of cheap quality and only serves to hold the place of the firm line her mouth had desired to stay in.

The footsteps of her handmaid are behind her as the handmaid begins to explain what is expected of her. Visitation of another is set to enter her home, and she will not be allowed to explore her new home just yet.

Tears were not needed now. The frustration she had allowed herself to be swallowed by the previous day was no longer a place she could return to. Sakura had known of this man well before she had set her gaze on him. His name was known throughout the land even in the small village she was lifted from. Sasuke Uchiha was a cruel man.

Her clan, the Haruno, held far different traditions, clothing-styles, and treatment among their members. They were small though, and held no large part among the powerhouses that had divided the land.

Little did these two sides seem to realize that in that division there was truly no difference between them when hurt, broken, and dead. There was no definition of friend or foe present. There was only bodies.

The rose-colored newlywed—it made a soft scoff escape her lips as the word played in her mind—looked toward her handmaid stopping in the unfamiliar kitchen that was to become her own.

"Uchiha-sama, your guest is to arrive in only a matter of time. What would you like to serve them?"

She held her hand up to silence any further question, "I will serve them tea. You are dismissed." as if her words held no power the handmaid had made no motion to leave her side seeming unsure.

"Speak." those forever searching eyes found the maids in that moment not pleased. It seemed even with the title being on paper she was not being recognized.

"Pardon me, Uchiha-sama, but would you not like me to assist you in these matters? It would be shameful to leave you to make such things."

Closing her eyes she took in a sharp exhale. So this was the traditions of their women? The maids provided while she was expected to play the roll of doll only to be useful when necessary. These were not her families customs. The wife provided more than just care for her husband. She was to rule her home—when he was not there to do so—in more than just a name carrier.

"No. I will be the one to make the tea, and handle our guest. Please see to your other duties until I am finished with our guest."

The hesitation had lingered but only for a small moment in time before she left her side leaving her to her own devices. The kitchen was large in size and was very much what she assumed was traditional to his people. This man seemed to thrive on his clan, his people, and his traditions.

She would need to adjust. She would need to learn. She would have to bite the tongue that wanted to desperately to hiss.

The guest that come to her had been polite. He held similar appearance and manners that she had found in her husband in the short hours they had gazed upon one another.

Izuna Uchiha.
Brother of Madara Uchiha.

She questioned if all Uchiha men held such a stoic nature and endless pools of ebony that made up their aesthetic. This one held a formality to him though. He knew his power. He knew his place well. He held polite conversation as they touched on the topic that had brought her to where she was now.

Sakura had expected the meeting to be more informational, and yet it seemed he had come to simply check on her meeting with her husband. She gave nods, and short answers. This man before her was seeking something from her and that was all she could be sure of.

The slight upward tilt of his mouth as he had given his farewell sent her skin ablaze with curiosity at what he had found. It was in these moments as he left outside her new home that she realized she had missed a chance. This missed moment in time was a moment she could have used to understand this power crazed clan. It had been blaring her in the face with opportunity and in her guarded manner she had overlooked her chance.

No words ever came from her husband directly she would soon learn as information found its way to her through her handmaid in the early mornings. It had been surprising that she would have heard anything only seven days into his departure. Sakura found it incredibly odd to a point. Fingers ran themselves through her stands as she and the handmaid traveled the town taking in this new place for her to call home.

The stares found her easily enough—how could they not with her stark contrast to the ones who ruled over them with an iron fist? It's easy enough to tell who is of her newly acquired family, and who is an innocent, a bystander, and simply living under their rule. The eyes of the innocent that fall upon her are kind and almost seem to question her existence. Those of the Uchiha look upon her with the subtle interest but dismiss her. She guesses they do not know of her role yet.

They will soon.

The soft smile she had placed on her lips never fell though. The rose-colored woman would let them drink her in and swallow her whole.

The clinic had been one of the first things she had sought to see. Healing was one of her best strengths, and deepest of passions. It was what Izuna said had made Madara seek her out no less.

