"Musume-sama, may I come in?"
"...No."
Shizuka kept her head down even as the door slid open. "I don't recall giving you permission to enter, Tokiwa," she said, pulling her knees closer, her face hidden.
"Then I must apologize," Tokiwa replied, her voice calm, quiet. Shizuka looked up, her eyes meeting her attendant's with defiance, her tears held at bay by sheer willpower. Tokiwa sighed, the sound weary, as she settled beside her, placing a consoling hand on Shizuka's back. Silence, the kind that settles when no words could possibly help.
"Why?" Shizuka whispered, her voice small, breaking at the edges. "Why must they force us apart?"
She searched Tokiwa's eyes, seeking answers she knew were not there. The older woman's gaze dropped, her silence an answer in itself. Shizuka turned away, shaking off her touch, the injustice roiling within her.
"You may hate Lady Marika for this," Tokiwa began, her voice low, almost a murmur. "But all she does, she does for your future, and for the—"
"I don't want to hear it!" Shizuka snapped, and silence swallowed the room, thick and choking.
Tokiwa sighed once more. "It’s been three days, Musume-sama. You’ve locked yourself away, and we are worried for you."
"I don't care," Shizuka muttered, her voice wavering but fierce. "Leave me alone. All of you."
"All of us? Even Sagiri?"
Shizuka's head snapped up, her eyes widening. "What?"
"Did you think Sagiri would simply wait? That he would do nothing while you disappeared from sight? He’s been wandering the village like some lovesick fool, sticking his nose in every possible place. It’s a wonder no one has knocked him senseless yet."
"He's... here?" Shizuka stammered.
"Of course he is," Tokiwa said, almost amused. "He’s made himself such a nuisance, I’m surprised someone hasn’t taken action already."
Panic surged through Shizuka. She threw the blanket off her knees and ran from the room, ignoring Tokiwa's startled calls. The courtyard was blinding after the darkened room, but she found him easily—her beloved, Sagiri, embroiled in a heated argument with Elder Himeko. The elderly kunoichi, fierce and uncompromising, had Sagiri by the collar, her anger evident as she held him at bay.
Sagiri, dear fool, had not stopped, hurling insults—sharp, colourful—about her "runaway" husband, of all things, a wound that still festered in Elder Himeko’s heart. Shizuka's stomach dropped. She ran forward, yanking Sagiri away just as the elder's chakra began to whip around her, wind gathering in her palm.
"Musume-sama, stay back!" Himeko's voice was an iron edge.
"Please, Elder," Shizuka pleaded, stepping between them. The courtyard fell into silence, all eyes watching as the elder's gaze shifted, assessing. The moment stretched, heavy and breathless, until at last Himeko relented, the wind dispersing. She turned away with a huff, her disapproval evident.
"You disappoint me, Shizuka," she said, her voice laced with bitterness.
The words echoed in Shizuka’s chest, hollowing her out, but she swallowed it down, turning to Sagiri, her eyes blazing.
"Are you all right?" Sagiri asked, concern shadowing his face. Shizuka slapped him, the sound cracking in the stillness of the courtyard.
"Idiot!" she snapped. "Do you understand how close you came to getting yourself killed?"
Sagiri winced, his hand lifting to his cheek. "I’m sorry, Shizuka…"
"Never do that again!"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, meek and sincere, his eyes filled with apology. She grabbed him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist before disappearing from sight, flickering to a place far from prying eyes.
"I’ll never get used to that," Sagiri muttered as they landed, only to be silenced by Shizuka's embrace—tight, almost desperate. She buried her face in his chest, trembling, tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Idiot," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I’m sorry, Sagiri."
"Shizuka? What is it?"
She pulled away slightly, wiping at her tears. "They're trying to marry me off," she admitted, voice hitching. "To someone else—someone who doesn’t even want me. Not as a wife, anyway. He wants… a child. An heir."
Sagiri's expression darkened, his arms tightening around her. "They can’t do that to you."
"They can," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I’m a kunoichi, Sagiri. My loyalty must be to the village. If I run, they’ll hunt us down."
"There has to be something we can do," Sagiri insisted, voice shaking with emotion. "We could leave—go to O'Ozu Island, be with my family."
Shizuka smiled sadly, shaking her head. "It’s not that simple."
