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The axes had been driven into the earth, the suitors were brimming with excitement, and Sakura remained impassive.
Only her slender hands, visible beneath the silk kicho screen and clasped so tightly that it hurt, betrayed the tragedy unfolding within her.
One of Sakura’s fingers twitched almost imperceptibly when a sharp roll of drums rang out, accompanied by a guttural male cry. Then a flute began to sing, high and uneasy, and a short figure entered the garden with broad, measured strides.
She noticed several of the guests glance in her direction, trying to discern her reaction to her daughter’s appearance through the translucent silk. But Sakura merely followed Sarada with her eyes as she walked to the centre of the garden, without so much as stirring. There, the girl stopped before the assembled crowd, holding a curved length of bamboo in both hands.
A sorrowful, maternal smile trembled on Sakura’s lips as she gazed at her daughter’s proudly straightened back. Sarada was her only, cherished child, a beautiful lotus flower, untouched by the filth and mud of the castle.
She had chosen the path of the onna-bugeisha and had trained in the martial arts from an early age. As the direct heir to the Uchiha clan, she had been entrusted with the sacred duty of safeguarding and presenting the family relic: an ancient bamboo bow resting in urazori state. Its body had gone so long without the tension of a string that it had curved sharply in the opposite direction.
But Sakura alone knew how much that weapon meant to their family and what, today, was about to turn to ash.
Sarada had been so small then that she could have hidden entirely inside the wide sleeve of Sakura’s kimono. One day, she had asked her mother:
“Mother, tell me about my father.”
The little girl retained only scattered fragments of memory and the vaguest impression of the clan head.
“Oh…” Sakura faltered, her gaze drifting into the distance. “He is a great warrior and a trusted retainer of the daimyo himself.”
“No, no, Mother!” Sarada peered out from the wide sleeve and looked up at her with shining black eyes. “Tell me what he likes!”
Sakura smiled at her and thought for a moment.
“When your father was only a little older than you, he loved going hunting with his elder brother. They would take their bows and arrows with them and come back with a boar this big!” Sakura spread her arms wide, lifting Sarada slightly off the ground and making her burst into bright laughter.
“More, more!” the little girl demanded.
“You are going to tear my kimono, Sarada,” Sakura warned with a laugh.
Sarada pushed herself upright and craned her neck as far as it would go, peeking out of the sleeve.
“Can Father shoot a bow?”
“He is the best there is,” Sakura replied without a trace of doubt.
“Will he teach me?”
“Of course. He could never deny you anything.”
Sarada fell quiet for a moment before asking cautiously:
“Does he love us?”
The question pierced Sakura’s heart like an arrow. Her daughter’s face suddenly fell, and her lips began to tremble as though she were about to cry.
“What a question! Of course he does,” Sakura assured her.
She freed Sarada from the folds of her kimono and settled her on her lap. The girl rested her head against her mother’s chest while Sakura gently patted her shoulder.
“Then why does he not come home?”
Sakura’s smile faltered. She looked down at the crown of her daughter’s head, then gently lifted Sarada’s chin, making the girl meet her eyes.
“Sarada,” she began, serious but gentle, “your father was entrusted with a matter of great importance by the daimyo himself, and he cannot return yet. It is precisely because he loves us both that he must fulfil his duty and do everything in his power to keep us safe.”
Sakura paused, then added fondly:
“You know, when your father was still at home, the two of you often played hide-and-seek together. Do you remember?”
Sarada thought for a moment, then shook her head.
“I don’t,” she admitted quietly.
“How could you not? You used to hide from him exactly as you are hiding now, and I had to assure my own husband that I had not seen you.”
“Really?” Sarada exclaimed.
“Really,” Sakura confirmed with a smile.
The truth, however, was that Sasuke had been away on the daimyo’s mission for seven years. After that conversation, Sarada never lost faith in her father’s love, but she stopped hoping that he would be the one to teach her archery. Instead, she trained under Kakashi, a retainer of the Uchiha clan and her father’s former mentor, explaining that she wanted to astonish Sasuke with her skill when he finally returned.
The clear voice of her beloved daughter, straining to sound solemn and grown-up, pulled Sakura from her memories.
“This bow belonged to my great father, the head of the Uchiha clan! Whoever among you can tame it, string it once more, and shoot an arrow through the sockets of twelve ono axes shall have my mother’s hand in marriage and become master of this castle!”
With those words, Sarada reverently placed the bow upon a black lacquered stand, stepped back, and bowed deeply to the suitors.
