Sakura: *sitting quietly on her bed, reviewing some paperwork and drinking a coffee*
Naruto: *opens the window and crawls inside* Hey Sakura! Can I borrow some eggs? Shikadai's over and I forgot to buy some
Sakura: Sure, you know where they are
Naruto: *walks out of the room* Thanks! Oh, Lee's here too by the way
Rock Lee: *walks in when Naruto leaves* Hey, are you still down for training Aiko this afternoon?
Sakura: Of course I am. Is Metal joining as well?
Lee: No, he's in Suna with Gaara this month. Remember?
Sakura: Ohh, right right. Sorry
Lee: It's all good. See you at 3!
Sakura: Seeya then! *takes a sip of coffee, watching Lee walk out*
Temari: *appears at the windowsill* Morning, Sakura!
Sakura: Right on cue
Sasuke: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON.
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tale as old as time.
It starts in fragments, like the breaking of a mirror.
I know because I was there, because I witnessed it. In some of my stories I called it a meteorite, like I told the Blue when she came seeking the secrets of the whispered word; and in others I called it the flood (the Great Flood, even – though that one was never truly my idea in the first place).
In yet others – the ones I tell in private at His wishes – to the residents of the old closet room under the stairs, I talk about it like it is melting ice, for it resonates with them: little Enid Hauke, who wants to believe that things can melt away and be reborn anew, and the Child, who wants to believe that old things are enduring and will one day return to how they used to be.
Sol is the only one to whom I tell no stories, and that is because he knows all the endings by now.
I do not know the endings.
I think I did once, for else I could not tell these stories, but that was long ago, in a dream that was idly forgotten in the passage of time, and maybe if I cared I could remember it, but I don’t and so I won’t.
We were green once – he tells me this, and maybe I could believe him if I didn’t see the Dark on him, see how little time he has left, she has left, they have left, they all have left, and I try to reach out and touch it, to stop that clock, but it’s as He told me – I cannot, and then he looks at me and says,
“Why are you reaching for my face like that?”
– and I cannot find breath to reply, for I have no heart.
That is the first law of storytelling.
The second is, you must have a heart to tell a story properly.
A heart is a special thing – a treasured commodity. Everyone wants one, but no one can hold onto one for long – like rain water, or slim particles of sand, a heart slips through one’s fingers and is gone.
He talks of hearts – the ash on his skin means that he wants one, but cannot find it, and so he comes to me and asks but I am merely a story-teller in my name and my life, and if it is not a tale humans want to hear I cannot answer him.
Not like I want to.
There are other uses of hearts – Sol talks about them to me sometimes, when he thinks I am not listening, but like the cursed bloodline I am always listening, even when it hurts to hear, even when I am not meant to hear. I have no heart, and yet there is an ache – I think Enid would call it ‘hurt’ if I were her – to hear Sol talk about things that he does not understand, that he perhaps will never truly understand.
I knew a boy who did that once, and he’s gone now.
Oftentimes, in the gentle light upon the rooftop, before the moon rises, I stand and I look up at the sky and I think that maybe Sol is gone, too – that he has gone on farther than I ever can, and then I feel alone, in the quiet settling of the night.
I am meant to be alone, though, and that’s okay.
That is the final law of storytelling.
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It was as he expected. A guest of the queen, and one of his standing, should have no business as a wallflower and keeping away from the guests, even if he was talking with one at the moment. It was part of the reason this season was so prejudged. He could see how he was, once again, a showpiece to be displayed and to impress upon. He had no true designs on the season... merely to observe... to wait for someone to prove him wrong, but if that shy violet was any indication it just may be as he thought.
All the same, with a drink in hand, he decided to weave around the more outgoing guests and be pulled into whatever conversation the lords and ladies of this ballroom would grant him access.
Perhaps he should restart this affair with a more open mind... he was not under his father's designs anymore. He should enjoy this time away from home, even in this strange ritual.
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