It is spring in Konoha, and the air is dusty with scented pollen and the fragrance of sweet blossom. The days have lost the bitterness of winter’s chill and the breeze that lifts the tips of the young man’s hair carries the first blush of warmth. He straightens it idly, running long, slender fingers down its length. Behind him, sprawled in the long grass of the hillside, his team mates are bickering. Jiraiya’s voice is brash and petulant, straining to be heard over Tsunade’s triumphant crowing as she rises to her knees and flicks him on the nose with one finger, her tongue stuck out to emphasis her victory. The action makes the boy fall over backwards into the grass, his long white mop of hair whipping into the other boy’s lap to lie like some prone animal across his knees. Mouth turned down in disdain, Orochimaru uses the tips of his fingers to slide the mass of what he cannot help but think of as ‘fur’ from knees and onto the ground.

It lies there amongst the fresh green of spring and twitches with every movement the other boy makes.

Tsunade is knelt upon Jiraiya’s chest now, alternately beating at his head with her fists and then, when he moves to block her, tickling him in the ribs until he yells for mercy. Orochimaru watches them play fight, scowling at their proximity to him when Jiraiya’s pleas for pity reach near hysterical levels.

“Stop it,” he demands quietly, embarrassed by their rowdy, childish game. Consumed by their mock battle, they do not respond and he is left staring at Tsunade’s long, sandy blonde hair in silence. The breeze picks up, rushing lightly across the face of the hillside, stirring the grass into waves and lifting his hair into his eyes. Carried on its back he can smell the salty tang of cooked fish from the food vendors’ stalls lining the main street below.

“I said stop it, you’re embarrassing us.”

They do not hear him, or perhaps they choose not to, but he refuses to ask again. Sliding soundlessly to his feet, he walks stiffly away, back towards the main entrance to the village. He is so preoccupied with his inner disgust and fuming at their lack of acknowledgement that the blow to the back of his head takes him completely by surprise. Something thuds to the ground at his feet in a flash of half-seen brown and white and his eyes follow it instinctively.

“Yo…Orochimaru-kun! Bring me my sandal back will you?”

Jiraiya’s voice is a lazy drawl and Orochimaru stares dumbfounded back up the hillside at his two grinning team mates. The white-haired boy lifts his leg and wiggles the toes of his unshod foot at him. It takes but a few seconds for Orochimaru’s eyes to narrow, and then he is leaping back up the hill towards Jiraiya’s already retreating back. Tsunade is a blur of golden hair and shining brown eyes as she leaps to one side; her laughter rings in his ears as he passes her in a rush of white robes and black. Soon after, he hears the dull sound of her footsteps pounding the ground as she pursues them both, and Orochimaru cannot help the small smile that the rushing wind slips onto his lips.

Summer makes the evenings warm in Konoha, makes the roads bake during the day and later release the scent of cooling stone as the shadows lengthen and the sun dips low in the sky. They are sitting on the balcony of Tsunade’s family residence and Orochimaru is watching the way the setting sun touches her hair and makes it shine like burnished bronze. Jiraiya is slumped in the chair to his left, his feet up on the balcony and his head tilted to one side as he dozes in the muggy warmth. They are all dirty and coated all over with the dust of the arena. But they are happy, satisfied. For today has been a day of triumph; today they became chuunin.

Orochimaru lets his gaze travel the length of her back, watching as the movement of her breathing shifts her hair and makes the lowering sun pick out the threads of gold like a fine weave amongst the darker weft. He wonders if he were to touch her, if the glow would come away on his fingers, leaving them coated with luminous dust. Perhaps then he could run his fingers through his own hair and leave trails of glittering gold amongst the black.

“You know, they say if you watch the sun set, right at the point where it goes behind the horizon, you can see a flash of green. Just before it disappears.”

Orochimaru looks up at the back of her head, his thoughts pulled from gold dust and angel hair. He blinks and then follows her gaze to the horizon, looking over her shoulder where she has leant forward onto the railing of the balcony. The sun is already so low that only a third of it still shows over the horizon. She does not speak further, instead hunching down resolutely to await the fabled event, feet tucked under her chair and crossed at the ankles. He returns to his study of her hair, following the threads of it falling in streams down her back.

