~Of Silks and Swords~
Continued from here.
@thenagaraja: As they took their leave of Nakatomi, the careful facade of humble politeness which had plastered itself over Orochimaru’s features for the better part of an hour were dashed by the rising tide of foreboding he felt welling in his chest. While there was no direct reason to give him such suspicion about old man’s motives, his cruel intimacy with violence and the people who engineered that violence left him with little hope that he would not once again be spending his nights crouched in damp, muddy trenches sooner than he would have wanted.
Wars cost money. But wars also made money, and it seemed to him that Nakatomi was biding his time and waiting to see which path would prove the most profitable.
It’s all about the coin, he thought, unable to suppress a frown of disgust that traced weary lines of cynicism at the corners of his mouth. Never mind the lives that bring it to him. It’s numbers. It’s who has more numbers in their account books at the end.
A small warmth enveloping his hand pulled him down from the heavy clouds of his thoughts and turned his attention to the dispirited shuffling of his wife beside him. The distant, inward look which haunted her expression spoke of a wandering down paths which none could hope to follow…save for those poor souls who had survived is first journey.
Urging her gently forward he hastened them back to their quarters, making certain that there was no one nearby who might overhear them, bolting the fusuma and guiding her down to one of the silken pillows that had replaced their futon. His hands shaped themselves about her face, stroking down her waxen cheeks in an effort to break her from her terror.
“Darling,” he murmured, bringing his forehead to rest against hers. “What is it? Tell me.”
She sits still, a prisoner to her past and her fears. The pained cries echoed in her ears and then the terrified screams. No matter how many months had passed it, the memories were fresh for her. How couldn't they be? The last whispered words? The stench of rotten flesh. It had clung to the survivors for days. Had never truly been washed away no matter how many baths they took once returning home.