"This can’t be it," Sagiri said, his eyes searching hers. "I can’t let them take you away from me—not without fighting."
"What would you do?" Shizuka asked, her voice thick with sadness. "There’s no fight to win here."
"Who is he?" Sagiri demanded suddenly.
Shizuka flinched. "I can’t tell you."
"Why not?" he pressed.
"I just… can’t." Her voice broke, tears welling again.
Sagiri stepped back, jaw tight. He turned on his heel. "Then I’ll find him myself."
"No! Sagiri, wait!" Shizuka lunged after him, grabbing his arm. "Please, you can’t."
"Then take me to him," Sagiri said, his voice low, imploring. "Let me talk to him. Please, Shizuka. I have to try.”
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Shizuka wasn't sure if she was foolish or simply mad. Her heart pounded as she led Sagiri up the spiral stairs of the tower, towards the Uchiha's temporary abode. She hadn't seen her supposed "fiancé" since that last meeting with Lady Marika, nor did she claim to understand him, his temperament a sealed scroll she couldn't hope to unravel. Confronting a shinobi of his calibre over this—it felt like something she ought to prevent Sagiri from doing, but there he was, resolute and stubborn, and here she was, leading him like a lamb to the slaughter.
She stopped before the door, her hand rising but hesitating, her fingertips falling just short. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Sagiri's, pleading, searching. He gave her a reassuring smile, a small nod urging her forward. She sighed, turning back to face the door.
Lady Marika would have my hide for this...
knock knock
"It's open," a disgustingly smooth voice called from within.
Shizuka slid the door open. The room was dim, the air heavy. She met Yusuke-san's eyes, his expression softening as he saw her—a brief flash of relief. But then his gaze shifted, and his expression tightened at the sight of Sagiri trailing behind her. Confusion, then disapproval.
The Uchiha lay on the futon, eyes fixed on her, expressionless. "What do you want?" he asked as Yusuke deactivated his medical ninjutsu. Shizuka stared, shocked—the scars that had marred his face were gone, healed under the skilled hands of the medic. The transformation wasn't what took her breath away; in Nadeshiko, where kunoichi's futures depended on beauty, such procedures were common. But this—allowing an outsider the privilege—meant Lady Marika had approved it.
Only members of the village were given that. The realization weighed heavy on her, deepening the knot of despair twisting inside her chest.
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Sagiri stepped forward, oblivious to her thoughts, addressing the Uchiha with a respectful stance. "Good afternoon," he began, "I'm Sagiri."
The Uchiha barely spared him a glance, turning his cold eyes back to Shizuka. "What do you want?" he asked again, his voice flat, dismissive.
Shizuka's eyes narrowed. She knew what he was doing—trying to provoke her. Unfortunately for him, she wasn't in the mood for games.
"I want you to call off this farce," she spat, glaring at the shinobi.
The Uchiha's gaze didn't waver. "Then why are you here? Go bother your aunt about it." He turned back to the window, dismissing her entirely.
Shizuka exchanged a glance with Sagiri, her beloved's eyes a mix of determination and unease. Yusuke shrugged, resuming the ninjutsu, his hands glowing green as he continued the Uchiha's treatment.
"No," Shizuka said, voice unsteady but firm. "I’m not leaving until you call it off."
The Uchiha sighed, motioning for Yusuke to halt. He turned, fixing his eyes on her. "Do I look like I have any interest in you? Even scarred, even injured, I could have my pick of spouses. My list of options dwarfs the number of people you've known in your entire life. I have no use for you, no desire, no interest. The only reason I agreed to this was because, in the long term, it seemed worth the hassle. If you have complaints, take them up with Lady Marika. She chose you; it never mattered to me."
"That's a lie," Shizuka shot back, anger rising. "My aunt said it had to be me. You agreed to that."
"Of course, it was agreed," he drawled. "Between your aunt and your village elders. Did you really think they'd let you and him—" he gestured towards Sagiri, "—have a future? You must be even more naive than I thought."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, his tone clipped, "that this village isn't about to bend to the whims of a civilian. Especially not when those whims involve discarding laws and customs that have kept them alive for decades. Do you think, for one moment, that Nadeshiko would still exist if kunoichi like you chose weak, defenceless civilians as husbands over powerful shinobi? Your friend—" he cast a disdainful look at Sagiri, "—wants to change traditions that have sustained this village. It's astonishing he hasn't been killed yet. Where I come from, people like him—those who threaten the survival of the country—aren't afforded such leniency. Your aunt must care about you more than I imagined if she's risking all this for your little dalliance."