This place of healing was sure to become one she frequented. If her dear husband had thought she would find her time entertaining the loneliness of their home as he brought pain into the world he was wrong. Observing the seemingly constant fluctuation of people entering and leaving it brought her mind to a place she questioned if she'd ever gaze upon again. It was by no means a large clinic, but no where near as small as the one she had helped in back home.

"Tell me of my home." the handmaid seemed unprepared for her sudden vocal request.

This woman before her spoke so highly of a clan she had only heard the horrors of. She spoke with absolute clarity when describing her husband. She spoke of a pride that Sakura found confusing, and questioned.

"The Uchiha protect us all. They give us hope for peace. They give us a home when ours are gone."

She could feel the smile on the woman's lips without setting her eyes upon her maid, "You do not harbor distaste for the Uchiha?"

The maid stops at her words as if she the words she spoke where foreign and not of their own tongue, "I do not understand your question, Uchiha-sama. The Senju are the ones who have brought about fear, and have taken those precious to us away."

Did war do this to people?
Did war make them take sides and twist the very fabric of black and white?
Did it cast aside the right and wrongs?

This maid, she thinks, will teach her well.

Fourteen days.
Blood splattered.
War torn.
Exhausted.

It is only fourteen days since his departure and he has claimed his small victory for his people. He has gained them another win in this devastatingly long war. The travel back is long with only small talk among his men, and those from other fractions following. Their hearts are bursting with the excitement of returning home.

They are welcomed back with praise and cheer. The lanterns that line the main path through their village light seemingly for them. Flags of deep rich reds, similar he notes to that of the kimono she had worn in his departure, line the road way as vibrantly as the lanterns. Their people look to tend to their every ache and pain. He catches no glimpse of rose-colored hair and then all at once it is wrapping him up completely. Deep within their village at the clinic she is there. She is outside taking people from the line. She is tending, healing, and comforting the spoils of war. The children without homes, and the bystanders caught in the cross fire of this political struggle.

Her lips are turned into a soft smile as she calms the child presently in her care. Her eyes display a humor that only she seems to understand. The lines are long as they await their turn to enter. Yet she continues to pull from the list as if she were apart of the medics inside. The children go to her easily enough, those with families following suit.

The Uchiha do not.

They cannot understand her just as he could not. They recognize her as his wife even though the celebration has not occurred. This nymph of spring has her handmaid in panic at her antics. Their eyes finally meet and the doe-eyed spring nymph holds no shame in what she is doing. She holds no shame in acting as more than his wife.

He finds his steps to her before he knows or understands what he's doing. Those glowing hands of hers leave the injured victim of circumstance, spoils as he would call them. She stands tall to meet him fully in his gaze refusing to back down as if he had come to stop her. Her hand finds its way to his arm. It's warmth covers him as it glows once more. Her lips are pressed in a firm line. She was given to him for this purpose and he does not stop her. She finally breaks the eye contact as her lashes softly close around her optics as if she is concentrating. The flesh under the wrapping is mending and she lets out a light breath as she tastes her words carefully.

"Welcome home, Uchiha-sama."

Her fingers dance across the cloth, and armor as if seeking more injuries. His are injuries are light. He is unsure of this closeness she has took upon herself to create. Endless ebony follows her every move, and in just moments she is gone and he is walking away leaving her to her own devices. The praises and bows that follow those he passes are nothing but a blur as he makes his way to his home.

Sakura finds her husband's routine when home is simple to follow, and easy to work around. The thought that she had, had was proven wrong when she made her way back within her new home. For all the tales of horror, and absolute strength his name carried she had believed she would be scolded for helping heal at the clinic that night.