Sakura bit her lip in fury and clasped her hands so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Had the goddess Amaterasu not appeared to her in a dream and woven her divine command upon Sakura’s loom — to accept another marriage, but only after holding a contest — she would never have agreed to any of this.
A ritual dagger was already concealed within her sleeve. She had bound her ankles tightly together so that, the moment one of the suitors loosed the victorious arrow, she could slit her own throat, fall upon the tatami without sacrificing her modesty, and meet death as befitted the honourable wife of a samurai.
“What a ridiculous spectacle!” the most arrogant of the suitors called out from the crowd.
Uchiha Shin was a distant kinsman of Sasuke’s and considered himself a far worthier heir to the will of her brother-in-law, Itachi-dono. He had fathered an entire brood of sons, yet had never come close either to becoming head of the clan or to claiming the island that had belonged to the Uchiha since time immemorial.
Sarada opened her mouth to object, but Sakura’s cold, commanding voice cut in first.
“What is the matter? Are you frightened? Then stand aside and make way for the worthier men of our country. From what I can see, they desire marriage to me far more keenly than you do.”
The samurai immediately rallied at receiving even the smallest measure of Lady Uchiha’s attention. They straightened at once and cast challenging glances at one another.
“I trust you are all familiar with the saying: a loyal vassal does not serve two masters, and a faithful wife does not belong to two husbands. Yet for years you have crowded the home of my lord, casting aside both honour and dignity. Have another man’s wife and another man’s gold truly become more precious to you than your good names?”
Sakura’s words fell upon them like stones. The samurai exchanged uneasy glances; one cleared his throat, while another hurriedly looked away.
“Today, I have decided to free you from this disgrace and grant you the chance to reclaim the honour you have lost!”
“Temper your spirit, my lady! I have refused neither the contest nor the most faithful woman in these lands. And fidelity, as everyone knows, is worth more than a good name,” Shin said with a sneer.
Sakura made no reply. Everyone saw her blurred silhouette behind the silk screen turn its head away in contempt.
Young Sarada, who had watched the exchange in silence, finally spoke.
“Who will be the first to try his luck?”
One by one, the samurai approached the ritual altar and took up the bow.
Sakura gripped the folds of her kimono ever more tightly, overcome with revulsion at every unworthy man who dared lay hands on something that belonged to her husband. With each clumsy attempt to bend the stave, it seemed that the beautiful heirloom lost another fragment of the soul its former master had left within it.
Soft footsteps behind her drew Sakura’s attention away from the contest. Masako, her elderly maidservant, came closer, bent to her ear, and whispered:
“My lady, I bring ill news. Our lord’s old hawk has just died.”
A sharp pain pierced Sakura’s temples, and for the first time that day, she allowed the guests to witness her weakness. Her head bowed, and tears clouded her eyes.
Her husband’s faithful old companion had not lived long enough to see his master one last time. Perhaps it was for the best. At least the hawk would not have to witness the disgraceful fall of the Uchiha house.
The contest went on. Through a veil of tears, Sakura watched the suitors fail one after another.
The most confident among them tried first — Dosu and Zaku of the Land of Oto. They boasted of the strength in their arms, but neither could string the bow, and they withdrew with frustrated snarls.
Next came two samurai from the distant north, Zanshuru and Jiji, but the bow would not yield to them either.
Morio of the Land of Iwa, who had showered Sakura with love letters for years, also failed to draw the string into place. Crestfallen, he hurried to disappear into the crowd.
Nor did Kido succeed — the man who had once dared impersonate Sasuke and enter her chambers. His defeat brought Sakura the only sliver of grim satisfaction she had felt all day.
“Shin-dono, surely you are not afraid to try? Come now!” Sakura called loudly, singling out the foremost suitor from the crowd.
Shin clicked his tongue in irritation but stepped forward all the same. He strode past Sarada, who sat beside the bow, knocking her roughly with his leg and nearly sending her off balance, then seized the weapon.
“What could possibly be so difficult? It only takes the right technique!” he snapped.
Shin dropped to his knees, wedged the lower end of the stave between his legs, and forced the bamboo to bend in the opposite direction while pulling the string into place. But the bow suddenly twisted free of his grip and struck him full in the face, knocking out one of his front teeth.
Roaring with rage, Shin hurled the bow aside. It struck Sarada directly on the head. She cried out in pain and clutched her forehead, but in the very next moment she straightened, pretending the blow had not already begun to raise a bruise beneath her skin.
