Dream #2
Strength in numbers, by all rights, should have been a sound strategy.
Should have been.
The two of them were heavily outnumbered--Kisame hadn't counted, but he wouldn't have been surprised if the fight had weighed in at twenty versus two, at least. Still, he wasn't complaining, even if it was getting pretty late to still be on the road; it had been a while since he'd last gotten a challenge at all, and Samehada was even hungrier than usual. They fed on each other, chakras mixing and mingling magnificently until Kisame hardly knew where one of them ended and the other began, until he wasn't sure just how much of the bloodlust and heady thrill was his own.
More to the point, he hardly cared by now--they were connected on the most intimate level possible, and nothing pleased Samehada better than bonding on the battlefield as they rode the high of the fight. It made him feel as good as she did, this fresh life thrumming hot and raw through them both as they danced and slashed and tore, grasped and devoured their foes' chakra with an all-consuming desire that would never be quenched. (Delicious. He had never known the nuances of chakra before he had held her in his hands, never realized that it had flavors and textures, colors and meanings far beyond the simple pressure any shinobi could sense--now, he was a connoisseur.) She was certainly a part of him now, as he was becoming a part of her--every bit of chakra consumed through her helped imprint a little of his own further into her, helped the shape of his psyche coalesce in the blade, burn into its life and soul. It felt as good as it hurt.
In a way, he would live on through her like this, a route to immortality that cost him nothing like what it had taken from so many others who had sought it. (Who wanted to live forever, anyway? Life was life, death was death, and that was all there was to it. To seek to make things otherwise felt somehow unnatural; death seemed to be as important a part of life as birth itself.)
Kisame drove forward with a short growl of effort, feet planting themselves with his brief lunge. His foe was caught hard across the middle with just enough resistance to make his muscles ache pleasantly with the thrust, sheared open even as he was sent soaring--coils of intestines flew threw the air like festive streamers, and Kisame all but glowed at the sight, deftly sidestepping to avoid the scarlet spray that accompanied them. (So thoughtful of him to provide the decorations, wasn't he? And Kisame was there to set them up. It was only right to celebrate the momentous occasion of the man's death, even if he was the only one who thought it worth a party.) As he did, his attention was caught by a rushcrackleroar burrowing into his ears, and he turned in time to see Itachi silhouetted starkly by red-gold flames, one enemy gone as he whirled to meet the other shinobi attempting to flank him. The movement captured his interest, and so he maneuvered erratically to be able to keep watching. Even with a majority of his attention elsewhere, it was child's play to hold up his end of the fight.
Kisame had never entirely agreed with Itachi's manner of approaching death. He knew it was something richly emotional, intensely personal, an intimate, passionate act of giving and taking life between two thinking and feeling beings. It was the closest you could possibly get to anyone, cradling their life and soul in your hands before it all bled away; you could drink it all in, if you so chose, and taste the way the light left their eyes. He supposed that was one reason why he enjoyed it so much. But Itachi.... Itachi went about things very differently. He was cold and quick, precise and efficient, merciless and detached. He didn't seem to feel anything when he killed, and Kisame could never understand that.
Even so, whatever Itachi's stance was, the forest floor still ran red with blood, a sweetly metallic scent to mingle with the more robust musks of aggression and pain, and yes, even fear. Itachi was silk-wrapped steel, all liquid speed and coiled strength and lethal grace; he could see in his mind's eye the body beneath the cloak that fluttered about him like so many crows' wings, pale and sword-slim and deceptively delicate. He remembered hard muscles and soft skin under his hands as he carefully bandaged battle wounds, just as easily as he could remember fire-bright eyes freezing a man with little more than a glance--as Itachi seemed to be doing right now. A rush of black, a leap, a flash of steel--a man crumpled to the ground, a kunai buried deep in his throat. Itachi twirled again, long ponytail fanning out around him like a black silk shroud, and let fly a hail of precisely aimed shuriken. One more man collapsed, peppered by the projectiles.
Eye, throat, heart, stomach--
Cat-like did not even begin to describe him.
Itachi was so swift and silent, he could be better thought of as a ghost; he seemed to be completely untouched. (Not even a drop of blood on him.)
And so cold through it all. So silent. Even as he flowed through the motions--not a single step wasted, not a single assault that failed to cripple or kill, pure deadly efficiency--Itachi seemed to somehow remain still. He seemed above it all, this worldly mess of blood and death and clashing steel, some death-spirit beyond a mere shinobi.
