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There’s an unsightly black bruise on Sasuke’s cheek; the only part Orochimaru can see of his apprentice, in profile, from where he’s observed him for the past few minutes during which Sasuke has stood, transfixed, in front of the arrangement of sharp weapons mounted on the wall. His student, who had been in this room presumably some two hours earlier, had picked out some measly tantō as his weapon for his training session against his other subjects. It had been a poor choice, and look what it’s earned him. That unsightly black bruise, scraped knees, a number more fractures.
Judging by where he’s standing in the dimly illuminated room, opposite to the arrangement of shorter blades, Sasuke’s learned at least half his lesson.
“It takes years to master, Sasuke,” Orochimaru finally speaks as he stalks out of the shadows. “You’ll need … oh, a decade at least,” and there’s a taunting lilt to Orochimaru’s words. Sasuke’s pretending not to hear, but he doesn’t move, and Orochimaru follows the angle of his chin to look at the blade that his student’s eyes have fallen on.
A chokutō, of all things. Rarely carried nowadays, riddled with disadvantages, and—entirely different from his own weapon of choice. Orochimaru sends his student a curious glance. Sooner or later the time would have come for the Uchiha to train with the sword; it was a necessity borne of his own inclination for it, but he saw it now, and he had seen it earlier during combat, too. The ancient, incessant striving for perfection.The clear frustration when exhaustion demanded he rely on force over style. It was inelegant, unfitting of an Uchiha, much like that terrible thing on his face. But swordsmanship … yes, Orochimaru thinks: Sasuke’s suited to it by blood.
“True swordsmanship requires a complete equilibrium between form and function … I would simply say that not anyone can master it at all. In fact, most swordsmen end up subpar, especially when they have poor teachers … And when that’s the case … ”
It’s only then that Sasuke finally opens his mouth to speak. “Well, isn’t that the point of you?” he snaps, rudely, another one of his endless attempts to test and belittle him.
Orochimaru smiles at the familiarity of it. Was there anything more troublesome in this world than an adored student? And this … is his riveting, fascinating apprentice. The sword he’s caught his eye on is an atypical one indeed. An ancient-style, single-edged blade, and unlike most swords of this period, of rather durable composition. Folded, combined steel showing in the whitish, wood-pattern grain against grey. Sasuke’s choice, while unconventional, shows a delightful kind of intuitive discernment.
“It’s not an art for the fainthearted, Sasuke. A good swordsman must be willing to undergo … a complete transformation: achieve perfection, or die in its pursuit.”
Orochimaru observes the child’s silence, his pensive features: Sasuke blinks once, twice and suddenly his gaze is transformed. Even though Sasuke must be in tremendous pain, there is a newly awakened liveliness in his eyes, the rush of an epiphany. What passes through Sasuke is a feeling that Orochimaru knows all too well: the desire to throw oneself into this abysm, to destroy oneself, and be reborn.
“What is it that you want, Sasuke?”
Sasuke’s eyes have still not shifted, but his eyebrows furrow slightly, and a new decisiveness sets in before all trace of emotion disappears from his features once more. “You said it would take a decade to master,” he spoke, finally turning his head to his teacher. His tone is perceptive, traces of a payback taunt, because he’s always been clever, and he knows just what Orochimaru wants to hear. “I’ll do it in three.”
Orochimaru smiles again, pleased. “Then let’s see how this one does as your companion, shall we?” he finally says, and motions his student to reach for the sword.
***
Sometimes, when the moon is high in the sky, and Juugo, Karin, Suigetsu are all passed out from exhaustion on the grassy field, the only thing that can give him solace from his own sleeplessness is this: the soothing, rhythmic ritual.
Sasuke picks up his companion, and pulls the pieces apart: mekugi first, tsuka next, all that remains is the blade, and this he caresses gently with the uchiko ball in hand, all movements replete with all of the same tenderness and fastidiousness he's carried with him since childhood.
For the next few days his hands are going to carry the scent of the clove oil on the piece of cloth he uses on the blade, and distractedly, he thinks of how it will bother Juugo. He sees it, each time, in the way Juugo’s nose wrinkles slightly when Sasuke brushes his fingers against his face—but he never complains. (If anything, every morning after nights such as this Juugo looks at him only with the slightest concern that Sasuke doesn’t know where to place.)
His small ritual lasts an hour or so. Finally, he puts it all back together: his companion, back to rest in its scabbard, and him, staring up at the sky.
He still can’t sleep, but at least he can think again about the path before him, his fate & destiny. Soon, he will kill his brother.