“This is all nonsense! What happens now? Every one of us has failed the contest, which means you will have to choose a husband by some other means. Or do you imagine you can lead the clan yourself? Whoever heard of such a thing?” Shin spat.
The men around him burst into approving laughter.
Sakura slipped a hand into her sleeve and closed it firmly around the hilt of the dagger. She had prepared for this outcome as well. One swift motion, and the silk screen before her would be stained red with blood. At least in the final moments of her life, she would not have to see the horror contort Sarada’s face.
She had too many regrets. But none tormented Sakura more than the knowledge that her daughter stood too far away. There would be no time to hold her one last time, to press her close and say goodbye.
Why was she in such haste to die? Life had given her no answer. Perhaps Death would.
Sakura would step into the cold waters of the Sanzu, and the current would carry her down into the realm of the dead. She would stop the shades of fallen warriors and ask each of them:
“Did my Sasuke walk beside you?”
And if they could give her no answer, Sakura would journey farther. She would ask the keepers of the crossing — the old man and the old woman — whether her husband had passed them by, whether they had stripped the armour from his shoulders and placed upon the scales the weight of all he had done in the world of the living.
As though she had read her mother’s thoughts, Sarada suddenly turned her frightened face towards the screen and watched the movement of Sakura’s hand with alarm.
“That would be a mistake!” she cried.
At the panic breaking through her daughter’s voice, Sakura froze halfway through the motion. The samurai looked from Sarada to the lady concealed behind the silk, unable to understand what was happening.
Then a voice rose from the crowd.
“Allow me to try.”
The samurai craned their necks and looked around, searching among themselves for a suitor they had somehow overlooked. But the next moment, the hall shook with laughter as a stranger dressed in rags stepped out from the crowd.
His bare arms, legs, and half-exposed chest were covered in dirt, scars, and fresh scrapes. His long black hair was tangled and matted, while his unkempt beard had turned grey in places with dried mud. A torn straw hat and a long fringe hanging over his eyes concealed half his face.
“Did you run here straight from the rice fields?” someone jeered. “Just look at this beggar!”
For one brief moment, Sakura thought she had heard that voice before. But the stranger spoke so low and hoarsely that he sounded as though he had gone days without water. From such a distance, and through the screen besides, she could not make out the new contender’s face.
Sarada rose from her knees, approached the beggar, and respectfully offered him the bow. The samurai muttered in displeasure.
Had the Uchiha house truly fallen so low that it was prepared to hand its rule over to a common rice farmer?
The man smiled at Sarada and reached for the bow with hands that were filthy and roughened by hard labour. Taking the grip with care, he slowly walked to the centre of the tatami, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him, and lowered himself to his knees.
Sakura released the dagger, letting it slip to the bottom of her sleeve, and held her breath. The samurai also fell silent, watching the stranger intently.
Bent over the bow, the man slowly ran his palms along the full length of the stave. For a while, he did nothing more. He merely rubbed and worked the bamboo, hardened with age, warming it with the heat of his hands.
The samurai began to sigh impatiently and whisper among themselves in irritation. Sarada, however, watched the stranger’s every movement as though spellbound.
Sakura leaned forward without realising it, craning her neck. She was no longer watching the bow, but the man himself. There was something agonisingly familiar in the set of his body, the angle of his shoulders, the way he moved.
At last, with one sharp motion, the man bent the bow back in the opposite direction and it yielded to him without resistance.
The samurai gasped in alarm and instinctively drew back. Sakura rose slightly from her knees, covering her mouth with one hand. Could he truly string it? But no one except her Sasuke had ever been capable of such a feat.
And yet… what if…?
She looked at her daughter, expecting to see sorrow on her face at the thought of her mother marrying again. What she saw shocked her even more: Sarada was leaning forward, her lips spread in a broad, almost triumphant smile. She seemed to be rooting for the beggar with all her heart.
The bow was strung.
The man dropped to one knee, raised the bow, and took aim through the sockets of the twelve axes.
In that stance, the stranger seemed to cast off his beggar’s guise and transform in an instant into a fearsome warrior. Even through the rags, Sakura recognised the bearing of a man born to wield bow and arrow. His arms and legs braced with strength forged through years of battle and arduous wandering.
And then understanding struck her.
The arrow flew through the entire row of axes with a piercing whistle.
It was the final, undeniable proof.
The master had returned to his home.