From the street below he can hear the sound of the villagers making their way towards the drinking establishments, intent on an evening of boisterous companionship as they discuss the excitement of the day. Their voices are sharp and filled with high spirits; laughter echoes between the buildings, side-winding up to reach their balcony. Their feet kick up dust as they pass and Orochimaru thinks that this has been nothing but a day of dust and blood from beginning to end. And now he is filled with a slow, creeping tiredness that seeps through his every muscle and steals his will to move. He wonders perhaps if it would be alright to just follow Jiraiya’s example and drowse here on the balcony in the warmth and the quiet companionship of his team mates. Perhaps he would, if only he could take his eyes from her shining hair. But he is so tired and the food that the Hokage provided them fills his belly and makes him dozy, and it is so much effort to think of moving, bathing, cleaning away the dirt, releasing the vision.

“Look!”

He does. The last sliver of the sun dips below the horizon and vanishes without flourish, and with no mythical spark of green. Orochimaru is not surprised. Tsunade makes a small disappointed sound in the back of her throat and he blinks sleepily at the empty horizon. When he turns his gaze back to her golden hair, he finds that the glow is gone and in its place there is nothing but dust and the last, forgotten traces of blood.

It is autumn in Konoha and the leaves are faded to yellow and brown. They lie on the forest floor with the insects and taste of mould and stale water. Orochimaru knows this because he is busy spitting them out of his mouth where the Sand nin forced his head into the ground with one well-aimed kick. He rolls furiously to escape the wildly kicking enemy who is struggling to make it back to his feet after their less than graceful encounter. Snarling and spitting curses, Orochimaru flips himself upright and lunges at the other, kunai drawn, fury and embarrassment written harsh across his pretty features. The Sand nin’s eyes widen in horror as he sees the wickedly sharp blade whip towards his throat and desperate, he tries to push himself to one side. There is nowhere to go, for Orochimaru’s other fist is tangled tightly in his collar preventing escape, and the kunai lodges deep in his throat with a dull thud.

Blood spurts and the enemy makes a terrible raspy choking sound as his body twitches and dies in Orochimaru’s grip. He stays there for what seems like an age, watching the blood drip from his own face onto the face of the nin below him, breathing harshly as he feels hot fluid gushing over his fingers and onto the forest floor. Finally he feels hands clasping his shoulders, drawing him back into a sitting position, soft voices talking to him, coaxing him into co-operation and it is only then that he realizes that not all of the blood slinking down his face is that of his enemy.

He allows himself to be pulled away from the body and moved a few paces to one side where suddenly his knees buckle and confused he finds himself being lowered to sit on the floor. Tsunade is kneeling in front of him suddenly and he can feel Jiraiya propping him up from behind. Her hands play over his face, parting his hair and moving it to one side. He hears fragments of her voice, coming as if from very far away, or as though somehow, suddenly, they were all underwater.

“Hard hit…there’s a bloody great gash…forehead…I think…concussed.”

He tries to tell them that he is fine, that if they could just give him some space, but he finds himself bent over Jiraiya’s knees retching suddenly, the other boy’s exclamation of surprise almost unheard as he grabs for his smaller team mate’s shoulders to prevent him from going face-first into the floor.

Orochimaru thinks that maybe he blacks out for a moment, for the next thing he knows he is leaning back against something unyielding, warmth around his shoulders and his eyes filled with scintillating emerald light. He can feel what he assumes to be Tsunade’s hands gentle on his head, strangely cool as she pours chakra into him like healing water, knitting him back into a respectable, stable nin again. He can just see her face through the glow of the healing jutsu, eyes narrowed in concentration as she works. The tresses of her hair lift slightly as the chakra stirs them, its glow giving them a strange green cast like the forest in spring, or the skin of a frog. He stares hard at their gentle movement while she works, using them as a focus to spin his thoughts back into cohesion.

That nin must have hit him hard and fast, enough to rattle his brains so soundly that he cannot find his feet on his own. He wonders when it happened. Slowly his mind slips back into its usual hard lines and sharp planes, losing the fuzziness of concussion and he allows his eyes to fall closed, relaxing into the embrace of her healing jutsu.