Shizuka's heart sank. She imagined, just for a moment, finding Sagiri cold and lifeless—discarded, killed because he was an inconvenience. A chill ran down her spine, and she reached for Sagiri's sleeve. She didn't want to be here anymore—didn't want to hear these truths. But Sagiri stepped forward, stubbornness lighting his face.
"I don't fear death," he said, voice steady, eyes locked on the Uchiha.
The Uchiha finally looked at him, truly looked. "Then you're a fool," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "A fool and a coward."
"How is it cowardice," Sagiri shot back, "to refuse a tradition that’s nothing but a relic of old wars?"
The Uchiha's lips twisted into something almost resembling pity. "You're a coward because you refuse to sacrifice. You claim to love her, yet you drag her down with you, refusing to see the inevitable. If you stay on this path, you will die. They will kill you without hesitation, without remorse, and then what? Shizuka will be left broken. Perhaps she'll never love again, blaming herself for your death. Perhaps she'll turn on her family, or maybe—just maybe—she’ll decide it's too much, and end it herself."
Yusuke gasped. The Uchiha remained unmoved, his gaze piercing.
"Is that what you want?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence. "If so, you're not just a coward. You're a failure as a lover. Because to love is to sacrifice."
The words hung in the air, echoing, settling in the silence. Shizuka looked at Sagiri, and he looked back, his expression torn. Her heart twisted, her mind urging her to stay quiet, to let it pass. But she knew—she knew what she had to do.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her hand falling away from his sleeve. Tears slipped down her face, unchecked. Sagiri reached for her, but his hand dropped, and he sighed.
"Take care of yourself," he said, his voice soft, a sad smile tugging at his lips.
Shizuka wiped her tears, turning to the Uchiha. "Fine," she began, her voice shaking, "I'll—"
She stopped, her words catching in her throat. Something was wrong. The Uchiha sat there, still, his gaze unfocused. Dark markings appeared on his face, crawling down his neck, spreading across his bare chest. The air seemed to shift, thickening, and Shizuka's senses screamed—the chakra was immense, gathering at an alarming rate. Sagiri stepped back, alarmed.
"What's happening?" he asked, eyes wide, fixed on the Uchiha.
"He's amassing… chakra?" Shizuka whispered, her voice edged with fear.
"It's not chakra," came a voice from behind. Shizuka turned, startled, to see Lady Marika standing in the doorway.
"Since when have you been there?" Shizuka asked, her voice trembling.
"Long enough," Marika replied, her gaze fixed on the Uchiha. "We need to leave. Now. Yusuke, with me."
"But my patient—" Yusuke protested. "Something's wrong. No one should be able to amass chakra like this—it's unnatural."
Marika smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "It's not unnatural. Not for this. He's not gathering chakra, Yusuke—he's drawing in natural energy. He's had a breakthrough, an understanding of the technique. We must leave now. Interrupting him would be… unforgivable."
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To love is to sacrifice...
We revelled in the feeling of natural energy coursing through us, like a tide that swelled through our meridians. Our chakra network thrummed as the essence of the world poured into us. It was intoxicating, like standing on the cusp of something eternal, tasting it, but never wholly devouring.
To love is to sacrifice...
It was too easy to lose ourselves, to drift, intoxicated. When they left the room, we scarcely noticed. Somewhere in the depths of our mind, we understood that to lose awareness was dangerous, but we had passed beyond caring. The room dissolved, and we were left only with sensation—an inebriating unity with the world itself.
To love is to sacrifice...
How long had we longed for this connection? Years, maybe more. We had sought it in the depths of our training, in the late hours, when others slept, in the heat of battle, but never touched it—never truly touched beyond the brittle cage of our flesh. It was always there, just out of reach, a veil we couldn't pierce. It mocked us, an elusive prize beyond even our prodigious abilities.
To love is to sacrifice...
How many years had we wasted chasing this understanding, all the while missing what lay at the heart of it? Sacrifice. We were too arrogant, too full of ourselves to see it—that love demanded a giving away, not a taking for oneself.