Her husband had returned to her.
He did not need to remove his straw hat, nor did she need to lift the screen, for her to recognise him.
Sasuke stood before her — alive.
Uchiha Sasuke had returned and won anew the right to share her marriage bed.
“Sasuke-dono, have mercy! We thought you were dead. We only wished to take ca—”
Zaku’s plea was cut short by an arrow that tore straight through his cheek. He froze with his mouth hanging open, then toppled backwards.
The shoulders of the samurai, made to look imposing by their sleeveless kimono, began to tremble like those of pitiful cowards, as though an entire army had surrounded them.
Yet before them stood only the master of this house, dispossessed and dishonoured.
Casting aside every ceremonial rule of archery, Sasuke loosed arrow after merciless arrow at every man who crossed the path of his rage-reddened eyes.
Sakura felt neither pity nor fear. Only sorrow and resentment that her long-awaited reunion with her lord had begun with bloodshed in their own home.
“My lady, we must go inside!” Masako, the elderly maidservant, pleaded anxiously.
She used the dagger to cut through the binding around Sakura’s ankles, then helped her to her feet, supporting her by the elbow.
Sakura followed obediently, yet she could not tear her gaze from the garden as it filled with roars, the ringing of drawn katana, and the dull thud of suitors’ bodies falling lifeless onto the grass.
Amid the chaos, she found her husband and daughter. Sarada stayed close to her father, passing him arrows while fending off attackers with one of the axes she had torn from the ground. Sasuke, deaf to the samurai’s pleas, killed each man in silence, as though hunting wild boar unworthy of human words.
“I can fight too!”
Sakura wrenched herself free of the maidservant’s grasp, ran to the nearest long-handled axe, and pulled it from the earth. Gripping the weapon in both hands, she planted herself before the entrance to the castle.
Several samurai, led by Kido, fled up the steps in panic without even noticing the woman blocking their path. Sakura met them with a series of sweeping blows: she took Kido’s head clean off and cut open the others’ chests, dealing mortal wounds.
The samurai no longer thought of seeking refuge inside the castle. Gathering the last scraps of their honour, they finally resolved to face death head-on.
Before going inside, Sakura looked back at Sasuke. His face was still hidden beneath the broad brim of his straw hat and his tangled beard, but he was looking directly at her. And suddenly, a foolish, soul-corroding hurt pierced her: why had he not let her know that he had returned?
Her eyes began to sting again. Sakura turned away sharply and disappeared into the castle, dragging behind her the hem of her kimono, stained with the blood of the men she had killed and leaving a long crimson trail across the floor.
One after another, high, clear notes rang out from outside, like the twang of a taut string.
Shadows of men flickered across the paper panels of the shoji. Some fled, vainly trying to save their wretched lives; others still defied Sasuke in his own home, refusing to admit their mistake. But each was overtaken by the long, slender shadow of an arrow. The silhouettes convulsed and fell one after another, spattering the white paper with blood.
Sakura sat gripping the haft of the ceremonial axe, watching the brutal scene unfold. From time to time, the figure of a tall man carrying a bow appeared among the frantic shadows, mercilessly killing everyone outside.
Who was this man? Was he truly her Sasuke? Why had he returned now, of all times? What had he become over the past seven years? What had he done, and whom had he met? Had there been other women?
Even if he was still the man she remembered, would she be able to nestle against him as she once had and feel her eyelids flutter at the warmth of his body? What kind of trembling would his touch awaken in her — the trembling of anticipation, passion, and desire, or the shudder of confronting something savagely unfamiliar, alien, and repellent?
Did he still love her as he once had, or had distance allowed everything between them to grow cold?
The garden gradually fell silent, and with every frantic beat, her heart climbed higher into her throat. Why was she so afraid? Had she not spent years waiting for this very moment?
Heavy footsteps, sticky with blood, sounded within the castle and drew closer to the main chamber where Sakura had taken refuge. She watched a tall, dark shadow stop before the shoji. The stranger’s hand reached towards the panel as though to slide it open, but instead he merely sagged heavily against the wooden frame and lowered his head.
“I counted one hundred and twenty-eight shots. There were only one hundred and eight suitors at the ceremony. You…” Sakura spoke first, striving to sound calm and assured, but her voice betrayed her on the final word.
On the other side of the shoji, the man’s fingers tapped several times against the wooden frame.
“I killed all your maidservants except Masako,” he admitted.
