Author: Lady Hanaka PM
She was like the wind. She was always shifting, never the same from one moment to the next. Some days she was a slight breeze and others she was a tornado. She was complex and confusing and a jumble of emotions that threatened to encompass him. OneshotRated: Fiction M - English - Angst/Romance - Itachi U. & Sakura H. - Words: 1,179 - Reviews: 65 - Favs: 104 - Follows: 10 - Published: 01-22-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4028051
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
(A\N: I was listening to the theme song for Requiem for a Dream. Nice song. :D And I just had to write this oneshot. Another ItaSaku. No, this has nothing to do with Maelstrom, so nobody freak out or anything. It is not part of the Ripple in the Pond storyline. Just a random thought that popped into my head. Enjoy!)
She was like the wind. She was always shifting, never the same from one moment to the next. Some days she was a slight breeze and others she was a tornado. She was complex and confusing and a jumble of emotions that threatened to encompass him.
But she always seemed to blow past him as well. Because she was the wind, and it never stayed in one place for very long. It was ever moving, ever changing.
When he had first met her she had been a large gust. She had screamed at him, told him she hated him because he had ruined 'Sasuke-kun's life. The gust tore at him—because he had never known someone who had hated him so much just because of his brother. He knew those who were disgusted with him, who feared him. But her hate was pure and strong. It tore at him, icy and cold and full of rain during a windy storm.
She had not attacked him—the Kyuubi had. He could see the storm in her eyes, however. He could see how much she wanted to kill him, because that is what powerful winds do. They destroy. They rip tiles from rooftops and hinges from windowsills.
But he was instead hit by a Rasengan, a different kind of wind altogether. Not true wind, an imitation. He did not like this wind. It hurt him—but it was not the real him. He was far from that place. His body was not there, and so the wind could not hurt him—imitation or real.
Again he had met her, and then she was a soft breeze. She was sitting down in a field of flowers playing with a little girl with charcoal colored hair and bright green eyes. She was laughing and the weather was cool and calm. She was warm and there were only a few clouds in the sky. Perfect, just enough wind to rustle the leaves.
The little girl had laughed and skipped and danced with the butterflies. Butterflies that fluttered in that soft breeze, because it was too placid to harm them, too gentle and loving to kill such fragile creatures.
And she had turned to him—because the wind always knows who is coming past it, can always tell as it blows across fields and bends wheat stalks until they become an ocean of amber and golden waves. She had smiled, because the wind is happy and dances when it is free. It sings soft songs as it flows past rocks and over water. It whispers secrets through the trees and caves, and he caught them because they were his secrets.
The wind was his secret, and so was the little girl with the black hair and the green eyes.
The next time he had met her she was a maelstrom. Tears were running down her face as she ducked and hit and punched. Stones shattered. People screamed and she was crying softly. But it did not matter, she did not budge. A storm does not stop for anyone. It does not heed mankind's orders or demands. She told him to run as the hunter-nin neared. The green-eyed wind child with the black hair was gone and it only fueled the rage of her storm. She held enough force to topple buildings and uproot trees with her wind.
The next time he had met her was in the dead of night. She was lying in his bed and everything was completely still. There was nothing there except the two of them. And he let himself be touched by the wind, and it brushed past him with cold fingers, searching. And there was still nothing but him and the wind, a soft, almost nonexistent thing. Nothing at all really. The calm before the storm, the peaceful weather in the eye of a hurricane. Because her powerful gusts and raging storms were spent now, as she grieved for the black-haired green-eyed wind child. And he grieved with her, because the little girl was not all wind, and the other part was his.
The last time he met her…she had become a breeze again. A whistle through the trees that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. She had whistled past him—between them. His hand struck her stomach and he felt himself become covered in a hot, red, liquid. Wind does not bleed…he stumbled backwards, staring down at his hands as his fingers shook, blood dripping from them.
He heard Sasuke yell as he ran towards her and she fell to her knees. She was not moving. The wind was not blowing and that frightened him. Wind must always blow. If it does not it cannot survive. Even in the eye of the storm the wind can be felt.
But there was nothing here. The air was stagnant.
He could not understand…the wind is always moving. There is always wind. But she was a fading breeze now, not even enough to hold up a child's paper kite. Not enough to rustle the blades of grass on a cool spring day.
She could not go because without the wind there was nothing. Just a thick feeling in the back of his throat as he tried to swallow, and a pain constricting in his chest.
The blood continued to drip from his fingers, falling to the ground. Hitting the grass that still rustled slightly with the dying wind.
His brother was holding the wind, and that should not have been possible either. He was holding her to him even though the wind is intangible and it is not possible for people to hold it in their hands. It touches and whistles past. It does not stay in one place for too long.
Yet his brother held the wind, cried for the wind.
The wind bled, and Itachi could not understand.
The wind does not bleed. It is air. His hand…it should have gone through her. A weapon, a jutsu, these things cannot harm the wind. It is untouchable, unreachable. It comes and goes, but it never dies. It never bleeds.
But she was the wind, and she was bleeding.
Sincerely, Lady Hanaka)