Gradually his senses return and he can feel the heartbeat of another thudding at his back; Jiraiya, his long arms wrapped around Orochimaru’s shoulders to keep the smaller youth warm. The dampness of the forest floor seeping through the cloth of his yukata and chilling the backs of his thighs. The wet, rich scent of the forest floor, overlaid by the metallic tang of blood, his own and his enemy’s, and the bitter scent of bile.

Eventually he becomes aware that Tsunade has finished her jutsu and is softly speaking his name. Behind him, Jiraiya shifts and leans forward to try and look into his face. He makes them wait for a few breaths before he responds, savoring their concern and their attention. When he opens his eyes again, Tsunade is peering at him closely, her eyes full of agitated concern and just a little doubt. She looks tired and her skin is smudged with dirt and traces of blood where she has wiped her face with the backs of her hands. But it is not to her face that his eyes are drawn, it is to her hair, falling messily from its ponytail around her shoulders in ratty strands dark with dirt. He frowns slightly, and with a hand streaked with blood, carefully reaches out and plucks a dead leaf from her fringe.

“I’m fine now,” he whispers around a mouth that tastes bitter with more than just his own simple bile.

The rain is sheeting down, drumming into the cobbles of the street so hard and fast that it is impossible to discern any rhythm from the impact of the droplets. The deluge roars on the tin roofs of the buildings and makes the material of his umbrella flutter beneath its insistent beating. He steps slowly, carefully, avoiding the deepest puddles although he cannot avoid the splashes that the raindrops themselves cause when they hit the surface of the street. Orochimaru looks down at the shining cobbles and admires the way the streetlamps play their light over the slick surfaces. Webs of light that constantly shift and rearrange themselves like the creation of some celestial arachnid. His lips curve into the barest smile, but when he looks up to see her there, the smile fades as though it never was.

She is stood at the other end of the small street, wrapped in darkness as though the electric light fears to touch her. Around her, the night has closed in. Although her head is bowed, he can recognize from the familiar touch of her chakra, that she is aware of him. He stands still, raindrops splashing cold across his feet, the umbrella tilted slightly so that he can see the entirety of her. She does not move.

From the main street comes the sound of raucous laughter, an inn full of dead shinobi trying their best to deny their fate. The war drags on and slowly the lives of those involved become nothing more than echoes of the death that they live each day. The scent of roasting meat is dampened by the deluge of water, and Orochimaru wonders why it is not the same for the scent of blood that they carry on their clothing. He can always catch the tang of blood these days; it seems that the rain stirs the scent of it up more strongly than ever.

Tsunade has shifted. With an even, measured tread, she is walking towards him. He watches her approach, her form wrapped in a baggy green coat that she has picked up from somewhere, her arms hanging loose and dead at her sides. Her face is cast down and he cannot see her eyes through the driving rain, even when she begins to draw near. She is soaked, but she does not seem to realize it.

For a long moment he thinks that she will walk right past him and carry on into the night in silence. But then she draws alongside him and the steady tread of her feet halts. He watches her in silence until she reaches level with him, his golden eyes full of a curiosity that borders on perverse.

They stand there together, silent in the pouring rain as the night is filled around them with the roar of water and the rising voices of desperately drunken shinobi.

“Jiraiya is looking for you,” he states calmly. Jiraiya has been desperate, searching the streets, the forests and every inn in Konoha for the past three days. He would not listen to Orochimaru’s advice, leave her alone, she will return when she wants to, the fear in his eyes robbing him of his reason.

Tsunade does not reply, her eyes hidden by her hair. Orochimaru watches the rain gather on the strands and slide down their length, dripping from the tips to be lost in the puddles at their feet.

“Can you smell it?” he asks her suddenly. “The blood?”

It seems impossible to him that she could not, the scent of metal permeates the air like the smoke from a cook fire. It falls with the storm and he wonders if perhaps the scent of it is what fills the clouds and causes the very rain to be of blood. All the collected blood of every dead man, woman and child; of every wound that has caused to be spilled the precious life fluid of a human being. All rising into the air to fall over the land again with the deluge, to bathe the world in blood and feed its life on the death of others. It is a beautiful cycle and it makes him smile.

