Morning light drills through the Land of Grass canopy in jagged, pale needles, illuminating the weeds as they heave through the thoroughfare's grey cobblestones. Nature continues its slow reclamation of the road outside Asakusa, turning the stone path into a fractured graveyard of industry. The scent of damp loam and rotting leaves rises to meet the sunrise, a humid weight that clings to the heavy fabric of Itachi's unbuttoned Akatsuki cloak. He remains on a fallen log, left arm tucked deep into his chest to mask the rhythmic, persistent tremor in his hand that refuses to settle.
His focus narrows to the iron stew pot. It hangs over a small, controlled blaze, the contents bubbling with a heavy glup-glup that vibrates against the crackle of the embers. He turns the rabbit meat with a slow, deliberate hand, the aroma of roasting protein clashing with the biting smoke that stings his eyes and dries his throat.
Beside him, the crow sits motionless. Its right eye—the crimson wheel of Shisui's Mangekyō—tracks the steam rising from the pot with an unblinking intensity. Itachi watches the bird, seeing a fragment of a lost world staring back at a present that rapidly dissolves into shadow. He forces his thoughts away from the south. Thinking of the race in Tea, or the boy who shares his blood, or the legacy he meticulously tailors for his own execution, only triggers the shivers.
A sharp twinge sparks deep in his ribs—a needle-stab of cold that radiates through his lung tissue like frost on glass.
Breath hitches. A tickle surfaces at the base of his windpipe, spreading like a spill of acid. He tries to swallow, to force the sensation down through sheer muscle control, but his lungs seize in an autonomous revolt.
The coughing fit arrives as a series of violent, staccato jolts. He doubles over, knuckles turning white as he grips the rough bark of the log to keep from sliding into the dirt. Every spasm racks his diaphragm, the pressure in his chest reaching a breaking point that threatens to buckle his ribs. He presses his forehead toward his knees, fighting to stabilize his posture as the world blurs into a grey haze. The crow caws—a harsh, metallic rasp—and beats its wings toward the canopy above, abandoning the log.
Itachi pulls his hand away from his mouth. A bright, viscous smear of red stains his palm, the heat of the blood contrasting sharply with the morning chill. A silent tally runs through his mind, measuring the thickness of the red against the remaining months he needs to stay upright. He flexes his fingers, tests the tremor in his forearm, counts the shallow hitch of each breath. His ribs burn with the effort of stabilizing posture, muscles quivering under the strain. A pulse skips in his neck, a warning; a tight knot coils in his diaphragm. He waits, letting the body settle fractionally, the rhythm of pain and control matching the thrum of the embers.
A series of heavy, rhythmic vibrations travel through the log beneath him. Itachi wipes his hand against the dark fabric of his trousers, the stain disappearing into the indigo weave a heartbeat before Kisame emerges from the brush. A massive mesh bag slung over the shark-man's shoulder bulges with bundles of dark-veined leaves and pungent, woody roots.
"We're lucky this last contract yielded extra rewards," Kisame says, his voice a low-frequency rumble that competes with the fire. He drops the bag with a muffled thud, the impact sending a small cloud of dust toward Itachi's sandals. The scent of bitter, medicinal herbs—earthy and sharp—instantly overwhelms the smell of the stew. Kisame flashes a grin, triangular teeth glinting, but his small, white eyes linger on the deathly pallor of Itachi's skin. Itachi's vision flickers over the forest edge, noting the slight sway of the cedars, the way the morning breeze shifts dust and leaves. His hand tightens on the log as his muscles protest, sensing the weight of Kisame's proximity and the imperceptible shift in his stance. Every faint sound—the rasp of a root underfoot, the whisper of distant wings—registers through the strained conduit of his nerves, a subtle map of potential threat and support. He adjusts his stance, his weight shifting in a subtle, protective arc that scans the forest perimeter. "The merchant was eager to please."
Itachi attempts to clear his throat, but a second, smaller cough escapes. Weakness spreads through his legs, a dull ache that makes even sitting feel like an immense exertion of will.
Kisame steps forward, his hand hovering near Itachi's shoulder. The gills on the shark-man's neck twitch—a silent sign of unease he doesn't voice. Itachi gives a short, dismissive wave.
"Keep a handful for the road," Itachi rasps, his voice a dry scrape. "We take the rest back to the base. The organization needs capital more than I need medicine."
Kisame groans, the sound vibrating in the air between them. He sets the bag more firmly at Itachi's feet, his movements lacking their usual fluid grace. "We worked for this. We're keeping it. You need it, Itachi-san."
"I don't need it," Itachi replies, his gaze returning to the embers. "I am going to die, Kisame. These are just temporary measures... enough to keep the pulse steady for the final act."
Kisame grunts, his jaw setting into a hard line. "Keep you going just to get killed by your little brother." He kicks the bag of herbs, the motion sharp and frustrated. "What's the fucking point of that?"
The shark-man walks toward the fire and snags the rabbit meat directly off the spit. He tears into it, the sound of wet chewing and the snap of bone filling the silence of the campsite.
"That was for the stew," Itachi says, scolding him with a faint, weary edge that lacks any real bite.
Kisame scoffs, grease staining the blue-grey skin of his chin. "You barely eat. No sense letting good protein go to waste while you survive on dashi and willpower."
He looks toward the overgrown road, his gaze sharpening as he monitors the horizon for movement. After a long moment, the tension in his massive frame softens. "Y'know. There's a teahouse in the next town. Real dango. Not this forest trash."
Kisame tears a piece of meat free and tosses it into the air. The crow swoops out from the trees, catching the morsel with surgical precision before banking back into the shadows of the canopy.
Itachi watched the bird, then looked at his partner. The shark-man radiated the stillness of a predator, but there was an attentiveness in his quietude—a measuring of how much Itachi could take before the system failed entirely.
Itachi didn't smile, but the tension in his jaw loosened. "The town is several miles out. We should move before the dew dries."