Courtesy in the Cage
When the heavy, seemingly solid ironwood door locked behind her with a dull click, Uchiha Aoi felt her heart sink, as if nailed to the spot by the sound. In an instant, all the noise from the outside world—the faint shouts from the training grounds, the whispers of clan members walking and chatting, even the whimper of the wind against the eaves—was completely cut off. In its place, a near-absolute silence oppressed her eardrums. Only her own breath, slightly rapid with fear, was distinctly heard in this small space.
She stood alone in the center of the courtyard, like a statue suddenly abandoned. The early spring afternoon sun struggled to penetrate the despairingly high courtyard wall, casting a thin, bleak patch of light, but it couldn't dispel the chill that permeated the air, penetrating deep into her bones. The wind, still carrying the lingering chill of winter, lifted the hem of her already tattered wedding dress like a mischievous child. Its icy touch felt like countless fine silver needles, piercing the thin, mud- and blood-stained fabric, piercing recklessly into her already numb skin, penetrating deep into her bones, bringing waves of physical shudders.
This courtyard, less a temporary shelter than a carefully calculated and arranged prison, was a prison. The bluestone floor beneath his feet was spotlessly clean, not even a weed visible in the cracks; its cleanliness bordered on the cold. In the corners, a few unknown, hardy shrubs stubbornly struggled to sprout a sparse, green sliver, adding a subtle touch of vitality to the overly regular space. However, this vitality, trapped by the high walls on all sides, only exuded a sense of helpless desolation. Three houses—the main house, a side building, and a small room that resembled a kitchen—stood silently within the courtyard like silent giants, their doors and windows tightly closed, exuding an air of indifference that kept one at a distance. Everything seemed perfectly ordered, even possessing an untimely, almost morbid elegance. Yet, it was precisely this excessive "normality" and "tidiness" that formed a sharp contrast with the immense panic and humiliation she felt within. The pervasive silence and the invisible, spiderweb-like sense of constraint in the air made her feel far more suffocated and desperate than the filthy, rat-infested dungeon. It was a form of spiritual torture, slowly wearing away her will under the guise of politeness.
She moved her legs, nearly frozen and filled with lead, each step with immense difficulty as she made her way to the side room that seemed to have been prepared for her. Reaching out, her fingertips trembling as she pushed open the half-closed door. A faint scent, a mixture of old wood, sun-kissed quilts, and a faint hint of insect repellent, hit her face. It wasn't unpleasant, but strangely unfamiliar and unsettling.
The furnishings in the room were spartan, yet strangely complete: a bed covered in clean, though slightly stiff, bedding, a polished wooden table, a sturdy-looking chair, and even a small dressing table, upon which sat a bronze mirror with a fuzzy edge that cast a yellowish reflection. In the corner, a half-worn copper basin held crystal-clear cold water, flanked by a few soft, snow-white towels. All this was a stark contrast to the treatment she had imagined for prisoners, replete with torture instruments and the stench of mold. Instead, it felt more like the treatment of... a "guest" who needed careful appeasement? Or perhaps, perhaps, some extremely precious item requiring careful "safekeeping"?
This unexpected "courtesy" brought no comfort to Aoi. Instead, it was like a thick layer of paint, smeared over the harsh truth, deepening her fear and confusion. What exactly did Senju Tobirama, the silver-haired, red-eyed man known for his cold rationality, want? If he simply wanted to torture her for information about the Uchiha clan, or use her as a hostage to threaten Madara's brother, why would he go to such great lengths, providing such a "comfortable" environment? This abnormal, ambiguous situation, like a thick, impenetrable fog, left her feeling even more unsettled and restless than facing direct torture or clear-cut hostility. She would rather be thrown into a dark dungeon, facing the savage guards; at least then she would have a clear understanding of her situation, who to hate, and how to resist. But now, this seemingly mild confinement left her feeling powerless, like a fist hitting cotton, with no clear outlet for all her anger and fear.
