Whether Kita would awaken from her deep sleep was a matter of probability. How long she would remain unconscious was also a probability. Orochimaru had said that in past data, she sometimes awoke after a single day, and sometimes it took over a month. Even he could not give a precise answer.
The dark green liquid administered to her was not exactly a medicine. Its stabilizing ingredients were numerous, and the dosage exceeded normal limits. Saying it was addictive would not be inaccurate. It contained the same compounds as the pills she took when awake—just in liquid form rather than solid.
Konan did not suffer sleepless nights or torment herself in despair. She ate when she needed to eat and rested when she was tired. Her daily routine remained normal. She simply sat by Kita's side during her periods of consciousness, watching her sleep peacefully, listening to her even, steady breaths.
Nagato offered no counsel, because it was unnecessary. Konan's companionship had not exhausted her body. She was not wracked with grief, only the fading traces of a smile, and Nagato could do nothing but silently accept it.
After a week, Kita slowly stirred awake.
The first thing she saw was the person she had thought of day and night, her hand linked with the one she had longed for.
As her memory returned to the events before the incident, she recalled the ordinary afternoon: she was seated on her sofa at home, Konan brushing her troublesome long hair, tying a dark-red ribbon into a neat knot, and adjusting the blue silk scarf. Before that, of course, were the indulgent, reckless hours that had left her stomach in knots.
Her long hand pressed to her cheek, Kita looked toward Konan and saw her faint, gentle smile—and the redness around her eyes. Tears fell silently from the corners of her eyes. In others, such tears might be described as tears of joy, but Konan's expression defied such simple categorization. No sobbing, no whimpering—just a single tear tracing down her face.
Kita knew she had to say something.
At the very least, she needed to apologize.
"I… I'm sorry…"
Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.
Konan wiped the tears from her eyes, leaving no trace of weeping. Her face now shone with a faint smile, as if seeing something she had longed for.
"Sorry for what?"
Her voice too was hoarse, as though she hadn't spoken for a long time.
Kita withdrew her gaze from the one she had been longing for, turning instead to the dim, familiar ceiling of Orochimaru's lair. The chamber remained dark, rarely touched by light.
"For… various things."
"Various things" could mean anything—from years of deception to forgetting to use conditioner during baths as Konan had instructed. It was easier to speak broadly than enumerate every transgression.
Konan did not seek clarification. Kita had far too many reasons to apologize. If she tried to specify them all, there might never be closure. So she accepted the vague apology with an equally vague reply:
"It's fine. You've always been like that—I'm used to it."
It was a statement that carried warmth, indulgence, and affection.
A soft sigh escaped Kita. She had not expected this moment, but here it was. Her hand was held—not interlaced fingers, just the normal grasp—but it was firm enough that she could not pull away, could not detach.
"H-How… how was this undone? That… that technique was supposed to be impossible."
Her words stumbled. Konan followed the train of thought.
"Rinnegan. On the day we left, the retainers gave it to me."
So that was it. Kita felt a pang of guilt.
"Do you plan to make me lose my memory again?"
A bitter smile touched her lips. One more time… it might truly hurt Konan.
Kita said nothing. She simply returned the handhold and no longer thought to pull away, no longer thought to struggle.
"If… if I said something you weren't supposed to remember, would you hit me?"
"Yes."
Then Kita closed her eyes and smiled.
"Then… then I won't say anything. Sorry… for being so willful."
"It's fine…"
Konan said, tightening her hold on Kita's hand.
...
After the drug took effect, Kita returned to her normal state at a visibly fast pace. In every respect, she appeared entirely ordinary. Even if she had sparred three hundred rounds with Nagato, no one would notice a difference. Of course, Nagato had no interest in fighting her.
During this time, her condition, which had long been known to few, became common knowledge among the village. Kita had been unconscious for a week. Anyone absent during this time—Konan or Nagato—would have been noticed. Even Deidara sensed it. When everyone wondered how to face her, Kita returned, perfectly intact, showing no sign of illness. It was as if the seven years she had been absent had never happened—just like before.
But that was only on the surface. Time passed for her, each day lost one day closer to the end.
"Can't be cured?" Kakuzu rarely lingered after small gatherings, usually dragging Hidan away. He leaned against the pillar of the porch, watching fatigue settle as he sat and brewed tea. In the yard, Deidara and Hidan played badminton energetically. Itachi sat on the porch, not bothering to join the fun.
"I can't." Nagato answered honestly. The exhaustion in his face deepened. Itachi could not discern the expression beneath Kakuzu's mask, but the green eyes reflected enough emotion to see concern.
The story had been recounted in full: sealing Black Zetsu, Kaguya's consciousness, and so on. Yet no one had anticipated this near-fatal aftereffect. Had Orochimaru not sought the help of the village's top poisoner, none of them would even know.
"How serious is it?"
Itachi whispered. Unexpectedly, Kita and Konan had reconciled, yet more unexpectedly, the news of her impending death lingered.
"Next time it flares, she might not wake," Nagato said, pouring Itachi a cup of tea. "Don't spread this. She doesn't want it made public. I just want you to know, so it's clear in your minds."