Wandering in the dark

This summer day in the land of fire covers the ground with snowflakes. It is unusual for this region to snow, more unlike to snow in August. The night over the forest of Konohagakure, every citizen retreat to his home. The heat is on for Naruto. But Kiba's sister stays out.

``Sister, why are you up?`` asks the blond boy to his neighbor.

``Kiba went hunting today. But with all this snow, I think, he won't find a place to stay until it stops.``  

``Don't be worried, sister! Kiba hunts for many years. For sure, he'll be home by midnight.``

In the forest, Kiba finds a wooden mansion. He shuts the massive oaken door behind him. The howls of the snowstorm create a creepy silence. The only sounds he hears are the metal hinges and the haggard breaths of himself along with his canine companion.

Jeez, Akamaru! Who’s the smart idea was it to stay out hunting so late? He grumbles. Every inch of his body is cold as his nose bright red and frozen. The layers he’s wearing feel as frozen as the leaves outside now, soaked and crusted with ice and snow. The white crystals fall from his clothes and hair, slush shaken from his boots with furious stomping. 

Akamaru whines in response. It is Kiba to blame for this.

From the dark gloom and rush of falling snow, a building has loomed. The woods are dark and unforgiving. He knows this place as he knows his home. But for a little, while he thinks, he has never seen this place. What he needs is shelter. Surely the owners of this place won't leave a boy like him out in the cold, will they?

Kiba turns around, leaving wet footprints across the cobblestone floors. Akamaru’s nails clack as he follows.

``This place is giant!`` He gasps, voice echoing as wandering around. Indeed, he has never seen such a rich ornamented house before. Even as the son of the chief of the village has a poorly decorated home. This place is massive, the entry room dark and lavishly decorated — with dust on almost every inch of it. There is a grand staircase with a moth-eaten carpet, marble railings with twisting vines of gold, candlesticks housing half-used candles with the frozen dips mid-drip. Cobwebs hung from corners, spiders crawling across silvery threads with slow movements. When he exhales, he sees his breath frozen like crystals. The cold overwhelms him, but at least the storm is outside.

Kiba and Akamaru sneeze in unison, their progress across the floor kicking up a coating of dust. 

The atmosphere is eerily quiet in here. It seems nobody lives in this place. But why abandon such a marvel?

They make their way up the steps of the much too large staircase. 

``Hello! Anyone hooooome?`` Kiba's voice sounds polite.

His call shatters the stillness, bouncing off the walls. As loud as he is, depending on how big this place is. They might not hear him at all. If this place is empty, he will be fine making himself at home. If not. Well, his mother manages to beat a few manners into his thick skull each day, back in the village. Entering an unknown territory is a very delicate process. 

It looks like no one has been here in a while! Kiba comments, running a finger over the railing, grimacing at the dust. He wipes it politely on his pants. 

``It is weird! You’d think a place like this would have a bunch of maids or something. I hear from mom that rich people have maids because they don’t know how to clean up their messes. Maybe this happens here.``

Akamaru huffs a bit, slinking along with his head down. As usual, he offers no verbal reply, but Kiba can understand him anyway. 

Yeah, rich people are pretty stupid, huh! Kiba hums to himself, ignoring the fact that he barely tidies his room unless his mother is hovering over his shoulder.

Midway up, the steps break off into two paths — left and right. Kiba goes to the left with Akamaru in his jacket.

They wander down a hall of massive wooden windows, all unbroken but grimy with dust and age. Kiba lives in a hunting village, where everyone is usually moving and working — he’s never seen a place in such disuse before. The dust is starting to bug his nose. It is no way anyone can live here. 

Akamaru whines.

``What is it, buddy?``

A sniff. Akamaru jumps and trots over to a wall. While one side is mostly glass windows, the other is stone, broken up by statues, paintings, the doors with fancy handles. Akamaru stops by a curtain, half of it shredded and cut with what looks like something sharp. Kiba brushes it aside to see a painting underneath. 

There is a family inside, all wearing beautiful clothes and beautiful faces. Dark eyes and hair, skin paler than Kiba have ever seen, the colors mostly washed out by age and improper storage. He can see every individual stroke. The painter has stunning skills. Soon as he looks at it, in the display the brand new, unfamiliar experience. In his village, Kiba knows anyone who can paint such images. He takes little interest in the arts.

Still, he is amazed how paint can turn into something that looks so real.

Kiba lets the curtain drop, his wet protection gloves leaving damp spots on the derelict fabric. He keeps moving down the hall. It is so much space to cover in here, so much to see. He calls out into the silence and hears no call in return. He and Akamaru are the only ones who breathe in the dust, who track footprints across the floors.

Even if there is someone home, this thought makes Kiba think he could take his pick of the rooms to live here for months without anyone knowing! He thinks of it! No matter how loud his mother tells him he is — funny, seeing as he gets it from her — if no one is replying to his loud calls now, then they probably can't notice later.

