Work Text:
“ ... concerning news… ”
“ ... from the Hidden Leaf… ”
“ ... the Uchiha… ”
“ ... he did it. He killed them all. Even his own parents. ”
Remaining prudently silent, he listens. Observant of the constant whispering rising from one side of the room to the other, making it impossible to discern the actual content of the discussion except for a very few details here and there. But even then, those are the details that matter the most. The entirety of the Uchiha clan being whipped out of existence by one young promise of their own, no less.
Unsurprisingly, and despite the growing interest among the council members, the room was suppressed in a cold-tense atmosphere. More and more questions kept rising and once they were voiced out loud, no answer came. It was a delicate matter, after all. Even if the tragedy had occurred in another village, the scenario where a sole clan prodigy was capable of erasing a whole community like that- one of the founder clans… it made the elders raise eyebrows in disbelief and the youngsters among them fidget in their seats with anxiety.
But then, there is one more thing that raises alarm within the meeting. The Kazekage’s dead-silent demeanor, attentive to the conversation but depriving them of his thoughts. It is not until someone at his right acknowledges him directly that the Fourth Kazekage wakes up from his stupor.
“Lord Kazekage, what should we do of this…?”
Having had hold of the position since a very young age, Rasa is aware of the intent behind such inquiry. He’s the leader, so it is only to be expected for his opinion to be voiced regarding the neighboring village’s tragedy. Whether this could be a starting point they could take advantage of, given the undeniable resentment towards the Leaf’s and the Sand’s Feudal Lord himself. The issue comes from his subject’s question and the way his shoulders flinch subtly due to the similarity with a sleeping memory; it brings up the smell of blood, of life and death happening right at the same moment and the shattering cries of a newborn flooding his mind.
Karura comes to mind. Her death and the subsequent responsibilities he had to carry on with despite his grief. Because he is Kazekage first and a grieving husband after. But then, he sternly reminds himself, this matter only required his reasoning as Kazekage. The Uchiha name bore no commitment to his persona, nor was there a corpse waiting for his approval to be dismissed with respect. He had no relation to the massacre and whatever nausea had settled at the bottom of his stomach was of no interest for his council.
He breathes in then, directing his attention towards everyone and no one in particular within the room. “As it is, we have far too many businesses of our own to deal with now. Our Jinchuriki has proven to be a failure. Even if there was a chance to benefit from Gaara’s bloodlust, it wouldn’t be enough to back us up.”
His eyes sweep through the stern faces surrounding him as the council considers his perspective. There is both agreement as there is judgement among them. Still, given the forthright manners he was known for, the meeting comes to an end right away without further protest.
They whisper once he retires from the meeting room. Whether it is about the Uchiha’s tragedy or his refusal to take advantage of it, with the Sand’s best interests in mind, he decides to ignore them all. Similarly as he ignores Gaara’s cold glare when he steps by the corridor. There is no eye-contact exchange nor unsaid words whenever they cross each other’s space and yet, the brief moment is enough for people to notice there is more to what the Kazekage has let on in front of his advisors.
As expected, they all come to the wrong conclusions. They divulge about the Kazekage’s concerns, that the Uchiha tragedy might be some sort of hint of what somber destiny could befall the Sand, him, having an unstable monster breathing their same air. The Kazekage’s afraid, or so they say. Thus the sudden self-inflicted isolation, the insomnia and the lack of appetite.
He doesn’t try to dissuade them from the idea, even when it’s completely ridiculous to think he’d be afraid of confronting his own blood if the situation got out of his control as such. He’s not Fugaku Uchiha.
It’s the first time he evokes the name ever since word came from one of their spies in the Leaf, after three nights filled with insomnia. Even when it was but a flying rumor, Rasa had firmly shoved it to the depths of his conscience and refused to visualize the face of the deceased head-clan.
But right then and there, the Kazekage allows himself to be stripped of his mantle if only for a moment; for once he reminisces his name it becomes impossible to stop the flare of memories spreading through his mind, burning a hole on his chest, where he would storage everything and anything that was of no benefit for the Sand, and consuming what’s left of feigned indifference on his face.
Seeking asylum on the nocturnal skies and shallow air of the dunes, he conjures scenes only registered in memory. Of a time when he was an apprentice and the weight of the world was yet to be relegated over his shoulders. Back then, when he had no one to connect with beyond his title and the expectations that his position as the Third Kazekage’s successor granted him.
“ Honored to meet you, Rasa-dono. ” he recalls, from the first time. And it pinches his throat the realization that the memory of said voice has started to fade with time and distance in-between. Overly formal and barely expressive Fugaku. Somewhat too soft, just the way Leaf shinobi are. Ambitious too, in a way that did not fit that piece of wasteland.
The freezing breeze of the desert caresses his burning cheeks. Not a consolation, but a reassurance to the melting anger rising from the bottom of his stomach and clouding his most rational side. He sees red and for a moment, only for a fraction of second, the red that blinds him is that of an hypnotizing glare that can no longer reach him.
Had things been different, had any of them dared prioritize their own interests before third parties, that very same dune would have witnessed their final breaths a decade ago. Embraced by particles of golden dust dancing around and slowly constricting them, the illusion of their gradual demise blurring their gruesome reality.
But, as it is, it remains as such. A mere illusion to cling to in the middle of despair.
.
.
.
you’re missing, but I’m going home. how can I get to where the grass is no longer green?