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Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

... Break Down ...
... by ICWT ...
... Part Six: Vulture ...

Temari wants to know where her father has gone. It isn’t like him to miss one of her visits. Baki replies that something happened to the Hidden Leaf, and her father must go to express his condolences. Temari doesn’t understand why: Didn’t they all hate the Leaf nin?

Yes, but her father is Kazekage, and they must be polite. The Sandaime Hokage came to Suna after the incident with Sasori. Of course, Temari wouldn’t remember that. It was almost before her time.

Temari walks through the crowded but small marketplace with her mentor, observing the other ninja taking the air. The jounin seem to be secretly celebrating. The word is gently circulating on the breeze with vindictive joy. Nothing is left of the Uchiha. Temari remembers the clan’s name, abilities, and numbers from the record books. There were a bunch of little Uchiha boys and girls younger than Kankurou, weren’t there? If this had happened to a Suna clan everyone would be mourning. Shrieks of pain would rend the desert air for miles around as they felt the sorrow.

It already has happened to Suna, Baki says sharply. Why does she think she and Kankurou have no one their age to play with?

Temari keeps her mouth shut, knowing that Baki-sensei is right. It isn’t just because of Gaara that Temari has no one other than her mentor to talk to. But she also knows that Baki-sensei is wrong, too. Sometimes adults can be wrong.

…

She tells this to Kankurou, the next time she sees him. He rolls purple painted eyes and tells her he stopped living in awe of grown ups a long time ago, and she needs to be mature about things. Temari hits him with a small hand fan that belonged to their mother, a silk thing with steel ribs.

A puppet comes swinging at her, and she has to duck, before sending kunai for his head. He deflects them with a wooden arm grabbed on chakra strings. Temari flips backward to avoid the thrust of a poisoned needle. The one armed puppet looms behind her, and she rushes at Kankurou.

Neither would call themselves taijutsu specialists, but they know how to fight, and fight well. Temari has the advantage of height and weight, nearly eleven years old to Kankurou’s nine. One punch sends Kankurou reeling out into the hall, and she chases after him to press her advantage. But instead of readying himself to repel her charge Kakuro is frozen and shaking.

From the office at the top of the stairs sand is spilling in a waterfall, which arcs back up once it reaches the upper limits of Shukaku’s willingness to leave his vessel unprotected. Gaara stands up there, his blue eyes alien and empty (or not quiet alien, Temari thinks, knowing the blank expression on an older face).

At the door their father looks up at his youngest. No wonder Kankurou froze up. Temari learns in that instant what murderous intent feels like. It shocks her to her spine. She can feel Gaara’s chakra seeking to punch out of his skin like a sharp spike. The hate and desire for death are palpable in the air.

“I need something to hold more sand,” Gaara states, ignoring his siblings, because they simply aren’t interesting enough to eliminate.

Temari marvels that so many words come out of the small boy’s mouth. But he isn’t a boy anymore. He is something else. Not the demon, but not the boy either. This is not the boy who had been so excited to learn about apologies.

Her father is silent. He just keeps his eyes locked on Gaara, and Temari wonders what messages are passing between them, or if they understand each other at all.

“Gaara,” he stops, and waits a few moments before trying again. “Why?” The word is lead heavy, and serious as the test Temari went through to become a geinin.

Gaara shifts uncomfortably, unsure, Temari is certain, about how to articulate his desire. “Shinobi don’t always fight in the dessert.”

Her father nods. That was the right answer. They continue staring at one another, waiting for the cue card that will tell them the conversation is over. Abruptly the Kazekage marches up the stairs. The waterfall of sand lets him through. At the top he barks at Kankurou to talk to Tsucho. See if the genius can cook up something for Gaara.

Kankurou unfreezes momentarily to sit down with a whoosh. He and Temari exchange glances. “Well, fear isn’t awe,” he mumbles. Temari is too busy thinking that Gaara, already seven, declared that he would become a shinobi, and her father accepted that.