It took something as simple as acknowledging the ties to our clan, our blood, to be granted this communion—the grudging acceptance of a shrewish, indifferent world. A sigh escaped us, as we drew in more of the natural energy, trying to blend it with our own—physical, spiritual. But the balance eluded us; our spirit was too heavy, too burdened, too Yin-aligned. It was our strength, our curse, that skewed the scales.
Creation spurned us again, and with reluctance, we ceased drawing in the energy, lest we overload the delicate workings of our mortal coil. The essence dissipated, a sigh, a whisper slipping from our grasp.
Still, we were pleased. We had made progress. More than we'd seen in years. Rising from our seat, we stretched, the room sliding back into focus. Night had fallen, darkness settled over the landscape outside.
"Tokiwa, isn't it?" we said, addressing the kunoichi standing in the far corner, poorly concealed by a Chameleon Jutsu. Her presence had not escaped us—not her skills, nor her silence.
"...Yes?" she answered, hesitantly.
"I need a favour. Could you tell Lady Marika I need two death row inmates? Preferably shinobi."
She paused, taken aback. "...what?"
"Two," we repeated, "shinobi."
"...Understood." And with that, she flickered away, leaving us in the stillness. We lifted the hem of our kimono, inspecting our left ankle. Tobirama's mark—the technique formula he'd planted on us. We had locked it away, sealed the dimensional anchor so he couldn't appear at will. Still, his presence tugged at the edge of our perception, futile.
Our Sharingan surfaced, revealing the intricacies of his creation. Despite our disdain for the Senju, there was brilliance in his work. His chakra reached through the void, leaking around the seal, shielded against obliteration as it moved between planes. We observed, fascinated, the technique whispering secrets of time and space.
We coated our finger in chakra, tapping the windowsill, inscribing a copy of his technique formula. It resisted removal, clinging stubbornly to reality, so we sealed it as well, locking out all but ourselves. A strategic advantage—something to explore another day.
Tokiwa returned. "Lady Marika approved your request," she said, voice flat. "Would you like the prisoners brought here?"
"No," we replied, "take me to them. I would loathe to dirty this place."
She stared at us, her expression unreadable, but said nothing as she turned to lead us.
----------------------------------------
We descended into the bowels of the village, a place of darkness and gloom, a labyrinthine military prison, barely lit, teeming with shadows and secrets. The air stank of sweat, of despair—a place where humanity was stripped bare. Walls whispered stories of torture, of madness. It was everything we imagined it to be.
We came to a stop before a cell, two men within, gaunt faces hollowed by hunger. "These two," Tokiwa said, "Takeru and Oguri. Chunin, formerly of the Mist. Deserted. They were caught after the—incident with one of our Genin. She was new, her first mission. She got separated and these animals—" Tokiwa's voice trailed off, bitterness etched in every syllable.
We had no interest in the details. Humans had a penchant for cruelty, and these men were no different—another blip in the endless list of atrocities committed by their kind. But appearances had to be maintained, and so we let our expression harden, rage curling in our chakra.
"You have no objections to what happens next, then," we said, reaching for the seal on the cell. It shattered, a crackle of power. The men blinked, disoriented.
"Come," we commanded, our Sharingan binding them. They stepped forward, stopping just before us, bodies slack. "Kneel." We cut our finger, the blood pooling as we used it to mark their foreheads, our chakra flaring, burning the seal into their flesh.
We stepped back, watching them collapse, the seal drawing on their chakra, amplifying. Their screams split the darkness, bodies bloating, twisting, reshaped by the jutsu. Flesh warped, swelling grotesquely, until they fell silent, consciousness lost.
Slowly, their forms shifted—feminine shapes, curves where once were sharp edges, though not truly. They were no more than shells. Empty. Sterile. Hair fell, then grew again, a thick brush of new growth. We split off pieces of our soul, implanting them, watching until the old souls were consumed, memories lost in the transformation.
The blood clones stood, testing their forms, flexing fingers, rolling shoulders. We nodded, pleased. Our chakra reserves were diminished, drained, but temporary—it would return, unlike with lesser techniques.
"What did you do?" Tokiwa asked, her voice tight, face pale.
We smiled, dismissive. "I recycled the trash."