``It sucks as I hate cold! I wanna get outta these wet clothes!`` Kiba shivers under his soaked layers. ``We gotta find a room with a fireplace!`` the boy shouts. 

Akamaru yips in agreement.

It is another staircase hidden away in a nook at the end of the hall. Other halls branch off, leading to places on that floor or opening into larger rooms that Kiba won't figure out the utility. He peeks into most of them before jogging back to the small staircase. It spirals up, the light fading the higher up he goes. There are no windows here, just the dark and the sounds of Akamaru’s nails and Kiba’s pulse in his ears. 

Up and up, lazy, slow spirals and sheer blackness. Kiba isn’t scared of the dark. He refuses to be scared here, especially with Akamaru at his side. Besides, it’s nothing he handles in the woods, nevermind some giant house.

Whataya think, Akamaru? He says, lowering his voice because speaking as usual as he feels so loud — too loud — in such a small space. 

``This must be a tower! It S=seems like the place that has towers. Couldn’t get a good look at it on the way up, ‘cause of the snow ‘n all.``

Akamaru makes a few soft noises. 

``Yeah, I know I’m right! It’s a tower!``

They see a faint light in the distance. Kiba quickens his steps.

Made it to the top! He exclaims. 

He expects a room of some kind, with massive windows that may be a live person with a surprised look on their face. 

What he gets instead is a door. A single door that looks as if it’s carved from metal, patterns and symbols dug into it — like the pretty, super-fancy armor Kiba has seen the occasional passing knight wear. A single door with a crystal inlaid at the top.

A glowing crystal.

Holy — do you see that, Akamaru?

His companion barks. 

Amazing! He breathes, reaching up to touch the glowing gem. Kiba has never seen such a thing before. Magic ever existed a long, long time ago — centuries, really — but very few remnants he has found today. It used to be a world where animals talked. Humans hummed spells to make plants grow or heal or fight — Kiba thinks it is pretty cool if Akamaru could talk back. 

Kiba drops his fingers from the glowing stone and curls them around the stupidly ornate door handle. 

I bet someone has to be in here.

It opens with a turn and a shove, the air itself groaning and gasping like a living being. A rush of wind blows by him, ruffling his hair and Akamaru’s fur.

Weird, he thinks.

Akamaru whines, his nails tapping across the floor as he shifts his feet.

“What?” Kiba asks, brow furrowing, “What’s gotten into you?”

Inside is a single room. A bedroom — at least, Kiba thinks of what it is. Massive windows show the storm outside, floating crystals illuminating the space and casting shadows across the floor. In the middle of the room is a bed, huge and made of sheer black wood. Gauzy curtains hang around it. It’s very little else in the room. A dresser made of the same wood, a nightstand on either side of the bed. An old chair by a fireplace. A bookcase beside it. The carpets spread across the floor contain more detail than the rest of the room.

Akamaru shifts anxiously once more. The dog makes a whimpering sound as he refuses to follow Kiba into the room.

“Seriously, what’s up?” He asks hands on his hips. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

He wanders further into the room as if to prove it. His boots thump against the carpeted stone as he gets closer to the bed. Light bounces off the thin curtains, shimmering like a sheet of captured stars. Under the covers is a figure.

Kiba blinks.

The figure is still there.

“Gah!” He yelps belatedly, shuffling back with his arms out. “Whoa! Uh —”

Nothing.

He creeps closer. By the door, Akamaru whines again.

The man in the bed looks almost the same age as Kiba and vaguely like one of the people in the worn painting downstairs. Ethereal. Skin as white as the moon, night-dark hair that bleeds blue tones in the crystal light. That boy is probably the most beautiful boy Kiba has ever seen. This makes him uneased.

“Hey, uh, excuse me?” He says, hand reaching to shake the man, “Uh, sorry to break in. But I have been yelling for like an hour. No one is answering. The weather is cold outside—”

Kiba makes contact with his shoulder as he through his gloves. He can already tell that the man feels as cold as ice, as cold as the winter storm Kiba has just fled. It makes him retract his hand instinctively, sudden dread curling in his gut.

Akamaru whimpers and yips.

A pale hand snatches Kiba’s wrist before he can pull away, and crimson eyes blink up from a bed of dark lashes. Perfect lips part, revealing a flash of teeth too sharp for a human mouth.

Kiba flinches at the frigid, unrelenting grip.

 “Hey!”

A grimace. A narrowing of blood-red eyes. The fingers on Kiba’s wrist tightened, pressing against his pulse.

In a hauntingly soft voice, just as beautiful as the body it comes from, the man says: 

“It smells like wet dog in here.”

The darkness covers them both. Kiba knows he has no home, no past. The boy now belongs to darkness, and the darkness keeps him tight in this mansion.