…

The Kazekage stands with his back to the young boy. Sand swirls outside in a fierce storm. He can see the demon’s reflection in the glass, and the expression of cold disgust on the face which is no longer boyish.

You’re afraid of me, the eyes say. I see you for what you are.

The Kazekage keeps his expression blank. The hitae-ite is on the table between them.

“Will you serve Sunagakure?”

“Yes.”

“Take it, then. Someone will tell you your squad once assignments are made.”

Gaara takes it, and goes out. He passes Temari on the way. She forces herself not to flinch. Kankurou, dressed in black and standing in the shadow of the door, cannot help but shrink back. The Kazekage recognizes the expression that Gaara wears. He would kill both of them without hesitation if it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Under the white robes, the ruthless man wonders what he has done. No piece of humanity should have survived Shukaku, and yet Gaara is still undeniably Gaara. His own person and not the demon. Possibly this is even more terrifying than merely dealing with Shukaku. Possibly Gaara was strong enough to survive Shukaku’s Breath. The Kazekage wonders what the stars tell the boy.

Temari and Kankurou come in, Baki shutting the door behind them. Temari looks at her father. The Kazekage finds something disturbing in that look, as though she knows what he is going to say, and she is disappointed by his choices. It occurs to the Kazekage that she is nothing like her mother. Baki says, rather bluntly, that they still have room on their squad, and they’re the only genin cell with even a chance of surviving Gaara, aren’t they?

The Kazekage nods. Kankurou shivers, while Temari sighs quietly.

…

Times are bad. Kankurou knows this. He doesn’t like knowing this, but Tsusho is now taking anyone who so much as chips a puppet to town. The troupe can’t afford, and the head puppeteer uses the miserly merchants’ word through gritted teeth, wood to make repairs. Steel is at too high a premium to make nails, repair rusted joints, or do anything else asked of it.

It takes all his courage to ask the Kazekage why the things they need for weapons are becoming so scare when they need to complete missions with their weapons. As always when the pit-like gaze is turned on him, Kankurou thinks he’s going to be hauled off and beaten, or sent away like a child, or given to Gaara. The Kazekage is at least as murderous as Shukaku and Gaara. If Kankurou watches Gaara’s expression like a hawk the puppeteer has the possibility of knowing when he has to step around the corner and run. With the leader of Suna, Kankurou can’t even tell what he’s thinking. Just that it can’t be pleasant.

The Kazekage is surprised, actually, by the intelligence that this question poses. He had not believed that there was much in Kankurou’s head, other than torturing and belittling others. This is a question he would have expected from Temari (too brash and forward for her own good, but he’s already sent her on B-rank missions and she’s entitled to a little unwomanly brazenness each time she’s come back alive).

However, the answer is simple. It’s the same answer it has always been. The Wind Country does not have wood to log, and the skilled workers of metal have moved away. The Fire Country holds them now. Soon the merchants who bring the fruits of the mines to the Hidden Village will stop coming to Suna. The Village of the Hidden Leaf is a better prospect.

Kankuro nods, trying to imagine what life in Konohakagure must be like. Lots of fat babies, he decides, and smiling mothers, who are all beautiful like the woman in the pictures in Uncle Yashamaru’s room. No one is loud and angry like Temari, or quiet and frightening like Gaara. Bitter, terrifying men like his father don’t exist. Life in Konoha must be paradise. Kankurou hates them for being happy with the wood and steel he needs for his craft.

…

Missions come and go. Temari is making a name for herself. Kankurou is not, in the way of puppeteers. Gaara, it goes without saying, is well known. Notorious. The Kazekage looks at the map on the wall, and the pins that are the lives of Suna shinobi on missions. Their generation is sparsely populated right now. He only has two active genin teams, and only one that he will dare let out of the wind country. Needless to say, Shukaku is staying inside the desert’s border. The Kazekage is waiting for the next war to break out, and Gaara will finally be put to the use he was made for.

