DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN IT.
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She's not Sakura, but she'll do. Your last remaining goal will be easy and pleasurable to fulfill. And then you can die.
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There is a tenative elegance in her hands that has nothing to do with her training- it all came down to her breeding.
In all things she is gentle, so gentle.
She doesn't mean for the things she holds to break so easily, but she holds them so loosely that they tend to slip free.
She holds things so loosely that they tend to slip free, regardless of her panicked attempts to delay their fall.
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In a cupboard, in a room, in a house, in a village on the other side of the country there is a small collection of blank eyed dolls that rest against one another. All are fair skinned, pale eyed, dark haired and silent, porcelain hands clenched in an eternally loose-fingered pose. Their heavy heads loll awkwardly while their bodies, propped up on stands, rigidly hold their high shouldered stance.
You have no concept of the reality of the emotional attachments a girl could form with these infant-like charictures of a woman.
Dolls were useless wastes of artistry in your eyes.
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It was quite by accident that you removed her from the village and brought her home, to your home, with you.
She'll fit your needs.
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She can play music and paint, knows how to operate the intricacies of a formal tea service and can entertain guests while remaining completely silent. She plays shogi well enough to keep your interest, but as a rule never wins a single game. She can speak a moderately impressive number of languages and is as well traveled as a girl of her age and position should respectfully be.
But in all things she merely performs, never participates. She is coyly disinterested in everything- save watching and waiting.
Hinata has reflective eyes. When you grin you can see your face stretching wolfishly.
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She's not Sakura, but she'll do.
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You occasionally disturb her moments of rest with your demand for her. If she minds, it doesn't show. When you enter her room- separate from your own, of course- she sits in a gentle slouch against the lounge, the soles of her feet a delicate pale pink that peek out at you from beneath her thighs. Her back is to you and you trace the line of her form with your eyes before posturing your request.
She neither flinches nor stiffens in surprise at the expletive you use to describe what require.
She rises and turns her white eyes to you.
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Years ago the same scene played out in a different place. She rested on her bed, silent and still, when you landed in her room from her full length open window.
In her hands there was a doll with red hair and glassy blue eyes. A European creation.
Hinata's fingers never even trembled. She didn't even blink. She rose, turned to face you, surveyed your active curse seal, and said nothing.
In the background, the doll cupboard was open.
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Instead of fighting, instead of crying, instead of calling out for help, she lay beneath you, neither prone nor particularly disinterested in your actions. She simply was. You want to ask why this was but decide you don't really care.
Where is Sakura? Where did she go? Why did she leave you?
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She doesn't stutter anymore because she doesn't talk.
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Within a few weeks she's pregnant. She isn't Sakura, but you guess she'll do.
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Maybe you're worried that she won't make an attentative mother. Maybe you pity her. Maybe you hope to spark some sort of reaction from her.
Whatever the case, you bring her her dolls.
Her reaction?
She smiles, thanks you, and drifts back off into whatever mental hide-away she has created for herself.
"Hn," you say.
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She dies in childbirth.
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You keep her dolls for years. The mother of your children, some vaguely pretty but ultimately insipid female, is unable to understand your reasons for keeping them.
They stay in a cupboard in your room- you retain a separate room from your wife, of course- and you allow them to gather dust. If Hinata had seen this she might have frowned in a mildly concerned way.
You consider this action revenge. She killed your would-have-been son with her death.
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You dream of Sakura and ask yourself again where she went.
The memorial in Konoha bears both Sakura's and Hinata's names.
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Your children are entering a ninja academy of their own when you commission out two dolls to be made.
You make an usual request for a doll with pink hair, and, almost as if on whim, order a second one with white eyes.
The doll maker seems to understand.