| Mightier Than the Sword. (Arakaki & Sandaime) | [Feb. 8th, 2010|07:26 pm] |
(Set two days after How Many Ways Do You Wanna Die?, September 17th, four years post Kyuubi.)
Sarutobi Hiruzen, Konoha's third Hokage, did most of his important paperwork at night. It was a carry-over habit from his field ninja days, most likely, back when things had been simpler. And more brutal, if he was being truthful. When Konoha had been younger, sharper, and less diplomatic. When the world had been halved on the edge of a steel blade, rather than divided by the sweep of a calligraphy brush.
As one of the current brush-holders, Hiruzen wasn't entirely sure this system worked better. There was still blood -- there was always blood with ninja -- but it was stained blue now, mixed with ink.
Also, he suspected, he was getting much less sleep nowadays.
The candle on his desk flickered, trapped behind the glass lantern he kept it under to prevent accidental folder-fires. The yellow light softened the edges of his office, gleaming over mountainous piles of mission reports, diplomatic notices, courier messages, and a thousand other things he needed to deal with or delegate before dawn. A large, thickly-annotated map draped over the edge of his desk, almost reaching the floor. A heavy tea mug used in place of a paperweight was the only thing that kept it from escaping entirely.
Frowning thoughtfully, Hiruzen studied the Go board in front of him, sucked on the ink-stained haft of his pen, and moved one white stone three careful squares with a fingertip. Then he turned the board, which was cleverly balanced on a free-spinning wooden base, and studied it from the new angle.
When the door clicked open, he merely motioned one hand to the empty chair across from his desk. Footsteps moved soundlessly across the nightingale floor, but the quiet, candle-lit dark was still broken by the sound of heavy, distressed panting. Hiruzen lifted one grey eyebrow and glanced up.
His questioning gaze was met by two pairs of eyes. The dark, controlled, and only slightly harried ones of Arakaki Hisoka, his Directer of ANBU's Operations, and, further down, the exhausted liquid-brown ones of Hatake Kakashi's oldest living summon, Pakkun. The little pug was mud-splattered, lathered in foam, limp with weariness, and tucked firmly beneath Arakaki's right arm. A thick bundle of manila-brown files were clamped beneath the Director's left arm. From his left hand, a heavy glass bottle swung, glinting with expensive amber depths.
Wordlessly, Hiruzen reached into a desk drawer and extracted two crystal-cut tumblers. He slid one across the desk, rustling paperwork, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
"What has he done now?" |
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