His hoarse voice was only a distant echo of the one she remembered. For a moment, Sakura doubted him again, but then she caught a familiar inflection.
“Why?” she asked reproachfully.
“They took pity on those bastards. Some crouched over their bodies and mourned them. Others tried to help them escape.”
“What else were they supposed to do? Is it truly so surprising?” Sakura sprang to her feet, and the heavy iron axe slid from her lap and struck the floor with a crash. “This castle was besieged by hungry, greedy men for years. Had the maidservants not yielded to their relentless harassment, those men would have come for me instead.”
The shadow slowly lowered his hand and turned away. Sakura bit her lip.
“I had a husband. My beloved husband, whom I loved until my final breath and for whom I was prepared to follow into the next world.”
At the word loved, Sakura saw his head snap towards her trembling voice.
“But I do not know where he was, or why it took him so long to keep his promise to return as soon as his duty was done. Word reached me that the men of other clans had come home long ago. Their houses are filled with children’s voices now.”
A heavy sigh filled the corridor, followed by a dull thud laden with deep regret.
“Sarada grew up, and my husband missed so many moments of her childhood. She no longer wants to play hide-and-seek with me. Would she even agree to now? She is already eleven. Children grow so quickly…”
Sakura’s voice faded on the final words, and she drew in against the doorframe as though trying to conceal her weakness. A tear slipped down her cheek and fell to the floor.
Perhaps she only imagined it, but something seemed to drip softly on the other side of the shoji as well.
The shadow raised his head and cleared his throat.
“The war that began because of Rin ended, and at last we set out for home,” he began quietly. Sakura turned and pressed her ear to the shōji. “But my arrogance and cunning led me astray on the journey back.”
Sakura closed her eyes, trying to picture his face, but she could no longer fully summon it behind her eyelids.
“It was my decision to use the figure of the god Susanoo as a trick against our enemy, and in doing so I gravely offended him. That was why my voyage home dragged on for so long and was beset by hardship. But now I understand that what you endured was no easier than what befell me.”
Sakura sniffed and lifted her head, looking up at the tall shadow looming over her.
“What happened along the way?” she asked.
The shadow grew fainter as he moved away from the shoji and began walking slowly down the corridor. Sakura followed him from the other side of the partition, moving along the length of the room.
“We came across a one-eyed child. Not knowing what he was, I blinded him, only to discover that he was a Hitotsume-kozo. That was the first ill omen,” he replied.
Sakura frowned in sympathy.
“We wandered the sea for a long time before finding an island where we hoped to obtain food. That was where we encountered Yamauba. Instead of giving us provisions, the mountain witch fattened my warriors until they became pigs.”
Sakura stopped. The shadow halted as well and turned his head towards her.
“Were all your warriors lost?”
Sakura could not see the expression on his face, and her question went unanswered.
“Time after time, we found ourselves at Death’s threshold, and every trial we faced was harsher than the one before.” He turned away and lowered his head. “The fault was mine alone.”
Sakura stepped forward until she stood directly against the partition separating them.
“What happened next?”
“Ningyo,” he answered.
A shudder of horror ran across Sakura’s skin.
“I was tied to the mast so that I could signal the others once we had sailed far enough away from the ningyo for their song to fade. The remaining warriors had their ears stopped so they would not hear those enchanting sounds, like the trilling of larks.” He fell silent for a moment, then added softly, “Voices of impossible beauty that made me…”
Sakura touched the shoji with her fingertips and slowly traced the outline of the grey silhouette.
“What did they sing to you?” she asked, barely above a whisper, resting her forehead against the thin paper.
“Of everything I wanted to be, and then all the things I wished I had never wished for...” The voice in the corridor grew closer and louder. “It was a delicious itch I longed to scratch, only to find it buried beneath my skin, beyond my reach.”
Sakura felt him press his fingers to the other side of the shoji.
“And then that delicious itch became unbearable. It told me that what I wanted most was what I could never have, and that what I could never have was what I had once possessed and lost. It was a song about every promise I had failed to keep, Sakura. And they told me that, deep down, I did not want to return home at all.”
Sakura dug her nails into the shoji and tore the paper towards herself, leaving a ragged hole.
Sasuke stood on the other side, his filthy face drenched in blood. A long, wet trail ran down his cheek and disappeared into his tangled beard.
“Were they singing the truth? You didn’t want to come back?!” Sakura cried.