Until then the Kazekage must still reckon up the costs of this weapon he has made. His wife. His brother. The boy that Gaara was, or might have been. Why does hindsight have to be so clear on that point? He couldn’t feel anything for his wife, but he can’t stop feeling for her thrice damned son! Why?! Why does she only have a void in his chest?! Why does he care for the misbegotten crying boy?! How can he feel this way? Why is he continuing to betray her?

His mind, running in circles and snapping at its own tail shifts to the side, and moves back to the more stable ground of the cost of a jinchurriki. He forces it there gladly. The girl. The Kazekage remembers her terrified scream of agony as she was crushed, and the shiny, glistening vicious smile on Gaara’s face. The girl, who, as far as the Yondaime can remember, had done nothing more terrible than try to push past Gaara to get home. And there have been the squad accidents when they grouped other genin squads together on single missions. Not that more than one three man team has been completely eliminated, nor that it was even Gaara’s fault that the squad walked into a rock slide. But people serving with Gaara seem to have a higher level of injury. And then there are the bodies of the civilians.

Perhaps the Kazekage will rule the Wind Country through fear, after all.

…

He has done the wrong thing, the Kazekage admits to himself, watching Temari, Kankurou, and Gaara walk firmly across a sandy courtyard. They do not walk as a team. Temari is contemplating something, the man can tell from the way she is not paying any attention to the traders who have just arrived. She is too absorbed in her own thoughts, and Kankurou is veering away from his brother and sister at every opportunity, looking at this and that, trying to hide his desire to be far away from Gaara. Gaara is looking up at the spire. His father can see the black blots of his eye rings in the pale fuzz of the boy’s face, although all other features are indistinguishable. However, as always, their eyes meet across the distance, and hate dances along the connection.

They should not have been made into a team. They should have been tested and tempered the way he was. Well, perhaps not Kankurou. And Temari has the double burden of being a kunochi. But Gaara should be a jounin now, if his brains are equal to his power. You do not need teamwork to be a jounin, the way you do desperately need it at genin level. And the siblings are not a team. They are a front. A façade.

Temari’s loudness, rough boyishness, hides the mind which works towards finding the truth (a foolish objective for a ninja). Kankuro’s bullying hides his fear, and warns others away his presence (and by extension Gaara’s; what inventive misdirection). Gaara is blunt. To the point. Honest in his own way. The Kazekage knows that he can kill, but he has not yet learned how to focus himself towards the mission, and only the mission. Being in a team lets him indulge in his own interests and whimsy. The Kazekage sees too much of Shukaku in that unreliability. Such sloppiness is a weakness, as well. He was wrong in his method of training, and Gaara is a failure.

…

The traders carry news to the Kazekage. The shinobi of the newly (in comparison to the five great villages, at least) formed Hidden Village of Sound request an alliance. The Yondaime reviews the terms, and the other names on the list. Rain. Grass. Sound. Odd. All they would need to form an “Enemies of Konoha” club would be Rock. Rain, Grass, Sound, and Sand. And they have requests. A plan that needs the abilities of Suna’s newest generation.

The question, why no genin should be allowed to participate in any chuunin exam until Leaf’s, is easily answered. Someone knows about his half formed plans, and about Gaara. Under the veil he wears in the day time, the Kazekage’s lips thin. Perhaps this is the impetus he needs.

Or perhaps it will be the trial through Shukaku’s Breath that they all need.

…

Perhaps this is a dream. Or another hallucination. The moon is riding high and full, and he has walked to the edge of a roof, and is watching the shadows below him with an impossible clarity. Behind him there is the shift of sand, and he knows this is it.

Chuckling. “I’d never push you over. Sake?”

He sits down next to the curled, monstrous mound of sand. The star-filled eyes are scrunched in a grin that is full of fangs. A massive paw holds out a small cup like a thimble, and he accepts it mutely. The brown cup with blue swirls that sits in front of the creature is the size of the Kazekage’s head, and one arm dives into a sandy stomach to bring out a water skin. Rice wine pours from it, first into the brown cup, and then into his white thimble.