Only days into his return though she stopped thinking such things. The expectations she had held of him through tales alone where starting to weave themselves into pure myths. This man she stole gazes of kept himself busy. He trained relentlessly for missions to come. This man would always find his way into his garden from the engawa. The beauty it held was not one she had expected or become familiar with in this short span of time. The garden seemed to be his place of retreat when relaxing. This man read quietly and spoke of very little. Conversation was not one he seemed diverse in. She noted his retreat into one room in particular her handmaid she noted did not frequent or explain.

It left her to ponder on her own what was behind those sliding paper doors. It whispered to her curiosity asking to be peeked into. It wasn't until he left one particular morning that she took that moment to enter all on her own, and quickly regretted her curiosity. The guilt of invading this privacy he seemed to hold in this room washed over her instantly.

Those viridian eyes wandered over the kamidana. The memorial shrine was unbelievably beautiful, and yet she felt herself choking as the pictures of the deceased looked back at her. There was no question who they were. Those pictured had been kind in giving their son their best features.

In moments she found herself seated in front of them. Their traditions still foreign to her, and so as not to bring dishonor to them, and to herself she gave but a prayer to them. It is here she hopes for them to have found happiness in the afterlife. There is a hope that they held good merit before King Yan.

She does not wish to impose upon his privacy longer than she already has and slides the door closed behind her lingering in the hallway. The home is enveloped in silence as she finally takes her fingers from the door and presses them to her chest.

How much had this man lost in this war?
Was this his motivation to fight?

Thoughts of what makes this man who he is, and what pushes his actions fall off at hearing him in the entry way. Today she finds it hard to look at him with the same level of disdain she had in his departure. It is forced out in this moment by sympathy at losing such loved ones so early.

The disdain would return in the morning.

The wedding is glorious, and filled with noise outside the shrine. All around them is filled with whispers of hope in this joining bringing forth a good omen, and others look on to recognize this forever binding contract before him.

His mother and father no longer living, his brother a traitor lending his strength to the Senju.

In their place Madara has appeared with his highest of rank.

They share a long stare of understanding before he tells him he was not needed for such an event. Madara simply casts the gesture aside giving into formality establishing politely, "I would not miss one of my right hand's union—especially my sister's son."

The smirk that plays across his features is more than enough for him to dismiss the conversation.

He no longer cares to play politics and only longs to get the traditions over with. He finds himself playing his part as things progress. This otherworldly creature takes such tradition and turns it exotic with those features that so very much are hers seemingly capturing her audience. There is the briefest of thoughts towards if she had fought to not wear the shiromuku. He again finds himself unable to care if there had been a fuss on her end.

They begin their rituals so obviously foreign to the woman beside him. They exchange lucky objects, provide their wedding vows, share their nuptial cups, and continue down the long line of traditions.

He has no immediate family to play the part. Madara, his closest living relative from his mother's side, has taken their place. He finds he is okay with these choices and decisions. Her family is there to play their own part understanding the rituals easily as if practiced. He looks upon these two now understanding how a nymph of spring could be born. Her father's hair was darker but still that of a rose-color, and her mother had not followed their traditions in her cheongsam with viridian eyes showing the same disdain he had found in her daughters.

The Uchiha were not welcomed among all. It was not uncommon. They were thought of as cruel outside of their own and those that followed their feelings and beliefs. He would not find shock in her being a Senju follower. It did not matter. They held her daughter and now she would follow Uchiha.

The reception is quiet and he welcomes the change of pace. His village is bursting in celebration outside more than when the rituals had taken place. He will be displaying his wife among them and allowing them to take full recognition of who it is that they will be following, and obeying in his absences.

Her uchikake is a soft gradient of white to red with gold trimmings, and cranes. It's intricate flowers, and patterns are only overshadowed by the Uchiha fan that stands proudly upon her back. They welcome her with loud praise, and screams. Their flag raised only moments later.

Exhausted is how he would proclaim himself at their displays, and yet he holds his position firm only casting a subtle look to his wife to take note of her virdian eyes showcasing her smile more than her mouth could do alone.

