Firstly, I apologize for being away for so long without releasing a new chapter. Last week I went back to work, and it was a week of madness, with many emails to check and things to update or report.
Additionally, this past weekend, I traveled to a friend's house and we spent the whole time drinking; including Saturday morning at a rock concert where I managed to sprain both feet in the mosh pit. Only today was I able to get out of bed and stay seated. I plan on resuming the releases until I finish his first nightmare and he enters the second.
Again, I apologize for the delay.
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Indra did not know what sleep was. To him, sleep had always been a temptation — a sweet and dangerous voice that called him into the darkness, promising a relief he so deeply craved. Whenever he was tempted by the comfort of drowsiness, the weariness and fatigue of difficult days resulted in this longing for the rest that only sleep could grant him; but reality pulled him back with violence whenever he tried to give in.
To him, "sleeping" was filled with the sound of his own erratic breathing, the metallic click of weapons and traps, the distant echo of footsteps carrying the promise of pain, or the fear of death that always lurked by his side. For the young man, sleep had never been a rest, but rather a constant struggle for survival. Closing his eyes meant lowering his guard, and lowering his guard, in his world, was the same as accepting death. Tiredness was a chain, and sleep, the executioner tightening the knot.
But now, sleep was different.
At the touch of Kushina's fingers, the paranoiac vigilance that defined his existence collapsed. The world of steel, blood, and perpetual alert vanished under a vast and deep wave of warmth. Indra felt himself diving not into a void, but into an embrace. It was as if he had been wrapped in wool blankets warmed by the sun of a spring he had never known. It was a monumental security, a comforting weight that pressed him against the Matriarch's lap, dissolving the sharp edges of his shattered soul.
For the first time since he had become conscious of himself, the sentinel within his mind abandoned its post. He was home — or at least in the idea of a home that Kushina had quickly planted in his consciousness with the precision worthy of a Saint.
Within this deep sleep, Indra experienced something that the language of men could hardly describe: dreams.
He saw fragments of an impossible happiness, glimpses of a life where silence was not a prelude to an attack, but an invitation to peace. He saw himself in a field bathed by twilight, where the only sound was the whisper of the wind in the tall grass. There was no weight of a blade, nor the constant burden that guided him; there was only the lightness of being nobody, of not having to prove anything to anyone.
In the soft glow of this dream world, he saw himself accompanied by the woman with crimson hair. They shared a simple meal, without a single worry in the world, without the taste of blood or the weight of anything. Indra "saw" various things, whether they were possibilities of something impossible or crystallizations of his deepest desires. He would never know the origin of those images, but of one thing he was certain: they brought him happiness. A happiness so pure that it hurt.
But, as a prelude to an end, the fragments of happiness began to empty, drained by a reality that knocked at the door of his mind with the insistence of a hammer on an anvil. The warmth of Kushina that had always accompanied him was replaced by a frigid and static air. The peaceful silence of the dream was infiltrated by the rhythmic sound of gears and the sinister hiss of something watching him from the shadows. The scent of the Saint, which before was his entire world, dissipated, giving way to the smell of expensive sandalwood and the metallic, sterile odor that permeated the mansion of the main Uchiha family.
Slowly, Indra began to awaken from his first and true sleep.
The transition was agonizing. Every sense that returned brought with it the weight of the body he inhabited, that of Itachi: the burning of his efforts continued, though it was but an echo of what it once was; the residual weakness still weighed on his limbs and his vision, though blurred, allowed Indra to begin mapping the environment with paranoiac precision.
And with that, he opened his eyes.
The welcoming lap of the Matriarch and the cathedral of shadows had disappeared. Indra was no longer surrounded by the ancient stones and war scars of that cathedral; instead, he found himself lying in a vast and opulent room. The environment exuded a refined and austere luxury: impeccably polished dark wood furniture, silk tapestries narrating glories of old, and soft lighting that highlighted an elegance worthy of a king.
However, something broke the harmony of that perfection.
Right behind the tatami from where he rose, hanging on the wall like a profane relic, was a strange item that resembled the shape of a fan, but it was stupidly large, monumental even for Itachi's body. The object was made of a pale, almost white sacrificial wood that seemed to glow with a cold light under the room's illumination. Its shape consisted of two circular lobes that fused in the center, with three perfectly symmetrical black circles — the symbol of the tomoe — adorned on each side. However, the weapon's beauty was tainted. Deep cracks, like veins of obsidian, snaked across the entire white surface; the edges, which should have been sharp and lethal, were chipped and broken, and the spot where the handle would begin was shattered.
Indra remained in silence for a few moments, his eyes still fixed on that pale wooden relic. He did not need names or historical records to understand what was before him. There was something in the Uchiha blood now pulsing through his veins that made him long for those remains, yet denied him, showing that he was not worthy even to touch it.
That object was not just a relic. It was what remained of a weapon. Indra felt, through the deep cracks in the pale wood and the frigid glow of the sacrificial ivory, an immediate connection to the man the Matriarch had called grandfather. The former owner of that weapon had been someone who spread madness and chaos wherever he went; the fan was the instrument of a being who defied the natural order and tore the fabric of reality with the same ease that the wooden blade cut through the air. Chaos was not just something the former owner had done; it was the essence of what he was. And that shattered weapon was all that remained of his trail of destruction.
Gradually, Indra's perception expanded, and he noticed the faint, yet disturbing, presence of the two beings sharing the room with him. The Zetsus, why emitted nothing — no intention or human warmth — but in their eyes, Indra could perceive something strange: a bizarre satisfaction at seeing him finally awaken.
White Zetsu leaned his torso forward, his pale skin glowing under the soft light of the luxurious room.