“So, tell us a story,” the monster commands, before laughing at the look on his face. The laughter is shrill and horrible, half drunk.

“I won’t kill you. Why would I do that? It’s against the principle. You’re mine already,” Shukaku leers at him, and licks his jagged lips. ‘That boy of yours, now, he I’d like to kill. He puts up such a fight. Every day, every night. But he’s wearing thin. I’ll have him eventually. And then, who knows,” the raccoon-dog shrugs expansively. “Maybe I’ll protect this little dump you hate so much. Maybe I’ll trash it. I haven’t decided. So, tell us a story.”

The Wind Rider finds his voice at last. “What story could I possibly tell?”

“You used to be pretty good at them. I remember every year you would lay on that rock above my cavern, and tell all those lovely little lies. I loved ‘em. Pretty little things, lies, you know. So, give me a story. Give me an old story.”

The Kazekage doesn’t know what imp of the perverse has possessed him as he obeys, beginning with the oldest story of them all, made before the Village was settled, before men dared to track through the wastes.

“When the stars fell from the sky,” Skukaku adds softly in the right place, grinning widely, as he settles his great bulk into a more comfortable position.

Yes, for one man was there. He watched the stars fall, and he mourned at the loss of such great spirits as they must have been. But then the stars appeared before him, as enormous eyes were opened. A grin stretched between massive jaws, big enough to swallow the world.

Shukaku chuckles, at once the audience, and the character of the desert demon.

The man had walked the desert, following his own path. Men and women had warned him not to set foot in the blistering land, as it was the abode of ghosts, but his path was calling him there anyway. And now he met the greatest spirit of the land. The demon lord of the desert, a being of wind and sand.

“And why didn’t this devil eat the man?”

Exactly what the great beast asked, more amused than hungry, but when that changed, the monk would have nowhere to run. The man replied that he was following a path that lead through the world.

“So does everyone else,” Shukaku replies derisively.

The man was impressed by this statement, and he told the demon so. Not everyone understands that they all have paths to follow. Some try to fight them, and some roll off them, and some walk them backwards, but he knows if he just waits calmly and keeps his inner eyes and ears open, he’ll be able to follow his, and there will be no problem. Anyway, he was listening, and his path didn’t end in the monster’s belly. So, they might as well sit down and talk until it was time to walk along the path again.

Perhaps the demon was impressed by the audacity. Perhaps he was just bored with the emptiness of the desert. No reason could be divined, this creature liked to be unpredictable and unguessable. He sat, and spoke with the man about his domain, about the endless sky, and the howling winds, and the seas of sand. Of the rocks thrusting bravely through the shifting ground. Of the cold stars so high above. Of the ghosts that walked, and how all bowed to him, the great sand tanuki.

In return the man favored him with stories of lands far beyond his domain, where the ground was green with grass, and thick with trees. Of lakes where enemies were destined to meet as friends. Of otters, playing in rivers, and stealing rice from honest monks. Of men who performed secret miracles, and then stole away before their kindness could be discovered.

“A lovely land,” Shukaku agrees, “but not for the demon. He had his place, where he was master.”

Yes, and that was the point. The great monster told the man, with all politeness, that he was welcome back in the desert. But if he brought others with him, they would be the victims of Shukaku’s mercy, and he might eat any that looked tasty. The man nodded, and asked if they could have tea the next time he saw the monster.

“And?” Shukaku wants to know, somewhat impatiently, as the Yondaime lapses into silence.

“And he gets up and walks away. They will meet again on another night.”

“Ah. Always leave them wanting more. It’s a pity. They wasted a talented story teller, making you a shinobi. Not that I can complain.”

The Kazekage doesn’t reply. Shukaku grins. “You’re mine. The boy, maybe not. But you’re mine. Go fly, little eagle. I have no more use for you. For now.”