Above the fray even while in its midst.
Death became him.
Every leap, every thrust, every dodge and feint, every strike hitting home. All of it was poetry in motion, beauty pinned down by cold, hard steel. Kisame exulted in it, feeling it coursing like quicksilver through his veins, tingling through his chakra--this admirationrespectdesireneed that sang in his mind like Samehada's siren call to kill. He wasn't sure if it was his or hers alone, or something they both shared. Either way though, the heady mix of bloodlust and adrenaline, of fighting and killing, of raw desire and pure awe--it was intoxicating. Overwhelming.
Kisame almost missed his next strike because of his fascination.
He finished soon enough though, dropping the last shinobi with a rather cathartic thrust to the chest, listening with macabre pleasure to the juicily brittle chhhhkkkk-ppppffff of ribs snapping and burying themselves in as deeply as Samehada. Looking up and shaking the corpse unceremoniously from his sword, he managed to grin at Itachi the way he always did.
"Ready to go?"
Itachi nodded as he replaced the last of his shuriken, so Kisame hefted Samehada onto his back once more to continue their trip.
The adrenaline was fading now, and with it, some of the enchantment.
They were replaced very quickly by bitterness and cynicism. What the hell was the point of even thinking about that sort of thing, anyway? He could never compare to something, someone like that. He could never be looked at that way. He could never be like that. And for what? Some goddamned accident of birth? Some minuscule chance screw-up that had landed him as a freak of nature?
God, sometimes he hated himself. And sometimes, he just hated people.
But amidst the frustration, the heat remained. The ache remained every time he looked at Itachi, envy and resentment overpowered by admiration and desire, all chasing themselves in ouroboros circles.
Kisame ran his tongue over his teeth and tasted blood.
[Kisame's eyes slide open, for a moment wide and out of focus, glittering with bloodlust. The adrenaline thrumming through him from the dream is certainly going to deny him any more sleep, so he gives up trying. Instead, he rolls over and pulls Samehada closer, carefully unwrapping the massive blade so he can start sharpening and polishing her. It's a long, tedious process, but it needs to be done--besides, he knows he won't be getting back to sleep anytime soon, and he'd rather think about her than the dream itself.]
Should have been.
The two of them were heavily outnumbered--Kisame hadn't counted, but he wouldn't have been surprised if the fight had weighed in at twenty versus two, at least. Still, he wasn't complaining, even if it was getting pretty late to still be on the road; it had been a while since he'd last gotten a challenge at all, and Samehada was even hungrier than usual. They fed on each other, chakras mixing and mingling magnificently until Kisame hardly knew where one of them ended and the other began, until he wasn't sure just how much of the bloodlust and heady thrill was his own.
More to the point, he hardly cared by now--they were connected on the most intimate level possible, and nothing pleased Samehada better than bonding on the battlefield as they rode the high of the fight. It made him feel as good as she did, this fresh life thrumming hot and raw through them both as they danced and slashed and tore, grasped and devoured their foes' chakra with an all-consuming desire that would never be quenched. (Delicious. He had never known the nuances of chakra before he had held her in his hands, never realized that it had flavors and textures, colors and meanings far beyond the simple pressure any shinobi could sense--now, he was a connoisseur.) She was certainly a part of him now, as he was becoming a part of her--every bit of chakra consumed through her helped imprint a little of his own further into her, helped the shape of his psyche coalesce in the blade, burn into its life and soul. It felt as good as it hurt.
In a way, he would live on through her like this, a route to immortality that cost him nothing like what it had taken from so many others who had sought it. (Who wanted to live forever, anyway? Life was life, death was death, and that was all there was to it. To seek to make things otherwise felt somehow unnatural; death seemed to be as important a part of life as birth itself.)
Kisame drove forward with a short growl of effort, feet planting themselves with his brief lunge. His foe was caught hard across the middle with just enough resistance to make his muscles ache pleasantly with the thrust, sheared open even as he was sent soaring--coils of intestines flew threw the air like festive streamers, and Kisame all but glowed at the sight, deftly sidestepping to avoid the scarlet spray that accompanied them. (So thoughtful of him to provide the decorations, wasn't he? And Kisame was there to set them up. It was only right to celebrate the momentous occasion of the man's death, even if he was the only one who thought it worth a party.) As he did, his attention was caught by a rushcrackleroar burrowing into his ears, and he turned in time to see Itachi silhouetted starkly by red-gold flames, one enemy gone as he whirled to meet the other shinobi attempting to flank him. The movement captured his interest, and so he maneuvered erratically to be able to keep watching. Even with a majority of his attention elsewhere, it was child's play to hold up his end of the fight.
