Blood Moon

Conquering nations had always been a favorite pastime of Kisaburo. Defeating Isscaam, the northernmost nation of the tundra, had been no different. The igloo was crowded. Being a larger person than the average tundra dweller, Kisaburo always found them to be cramped. He stepped between two people and his eyes landed on a third. That made four inside, counting himself. Someone was missing.

Using the underground tunnel that connected this igloo to the neighboring one, Kisaburo emerged into the living space where Itachi’s son, Koenma, had turned in for the night, alongside the Isscaam heir. Someone, Kisaburo knew, that Itachi would have rather seen dead than hooking up with his son. Could that be why Itachi was angry?

Both Koenma and the prisoner of war—Kisaburo refused to think of him as anything else at the moment—were tucked into the corner sleeping. In each other’s arms, no less. He stared at them. Both being disclover, the snowman people of the tundra, it would have been the simplest thing to kill the prisoner in his sleep. If Itachi had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t even have to wake Koenma to do so.

As Kisaburo considered his next step, movement at the igloo’s opening caught his eye. It was Itachi, dressed in his military uniform, as he slipped away into the night. He’d been angry since sometime that afternoon when the last of Isscaam’s military had fallen. Kisaburo had little idea as to why.

Deciding to find out what Itachi was up to, Kisaburo followed him into the cold night. The freezing tundra wind swept over him as he searched for any indication as to where Itachi had gone. Not seeing him, Kisaburo climbed to the igloo’s rounded top for a better vantage point. The ice groaned under his massive weight, but it held. His breath puffed out from his lips, but the low temperature didn’t bother him. It reminded him of his original home, in the darkest depths of the ocean.

Kisaburo spun in a slow circle around the highest point of the igloo. A deep blue black sky spread out in the heavens above, twinkling with thousands of tiny stars. On the horizon, a large, orange-red moon hung in the sky. Below it, the snow-covered ground danced with a similar light. Fires, likely set by those who’d managed to flee from the massacre that occurred at Isscaam.

As Kisaburo contemplated this, a figure leapt into the sky, moon backdropped behind him. The shape of the figure was one that Kisaburo was intimately familiar with and would recognize anywhere. Itachi had his long hair pulled back into a ponytail as he only did when he killed. The fur-lined cape draped about his shoulders flapped in the wind. Starlight glinted off the sharp edges of the two icicles he clutched, one in each had. The light of the moon filled his blood red eyes. Dark, slushy stains already sprinkled his wardrobe.

Kisaburo leaned closer, wobbling on the point of the roof, to see what Itachi was doing. People ran from the cluster of flames to meet their deaths at the end of Itachi’s icicles. Heads were severed, the only true way to kill a disclover, before their bodies splattered to the ground, indistinguishable from the muddy slushed up snow created by the scuffle. Itachi jumped and slashed, mercilessly slaughtering this meager group of survivors. Thick, translucent, sludge-like blood spurted up into the sky and rained down over him.

Sighing, Kisaburo settled in to enjoy the show. It was a beautiful sight to see Itachi in his element, his movements graceful. “You really are gorgeous,” Kisaburo said into the darkness. Now if only he could figure out what was making Itachi so angry.