…

The envoy wears and ANBU mask, but that says nothing, anyone can wear one of those, and they are spectacular when you want to hide your face. However, it does not fit properly, it juts out just too far, perhaps making room for spectacles.

The Kazekage considers the possibility. He might have to cave at this point. He knows that the mask has green markings, but they blend with the white so much that he can't tell for the life of him what the markings are. Another blow to his village. A blind Kazekage. Perhaps he should initiate the trials after this business with Sound is all over. A broken man cannot lead a broken village.

Holding on until the Third comes back is only slightly more realistic at this point than waking up and discovering that this was all a nightmare of the trenches, and he has to survive long enough to get back to the village and see his brave girl. Perhaps he would get lucky, and he would wake up even earlier than that, on the night he decided to take the C rank mission. He could decide, then, that the escort duty is beneath his strength as a shinobi, and never curse the siblings by meeting them. He would be a driven shinobi, destined to die on some angry shuriken at another place, and another time, but she, at least, would live. Probably become some fat merchant's wife. They might even meet as he kills her husband for being too rich during war time. Their eyes would meet in the darkness, topaz and teal separated by porcelain, and he might be weak for a moment, and let her live -- a response to the unknown life where she was the girl who taught him how to fold sheets of paper.

Only stories.

He realizes that he has kept the envoy waiting long enough. He says that he shall meet with the man's master, as agreed. They shall discuss terms. He is interested in the alliance. Will it really break Konoha?

If the fabled moonlight demon of Suna does his part, the mask replies.

The Kazekage nods, and dismisses the man.

...

The council chamber, hidden under rock and sand, is cold. The Yondaime looks up at the Sandaime. The face is wrong; forbidding when it should have been laughing, stern and stiff as death, rather than clever and lively. Still, the image brings some familiarity.

What should I do?

On the other side of the village the Yondaime can almost feel Shukkaku's teapot. The answer is obvious. Kill those who interfere with the wind and sand.

But the Sandaime would just shake his head. The Yondaime has failed Suna. He has kept it together through force of will, but he has failed all the same.

The Yondaime knows. He is Kazekage, but he is also a person. There is only one thing to do when such an egregious error has been made. Honor, which he doesn't have, demands his death. His life, a shinobi's killing path, demands that he kill everyone else. The memory of the only teacher who stayed alive long enough to see his marriage demands he fix what he has done. The Sandaime never believed it was never too late.

It is too late for some things. No matter how I apologize she never comes back.

...

He sits on the roof, waiting for the dawn. The world is black. The wind brings him reassurances on the lack of assassins, but the Kazekage is fairly certain that Sound would rather tear off their own skin before letting him die.

Sand shifts. Quite a lot of sand and quite close by. He can feel the rage and murderous hate envelop the rooftop like a cloak.

“I couldn't sleep.”

“I can't sleep,” Gaara's voice sounds so strange, as if he's fighting with each word he uses. Still, the blame is clear. I cannot sleep because you placed an insane demon inside me. I want my atrocities to be my own.

The Kazekage is silent in return. There is not much one can say in reply. Gaara clearly wants to talk some more because he begins again. “The moon is bright tonight.”

So that was the gray tinge on his vision. The Kazekage is gratified, but silent.

“It is not yet full. He gets very restless when the moon is full. It is just a crescent, though.”

The Yondaime wonders if he ever sounds this stilted and confused when he speaks. One thing that sets Gaara apart from Shukaku is that Shukaku can at least hold a conversation while sober. Inane as that conversation may be. Actually, Shukaku might be able to best Gaara at interpersonal relations while drunk, too.

“I wouldn't know,” the Kazekage replies simply. “You have better eyes than I.”

“I didn't know that,” the sand shifts, and the Kazekage wonders if Gaara is touching the black rings around his eyes like a little boy. Hardly. Just a story. “You can't see the stars, then.” A small thought echoes around both of them. We have nothing in common.

“I used to. When I was young.”

