Log in

No account? Create an account
27 September 2009 @ 02:37 am
Silent Vigil  
Title: Silent Vigil
Fandom: Naruto
Character/Pairing: NejiHina, onesided in this one.
Rating: PG
Theme: Violence, pillage/plunder.

Another one for 30_kisses. This one came from my brain much easier than the other one, which is still being rather tarded. Anyway, enjoy the fic.

The room is silent but for two things. The soft, even breathing of the still form lying so pale, so white amidst the white linens of the hospital bed and the harsh sound of the steady, even tone as the machines monitor that same breathing, seeing that it continues uninterrupted. The whiteness of the room itself seems to bleed the colour out of everything else, turning the entirety to the same blanched sterility. Her gown is white, her skin far too white, lacking the usual flush to her cheeks. The sheets are white, even the walls... white.

He thinks it ironic that her eyes, though closed, are also that same pale absense of colour. Like his own, though he is certain that the alabaster orbs beneath her thin lids would not glint with the barely-suppressed rage that his own shine with. He is as certain of that as he is that were she awake, her teeth would not be gritted in anger, her shoulders set by the tension that emotion brings. She would not wish to be out wrecking vengeance on those that have put her here.

Hinata's hair is a splash of dark across her pillow, like a spill of night-blue ink falling down the stark white of the sheets to pool behind her head. It's darkness only serves to emphasize the pallor of her complexion, the absence of it's usual healthy rose-tint. It's like her spirit, in a way. Dark, deep, fluid in it's nature. A calm and limpid pool untouched by the ravages of the world in which they live. A sanctuary for any who she chooses to allow into it.

And she would offer it to him

Her hand is tiny in his larger fingers as he cradles those slender pale fingers in his own, his warm grasp tighter than it should be, admonishing himself for the darkness of the bruises he fears he will leave on her porcelain skin. It is cold where his is warm, a stark contrast to the hearthlike ember of her heart, warm and inviting and carefully tended.

It is war that has put her here, war and yet he cannot bring himself to bear hatred for the one who has brought that violence upon her. He cannot turn his anger towards those who have attacked them, those who have plundered and wronged their village, who have reduced it to so much smoldering ashes around them. They are the villains, and yet his hatred finds it's root closer to home.

His hair is dark against the whiteness of the room, dark as his mood while his equally white-clad form sits in the small chair and waits, his heart seeming to stop in his chest at each weak rise of her chest, breath held as that chest falls and he waits to count another rise, another breath. And another, counting each one as though he were counting pearls or diamonds, though either of those seem as worthless as common stones compared to the worth of each single breath she takes.

She doesn't know, of course, that it is he who sits here. He who holds her hand, who talks to her in short clipped sentances at intervals. Conversation has never been his strong suit, and not even the barest avoidance of tragedy can make it so, yet he speaks for her. He speaks of past, and present. He talks of memories engraved in childhood, of smiling faces and happy times long-since committed to so much dust, their truth remembered only in fantasy. He tells of the present, of her teamates and friends, of those who wait anxiously for her eyes to open. He talks of her family, of Hiashi and Hanabi, of those in the Bunke who value their family's gentle heir.

He pours out his heart to her, tells her things he swore never to voice, never to admit. He clings to her hand in moments of weakness, pressing lips against chill fingers, gritting his teeth against the anguish of seeing her lying there so still and then against the fury that suffuses him when he remembers why he is the one sitting here in this chair. He speaks of the future, both lyrical and true. He lies to her, not because he wishes to, or even because he believes it, but because he hopes that perhaps if he fills her comatose head with fantasies, it will be enough to bring her back.

Neji tells her what he knows she wants to hear, though he cannot bring himself to pretend. He will not lie and pretend to be another. He tells her of the man she loves with his teeth gritted in rage, fighting to keep the bitterness from his lips as he spins tales of merit that turn his stomach, telling her of impending visits and gifts that he knows are nothing but spun-sugar dreams and wishes. Not because Naruto himself is a bad man. In fact, it is just the opposite, and they have the blond boy to thank for their combined survival and the safety of the village.

He detests the stories because in spite of everything, when his gentle cousin found her courage and stood up, looking a deadly foe in the eye, it was not for herself. Instead, it was to defend the man that she loves. To defend him and to finally, after years of shyness and failure, stand tall and tell him of her feelings only to fall by enemy hand in that same man's defense, her blood splattered on the ground at their feet, staining pale skin and indigo hair as the Akatsuki tosses her aside like so much trash.

Neji hates them because, in spite of her bravery and hard work, in spite of the sacrifice she has made and the courage that she has finally shown, regardless of the truth and purity in her feelings and the honesty of her convictions ... it is not Naruto who sits by her bedside in silent vigil.