"Ah! You know, little Lord... we are genuinely happy for you! It's been two whole days submerged in darkness!" He let out a muffled laugh that sounded like dry leaves being crushed. "Seeing you wake up after such a long sleep is... memorable. I've never slept myself, you know? But, seeing how satisfied you looked, I imagine it must be something very good!"
Black Zetsu, impassive as a statue of shadow, cut through the empty enthusiasm of his other half. The rift of darkness that was his body seemed to widen slightly as he pointed toward the exit.
"Enough useless words." He indicated the sliding door of noble wood, whose cedar fibers seemed to shine with the polish. "The Matriarca awaits you in the dining hall. Do not keep her waiting."
For the Zetsus, Indra's history of suffering was irrelevant. They did not understand the privation or the fear that had molded the young man until then; they only celebrated the biological fact that he had survived two days of uninterrupted sleep. Having fulfilled their mission of vigil, both creatures merged into the shadows and disappeared, leaving him alone.
Indra, still waking from his state of stupor, soon looked around him, surrounded by the austere luxury of a room in the main Uchiha mansion. There were no more cathedrals or trials; only the silence of a refined refuge and the presence of a relic from ages past on the wall.
Although Itachi's body still manifested a slight residual physical fatigue, Indra felt psychologically lighter than he had in his entire life. For the first time, the constant tension that inhabited his mind had vanished. He, who never knew what it was to sleep without being on guard, now experienced absolute mental clarity, the fruit of the deep rest provided by Kushina.
Moved by this sensation of renewal and by a genuine affection for the Saint who granted him such relief, he did not want to waste any more time. He stood up with agility and walked toward the door, eager to reunite with the woman who awaited him.
As soon as he opened the door, Indra was surprised by a delicious aroma floating through the air, guiding him like an invisible thread. The smell of something being cooked with mastery wandered through the vast and refined corridors of the mansion, filling the void of that austere environment. Following the trail, he soon reached the kitchen where the Matriarch awaited him.
Peeking briefly from behind the wall, the sight that greeted him was unexpected. Kushina no longer displayed the image of the imposing Saint in her white cloak, where she showed her authority and demanded respect. Instead, she had traded the white cloak for something much more comfortable: a soft cotton tunic in a cream tone, loose and long-sleeved, worn over simple linen trousers. It was an outfit made for rest, for free movement within the house. Her crimson hair, previously arranged in a solemn fashion, was now tied in a loose and casual bun, with a few rebellious strands framing her face as she concentrated on what she was doing.
Kushina stood before a singular block, a massive square piece carved from polished obsidian. There was no wood, coal, or any visible fuel, but heat emanated from it with absolute precision. The black, vitreous surface was traced by thin threads of adamantina that glowed in a cold cyan, snaking through the stone in patterns of impossible geometry.
It was the sorcery of Nether, an ancient and divine art, being subverted there for the most banal of acts. The essence was channeled through those runic tracings only to generate flames of a limpid and perfect blue, which sprouted directly from the stone. The fire heated the metal of the pans without emitting the slightest smell of burning; the air was filled only with the rich and inviting aroma of the meals being prepared.
As she worked, the Matriarch hummed a sweet and brief melody, moving the pans in a calm rhythm. The reflection of the blue fire in her eyes created a fascinating contrast between the mystical power of that forge and the simplicity of a mother preparing breakfast.
The scene was so human that Indra hesitated for a second, caught in the beauty of the moment. However, the senses of a Saint are absolute. Without taking her eyes off what she was doing, Kushina smiled.
"Are you going to just stand there peeking, little fox? The smell is good, but the taste is even better."
She turned slightly, casting him a bright and welcoming look, devoid of any authoritarian pressure. With a graceful gesture, she pointed to the lavishly set table behind him.
"Come, sit down. You've slept a lot, let's fill that stomach. Enjoy it while it's hot and eat!"
Hearing the call, Indra walked to the table and sat down. His movements were rigid, marked by visible discomfort and a sting of shame; he was still processing the shock of being treated with such kindness by the redhead.
Driven by hunger and the desire to fill the silence, he reached out his hand to take a plate and begin serving himself. However, before his fingers touched the porcelain, the Matriarch vanished from in front of the fire and, in a blur of impossible speed, appeared by his side.
TOC!
A dry thud from an iron ladle hit the top of Indra's head.
"Ow!" He grumbled, bringing his hands to the spot where he was hit and looking at her with an expression of pain and surprise.
Kushina showed not the slightest pity. She had her hands on her hips, the ladle wielded as if it were a weapon of war, and an expression that mixed indignation and mockery. The sweetness of seconds ago had been replaced by the volcanic and vibrant personality that was her true hallmark.
"Didn't whoever raised you give you any education?" She huffed, leaning down to be at eye level with him. "You enter my house, sleep on my tatami for two days, and want to attack the food like a wild animal?"
"But I..."
"No 'buts'!" She interrupted him, tapping the ladle lightly against the palm of her hand. "At this table, we follow rules. Before any meal, you give thanks for what you are eating, you idiot. It's a matter of respect for the food and for the one who spent hours at the stove!"
She softened her gaze by only a millimeter, but the authority remained absolute.
"Now do it with me and don't make me use the ladle again: Itadakimasu."
Upon speaking, she joined her own hands in front of her chest in a solemn gesture. Indra swallowed hard.
Her presence was as overwhelming as that of a divinity, but the fire burning in her eyes was not of hatred; it was of a fierce correction. He lowered his hands from his head, joined his palms in a clumsy fashion and, with a slightly trembling voice, repeated what he was ordered.
"Itadakimasu..."
Kushina gave a satisfied smile, the kind of maternal smile that clearly indicated she would accept nothing less than perfection from her new "son."