Kisame had never entirely agreed with Itachi's manner of approaching death. He knew it was something richly emotional, intensely personal, an intimate, passionate act of giving and taking life between two thinking and feeling beings. It was the closest you could possibly get to anyone, cradling their life and soul in your hands before it all bled away; you could drink it all in, if you so chose, and taste the way the light left their eyes. He supposed that was one reason why he enjoyed it so much. But Itachi.... Itachi went about things very differently. He was cold and quick, precise and efficient, merciless and detached. He didn't seem to feel anything when he killed, and Kisame could never understand that.
Even so, whatever Itachi's stance was, the forest floor still ran red with blood, a sweetly metallic scent to mingle with the more robust musks of aggression and pain, and yes, even fear. Itachi was silk-wrapped steel, all liquid speed and coiled strength and lethal grace; he could see in his mind's eye the body beneath the cloak that fluttered about him like so many crows' wings, pale and sword-slim and deceptively delicate. He remembered hard muscles and soft skin under his hands as he carefully bandaged battle wounds, just as easily as he could remember fire-bright eyes freezing a man with little more than a glance--as Itachi seemed to be doing right now. A rush of black, a leap, a flash of steel--a man crumpled to the ground, a kunai buried deep in his throat. Itachi twirled again, long ponytail fanning out around him like a black silk shroud, and let fly a hail of precisely aimed shuriken. One more man collapsed, peppered by the projectiles.
Eye, throat, heart, stomach--
Cat-like did not even begin to describe him.
Itachi was so swift and silent, he could be better thought of as a ghost; he seemed to be completely untouched. (Not even a drop of blood on him.)
And so cold through it all. So silent. Even as he flowed through the motions--not a single step wasted, not a single assault that failed to cripple or kill, pure deadly efficiency--Itachi seemed to somehow remain still. He seemed above it all, this worldly mess of blood and death and clashing steel, some death-spirit beyond a mere shinobi.
Above the fray even while in its midst.
Death became him.
Every leap, every thrust, every dodge and feint, every strike hitting home. All of it was poetry in motion, beauty pinned down by cold, hard steel. Kisame exulted in it, feeling it coursing like quicksilver through his veins, tingling through his chakra--this admirationrespectdesireneed that sang in his mind like Samehada's siren call to kill. He wasn't sure if it was his or hers alone, or something they both shared. Either way though, the heady mix of bloodlust and adrenaline, of fighting and killing, of raw desire and pure awe--it was intoxicating. Overwhelming.
Kisame almost missed his next strike because of his fascination.
He finished soon enough though, dropping the last shinobi with a rather cathartic thrust to the chest, listening with macabre pleasure to the juicily brittle chhhhkkkk-ppppffff of ribs snapping and burying themselves in as deeply as Samehada. Looking up and shaking the corpse unceremoniously from his sword, he managed to grin at Itachi the way he always did.
"Ready to go?"
Itachi nodded as he replaced the last of his shuriken, so Kisame hefted Samehada onto his back once more to continue their trip.
The adrenaline was fading now, and with it, some of the enchantment.
They were replaced very quickly by bitterness and cynicism. What the hell was the point of even thinking about that sort of thing, anyway? He could never compare to something, someone like that. He could never be looked at that way. He could never be like that. And for what? Some goddamned accident of birth? Some minuscule chance screw-up that had landed him as a freak of nature?
God, sometimes he hated himself. And sometimes, he just hated people.
But amidst the frustration, the heat remained. The ache remained every time he looked at Itachi, envy and resentment overpowered by admiration and desire, all chasing themselves in ouroboros circles.
Kisame ran his tongue over his teeth and tasted blood.
[Kisame's eyes slide open, for a moment wide and out of focus, glittering with bloodlust. The adrenaline thrumming through him from the dream is certainly going to deny him any more sleep, so he gives up trying. Instead, he rolls over and pulls Samehada closer, carefully unwrapping the massive blade so he can start sharpening and polishing her. It's a long, tedious process, but it needs to be done--besides, he knows he won't be getting back to sleep anytime soon, and he'd rather think about her than the dream itself.]