“Yes.”

Her voice is so soft that he can barely hear it. He wonders if she understands the concept of the cycle of blood. He wonders if she can appreciate its beauty.

“I wonder,” he says, “if it is his blood raining down on us.”

He hears her breath hitch, the muscles in her shoulder tightening under the coat, and for a moment he thinks that she will try to strike him. Around them, the rain reaches a sudden crescendo and from the streets across the way, voices rise in exclamation.

“You’re a bastard,” she says softly. And then she walks away from him, never once having turned her head to look at him, out into the cold loneliness of the winter storm. The rain makes a sodden mess of her long hair, turning it dull and lifeless in the gloomy radiance of the streetlamps. Orochimaru watches her go, a strange smile upon his bloodless lips, before he turns away and strolls on into the night and the rain.

It is spring in Konoha, and the air is dusty with the fragrance of pollen and heavy with the scent of blood. Orochimaru is running, though there are few who know how to look in order to see him. The air is fresh for the heavy rainfalls of winter have not yet given way to true spring and only this morning there was another downpour. His feet pass soundlessly over the wet grass of the park and his passing is marked only by the barest ripple in the surfaces of the puddles that collect in the heart of the leaves.

He leaps upwards when he reaches the edge of the public gardens and takes to the rooftops, heading across Konoha towards East Gate, the thrill of victory rushing in his veins. East Gate is quiet and small, for it leads out onto one of the lesser used paths towards the heart of the forest. Coming to the end of the row of houses, he leaps gracefully from roof to archway to rooftop before dropping silently down into the small street that runs along the wall towards the gate.

Approaching him along the path, her arms full of herbs and assorted plants, is Tsunade. He almost steps back in surprise, for he had not expected to see her here, had not expected to see anyone. Clearly, she has been out in the forest, selecting herbs for medicinal use. She is, after all, a medic, he thinks to himself.

Gathering himself, allowing his face to relax into its customary distant cast, he begins to walk towards her. She notices him at once, and her eyes narrow slightly. They have been awkward with one another recently, as Orochimaru’s interests draw him farther and farther away from the casual exchanges of his team mates. These days, they are all drawing further apart from each other. The Legendary Three, as they are so often labeled in hushed and awed voices, are becoming a legend of the past. There is too much history between them, too many divided interests, too much blood. But then, these days, Orochimaru has a far greater appreciation for blood.

“Orochi-kun,” she greets him coolly. He smiles widely at her, the adrenaline coursing through his veins making it suddenly hard not to grin outright.

“Tsunade-chan!” he replies. “I had not expected to see you here! I was just on my way out of Konoha.”

She looks up at him, noting the slight flush to his features and the rapid pulse in his neck, taken aback a little by the undercurrents of excitement in his voice. It is unlike Orochimaru to show anything other than cool disdain, and highly unusual for him to volunteer information in this fashion. But then recently, he has not quite been the Orochimaru that she once knew.

“You have blood on your cheek,” she says quietly. His face registers surprise briefly and he lifts his hand to his cheek before hesitating and extending it palm outwards towards her.

“I was careless. You see, I cut my finger.”

There is a long, thin slice down the pad of his index finger, sealed closed now with dried blood. She sighs and shakes her head; slipping a tissue from her pocket she wets it with her lips and carefully wipes the smear from his cheek. After a few seconds, their eyes meet and her hand stills. Around them, the birds chatter brightly to one another and a gentle breeze stirs the leaves on the trees. Slowly, intermittently at first, the rain begins to fall.

He watches her, watching him, and for the first time in many years he sees nothing but her eyes. Nothing but the woman looking back out at him. In his head, in his nose, there is the scent of blood, falling with the rain.

“Goodbye, Tsunade-sama,” he says. And then he is gone, running faster than it is possible to follow with the eyes alone. For a long moment she watches the gate and wonders, before the light rain turns into an all-out downpour and she is forced to run for cover in the nearest doorway.