The recognition following the wedding is there in complete form. The whispers are there floating endlessly around her. Many of these are praise for her features, and the resurface of tales of her natural gift for healing. The rest are of distaste for her dirty blood.

They did not find her worthy of him being from an unknown clan. They found no comfort in the stories of her abilities weaving around her and instead rested their ebony windows upon her with distrust. They simply saw no purpose or reason behind Madara forcing their poor leader to marry someone so unknown and of so little quality. They would not dare to utter this whisper any louder.

Bitter—that is what she would call the feeling heavy on her chest.

Yes, she was of a clan that held no importance. There would be no full blooded Uchiha's produced from this union—it was what she assumed had stopped him from laying with her the night they had married. Yet even with the knowledge that they weren't wrong she desperately wanted to prove to them that she was worth far more than they could understand. Those tiny fingers of hers could bring healing, and just as easily destroy the ground before them.

Her viridian ocular window's show the unsure feeling resting in her stomach. How was she to proceed in the slur that has left the persons lips. Confrontation was not something she had expected when she had been making her way through the village. They had done it in the middle of the large crowd among the shopping district no less.

Viridian are now narrowing, and she can feel the words commanding respect coming up from her throat when she is caught off guard by her husband of all people. His shoulder has grazed her own taking the lead in dealing with the fellow Uchiha's verbal assault.

Her husband has grabbed them by the collar and yanked them effortlessly forward. This is where she finds herself lost and taking a step back. Those endless ebony are gone and in their place a deep rich red customary to his—no their—people.

The fear that has overtaken the poor clansmen is painted clearly for all to see. The loud shopping district is ghostly quiet. The noise of the district has died and come to a still so all can stare on at the public demonstration of punishment and a precedence is set for any who wish to question his marriage.

Blood hit the ground, and a cry of terror is heard. No one attempts to save the man who has dared bring an insult to her.

Sakura had been prepared for many things in this marriage, but this—this was not something she could stand by and watch. The verbal slur he had called her along with his vocal disdain for her presence next to his leader was not in league with the punishment playing out before her. The mans body was thrown with little to no effort. Blood spilled from his wrist at the loss of his hand. The poor individual's eyes had turned to the deep rich red that her husband's eyes sported as he let out loud pants coated and laced with fear, and pain.

Her voice was loud and commanding as she found herself running to his aid, "Stop."

The tales of horror that weaved and wrapped themselves around her husband found their foundation once more. The idea that they were myths had been completely discarded. This man was as cruel as they said to even his own people.

Deep rich red orbs, and lips pressed in a firm line was what adorned his face as she stood before him. Her heart is loud and she is sure he can hear it. The terror of this man makes her question her own strength, and abilities. There is fear she cannot do anything to stop him truly if he wishes to continue.

His scowl deepens as he walks past her as if she is not present in front of him. The only thing she can do is follow him with her viridian before assisting the injured man. There was terror at first upon her attempt to help him, and it pains her that anyone would fear her to this extent.

The apology comes next as she heals him, and she can only give a smile cheap in quality knowing that this is not the apology brought by willed recognition. This is the apology brought about by fear. Sasuke has guaranteed that they will respect her out of fear.

It isn't until later when she is in the entry way that the tears fall from her face. She feels his eyes and she can do nothing but shield herself from his gaze with her arm. It does nothing to hide the clear drops that fall from her chin, and it's here that she is completely disgusted with herself.

There is the realization of how much fear she had truly felt watching his public demonstration.
There is the realization that in some sick manner she felt the tiniest bit of pride that her husband had defended her.

Sakura could only do her best to bite her lip in an attempt to silence her desire to give an outward cry. That hint of pride twisted her in unthinkable ways. Even though her husband felt nothing toward her, and maybe even despised her, he had come to her aid.

The disdain she feels towards him had shifted. Hints of it now were felt for herself, and her weakness. The feel of him is gone and it's in the midst of this that she presses delicate fingers to her mouth to let out the strangled cry that had begged for release.