She stumbled to her dressing table, where the bronze mirror reflected a pale, haggard face. Her once clear, bright black eyes were now consumed by a sea of fear, helplessness, and profound exhaustion, draining them of all luster. Her face was stained with dried, blackened mud and faint traces of blood. Her magnificent wedding dress, once a symbol of her noble status and future hopes, was now tattered like a pile of trash, its rips here and there revealing an equally filthy lining beneath. Just like her shattered fate, it was a sight to behold. She reached out her cold, stiff fingers, dirt still embedded in the cracks between her nails, and tremblingly touched the face in the mirror, a face both familiar and unfamiliar. The chilly touch sent a shiver through her fingertips. Was the person in the mirror truly herself? The Uchiha Aoi who, not long ago, had lived in the Uchiha clan, under the protection of her brother, uncertain yet vaguely hopeful about the future? From a distinguished Uchiha princess, about to marry into the Night Moon Clan as a tool for the mistress's marriage, to now a captive deep within the Senju Clan territory, her identity unknown, her life and death completely controlled by her enemies... This huge, dramatic change struck her heart like a sledgehammer, nearly completely breaking her last psychological defenses. Tears welled up in her eyes without warning, blurring the disheveled face in the mirror.
Just then, a subtle, almost imperceptible sound came from outside the door—the scrape of shoes against the stone slabs. Aoi spun around like a startled rabbit, her back pressed tightly against the cold, hard wall behind her. Her heart leaped into her throat, and every muscle in her body tensed.
The courtyard door quietly opened a narrow crack, and a middle-aged woman, about thirty-five or thirty-six years old, dressed in the attire of a Senju clan maid, with a plain, calm face, entered with a heavy mahogany tray in hand. Her steps were as light as a cat's, making almost no sound. She walked directly to the table and gently set the tray down. On it lay a bowl of steaming, what looked like meat porridge, two light side dishes, a bowl of miso soup, and a neatly folded, plain, clean light blue women's clothing made of what looked like comfortable cotton.
"My lord ordered it delivered." The maid's voice was flat and silent, like she was reciting a line that had nothing to do with her. Her gaze remained downcast, fixed three feet in front of her feet. She betrayed neither curiosity nor hostility or contempt for Aoi, the "Uchiha captive." She was like a machine executing a set routine. After setting down her belongings, she didn't even pause for a moment before bowing slightly and retreating silently from the room. She gently closed the courtyard door behind her, leaving Aoi alone with the table of food and clothes, her mind even more confused.
Looking at the bowl of meat porridge, emitting the enticing aroma of food, and the clean clothes on the table, Aoi's stomach twisted violently. It was a combination of extreme physical hunger and a huge psychological resistance and struggle. Should she eat? Could this seemingly normal food be poisoned? Or mixed with some drug that could cause weakness and mental distraction? Was this clean clothing just another form of prison uniform, symbolizing her acquiescence and submission to Senju's arrangements?
A conflicting feeling raged within her. Her mind told her she needed to eat to maintain her strength, to find a chance of escape. But emotionally, accepting this "handout" from her enemy felt like a wrenching humiliation. She paced anxiously around the room, her eyes flickering over the food, her throat churning. Ultimately, her instinct for survival narrowly triumphed over all her doubts, pride, and humiliation. She walked to the table, carefully examining the dishes and food (though she lacked the knowledge or ability to detect poison; this was merely a psychological comfort), before picking up her spoon and swallowing in small, almost mechanical sips. The porridge was perfectly cooked, its flavor light yet surprisingly delicious, and the side dishes were crisp and appetizing. The warm food brought a long-awaited warmth, temporarily dispelling some of the chill.
After finishing her meal, she hesitated for a moment before finally changing into her clean, light blue dress. It was surprisingly a perfect fit, and the soft cotton felt far more comfortable against her skin than her tattered, cold wedding gown. Shedding the garment, a mark of shame, seemed to temporarily free her body of the sticky, grimy burden, bringing a fleeting, almost illusory sense of relief and a false sense of "normalcy."