The coarse black hair beneath his lower lip shifted, and she realised that he had bitten down on it. Sasuke stepped forward. His exhausted, sorrowful eyes shimmered and trembled. They searched her tear-streaked face as though he were trying to truly see her — to find forgiveness there.
“My ship was sunk. I woke alone on the shore, surrounded by splintered wreckage and the bodies of my companions. It was an enormous island, with a river of fire, snow-white deserts, and mountains buried in snow.” He clenched his teeth and continued with his eyes closed. “I was imprisoned in Kaguya’s lands, and for seven years she would not let me return to you, Sakura.”
She broke into sobs when his bloodied hands reached through the tear in the shoji and cupped her cheeks. His fingers were rough, scored with deep cracks. How foolish she had been to doubt him. The moment he touched her again after all those years, he was just as warm and gentle as she remembered, holding her in the same tender strength.
She leaned into his palms until her whole face rested between them, and all her emotions, along with the hurt she had carried, burst forth like a waterfall that could no longer be held back.
“No one wanted to believe me!” Sakura began, choking on her tears. “As though I needed witnesses to prove I wasn’t lying! Does your wife’s word count for nothing? I was not alone in body, but in my faith! People think that when a woman says, ‘He will return,’ ‘He didn’t abandon me,’ ‘I am loved,’ she is only deceiving herself because she cannot bear to face the truth! I cared nothing for what others said. But it hurt so much when our own daughter began to doubt us!”
She thought she heard a rustle near the entrance, as though someone had shifted their feet across the floor.
But her attention snapped back to Sasuke when he tore the remaining paper from the square frame with one hand and drew her face closer. Sakura met his gaze, blazing with fury, regret, and pain. Her heart skipped a beat.
“But how could I blame a little girl who only wanted to see her father?” she finally whispered.
Sasuke swallowed and began frantically stroking Sakura’s cheeks with his thumbs, smearing her tears together with the blood on her skin.
“It was my fault. Mine alone,” he kept repeating. “Do not blame yourself or Sarada. My choices and my wretched fate are the only reasons misfortune ever fell upon you.”
Fresh, burning tears welled in Sakura’s eyes and ran over Sasuke’s fingers. His voice turned menacing.
“Give me the name of every person who dared doubt your word, and I will cut out their tongues, even if they are already dead. Not six coins — not even one — will be placed in their graves, and they will flounder at the gates of Hell for all eternity.”
She shook her head and smiled at him for the first time in years.
“Have you seen Sarada?” Sakura finally asked. “It was as though she knew it was you.”
He nodded.
“She helped me enter the castle and told me everything,” Sasuke replied, glancing warmly towards the entrance. “She has grown so much.”
At those words, his anger gave way to sorrow, and he lowered his eyes. Sakura wiped away her tears and pressed her lips to his palm. Now that her thoughts had begun to clear, she could look at him more closely, and she realised that the years of wandering had shown him no mercy. His entire body was covered in scars and fresh abrasions, but what made her heart ache most were the lines beneath his eyes, which made his beautiful face look older.
“Look at you…” Sakura’s voice trembled, and she knew she was about to cry again. “What have you been through?”
Sasuke looked at her once more and gave her a faint smile.
“I got blood all over you.”
She laughed through her tears. Her cheeks lifted, her eyes narrowed, and a fresh veil of tears blurred her vision. Yet even through it, Sakura could see that Sasuke was still smiling at her.
“None of that matters, Sasuke-kun. None of it matters,” she whispered, slipping free of his hands.
Sakura slowly made her way towards the door, and her husband’s shadow — Sasuke’s shadow — followed at an unhurried pace. He seemed at once so large and yet so bowed beneath the weight of guilt and homesickness that his shadow would stretch to its full height, only to shrink in upon itself again.
She had seen him off as a great warrior. He had left brave and respected, a great Uchiha celebrated in song. And now he had returned to her wretched, broken, and shrouded in disgrace.
Perhaps the guise of a destitute rice farmer had never been a disguise at all. Perhaps this was simply who he had become.
But had Sakura married a man desired by everyone merely because he was desirable? Or had she married Sasuke simply because he was Sasuke? Who was Sasuke without his clan?
If the first were true, she should pick up the axe lying at her feet and stand against him, just as she had stood against a dozen great men for years. But if the second were true, she should open the door and let him into their home.
And she did.
There was so much she wanted to tell him, so much that had happened in his absence. And he, too, had seven years of wandering to recount. There was nowhere left for either of them to hurry to.
Now they had all the time in the world.
“I’m back, Sakura.”