Silence, as Gaara either digests this information, or struggles with his words. They are awkward, strange people. They have that much in common. Or had. He is the Kage. Gaara is the jinchuuryki.

“I can't fight him when the moon is full.” That's why I've failed, isn't it? The Yondaime imagines Gaara's unspoken words. Rage and anger have certainly begun to pulse here, as they sit alone on the roof top.

“As the village has learned to their cost.”

“What is the meaning of my existence then?” Gaara asks. His voice is low, dangerous. The Kazekage realizes with light-headed relief that he will die tonight.

“You might as well ask what is the meaning of mine,” his father replies, rising.

A man should be standing when he dies. But instead, the murderous intent is snuffed out, and the rooftop becomes empty of the emotional undercurrent. Like a candle flame in the wind.

He jumps from the roof he has chosen as place to think. Behind him, Gaara suddenly screams in frustration, his voice threading upward to the moonlight, a lonely wail.

...

The day has come. The wind is blowing from the north, oddly refreshing to feel during the day. He has told no one of his decision to meet with the leader of Sound. The Kazekage can imagine how welcome the news that they were planning to betray the false alliance with the Leaf would be. But he is not even certain that is what he is going to the meeting for.

These are facts:

1. Sound is in the Rice Country
2. His wife is from Rice

This is supposition:

This mysterious leader of Sound might be the solution to the ill-fated choice that led her to cross his path.

He sets off, heading for the far edge of the desert with two body guards, and no clear goals in mind. The mind that once planned the deaths of children, and ignored the deaths of people he knew, is awash in watercolor. The wind invigorates him with possibilities, and an uncertain feeling of destiny.

Fact: He is losing his focus in favor of half-formed fiction.

…

He recognizes the snake-like face, although something is slightly wrong with it. It is as though Orochimaru is peeling away into an explosion of colored flashes. Behind the white mask, the kazekage's lips try to lift into a disused rueful smile.

“Tell me, when did you first come to the Country of the Rice? I would like to know of your village's history,” the Kazekage asks, story teller, liar, and curious.

The snake man smiles. Possibly. Or a black gash opens in his face, as far as the Yondaime's eyes can tell. “Come,” the honeyed stones still pour from the man's words. “Let us dispense with pleasantries. I would like to get down to business.”

“You want to use Gaara,” the Yondaime Kazekage states.

He is alone, and the snake man brought retainers, possibly to impress him. Most likely not. To terrify him, perhaps. To kill him, probably, if he isn't a good puppet. Doll. Do they know he can't see more than smudges of color in the daylight? Does it matter now. He can save himself from those smudges. If he agrees to destroy Leaf, which he wants to. Empty gesture, but honor demands it.

Only shinobi understand other shinobi. A wise man had said that once. Long ago, when he had believed the Third was still alive. He understands the leaf traitor perfectly. Ten years a missing nin. Ten years. The day Temari had brought him flowers, and he realized his wife, the bravest girl ever to hold him, had been dead for a year.

What might have changed if he had done the right thing? Would Temari smile, and act like a normal girl? Perhaps he could actually hold a proper conversation with Kankurou, father to eldest son. Gaara might have been his mother's favorite. Small and quiet, running to catch up with his older siblings. The Kazekage admits this now. He has always made the most evil choices he can.

Maybe there is a path to forgiveness, after all. Maybe, when they fall, he can pick them up again.

“No, you won't use Gaara.” Shukaku. His god. His son. No one can use his son. Gaara is stronger than that. He is broken, but he survived. His father will die as a kazekage.

He doesn't even have time to release the sickle winds he has been preparing. He feels the sting of the puncture wounds, and venom filling his body, as he falls backward. His eyes are open, and for a moment, all he can see is his brave girl, grinning at him, hand outstretched. A small, last burst of chakra causes the winds to dance, as agony contorts his body. The snake slides off him, belly scales rough against his robes. And he is flying, rising up and catching the thermals over the desert as he soars into the blue sky.