However, this fragile feeling of comfort was short-lived. She mustered her courage, approached the gate again, and pushed hard, but it refused to budge, evidently locked from the outside. Reluctantly, she circled the small courtyard, carefully examining the tall, smooth walls, nearly devoid of cracks or scrambleable protrusions. She even pressed her ear close to the wall, faintly sensing a faint but unmistakable energy ripple, like ripples across the courtyard—it must be the barrier Tobirama Senju had mentioned. A clear realization struck her: Any attempt to force her way through or climb through would not only be futile, but would immediately trigger the alarm, attracting the guards, whose elite strength she had only glimpsed upon entering.
The rest of the day dragged on, a painfully long wait and apathetic idleness. She sat in a cold chair or lay on the hard bed, her ears perked up like a frightened rabbit, picking up every subtle sound from the strange world beyond the courtyard walls—the powerful shouts of young ninjas on the training grounds, the faint whispers of voices from the distant marketplace, the occasional, measured footsteps of a patrol... These sounds, like messages from another distant planet, constantly reminded her of a harsh reality: she was in the heart of the sworn enemy, the Senju clan, completely cut off from everything she knew and relied on. Loneliness and fear surged over her like icy waters, wave after wave, threatening to drown her completely. How long would she be held here? What would the unpredictable Senju Tobirama do with her? Would she be used as a bargaining chip? Or a weak spot to blackmail her brother? Or did something even more horrific await her? Did her brother, Madara, even know she was still alive? Did he know she was trapped here? Would he save her at all costs? Countless questions buzzed and swirled in her chaotic mind like a swarm of frantic bees, but she couldn't find any definite answers, leaving her with only deeper anxiety and despair.
Night slowly descended like a vast black velvet curtain, completely swallowing up the last vestiges of light in the courtyard. The maid appeared punctually once more, silently delivering a simple dinner before silently departing. The courtyard was devoid of any lights, shrouded in pitch-black darkness. Only the cold moonlight occasionally penetrated the clouds, sparingly shedding a few faint rays of light, casting twisted, mottled shadows of the trees on the ground, adding to the eerie and desolate atmosphere.
Aoi curled up in the corner of her bed, wrapping herself tightly in the thin quilt, yet she felt no warmth at all, only a biting cold that attacked from all sides. Her body was exhausted to the point of breaking point, every joint screaming with aches, yet her mind was in a state of hyperawareness, unable to sleep. In the darkness, any slightest sound—perhaps the creaking of a door hinge, the distant cry of a night owl, or even the mere hum of her own blood—was amplified, sending her heart trembling with fear and breaking into a cold sweat.
In this utter silence and darkness, memories flooded back uncontrollably. She recalled the moment before she fell, the fierce murderous aura behind her and the despair that shone before her. She recalled the silver figure of Senju Tobirama, who leaped down after her without hesitation, the indescribable shock that moment had brought. She remembered the biting cold water at the bottom of the cliff and the man's broad, icy back. She remembered the hideous lightning-struck wound on his back and the hairpin in her hand, gleaming with cold light, which she had ultimately failed to pierce... These images chaotically intertwined and overlapped, leaving her with an extremely complex feeling about the silver-haired, red-eyed man, one that even she herself could not comprehend. Was it hatred? Undoubtedly, he was the Senju, the sworn enemy of the Uchiha clan, and his hands were undoubtedly stained with the blood of the Uchiha clan. Was it fear? Undoubtedly, he held her life and death in his hands, a single thought determining her fate. But beyond this stark hatred and fear, there seemed to be a tinge of confusion, something she was too embarrassed to even acknowledge, much less delve into. It stemmed from that brief and bizarre experience of "symbiosis" at the cliff's edge, and from a deep sense of bewilderment at his contradictory and incomprehensible behavior. Why had he saved her? Why didn't he kill her? Why did he offer her such "courtesy"? These questions, like tiny thorns, entangled her heart.
This chaotic and conflicting state of mind, compounded by the despair of her current situation, trapped in a delicate cage with an uncertain future, created an agony far more agonizing than physical torture. The future was like a boundless, impenetrable fog, with no light visible, no direction to discern. Her only clear sense was that she had completely lost her freedom. Like a bird with broken wings, her fate rested squarely in the hands of a man she hated, feared, and felt a tinge of inexplicable confusion. This feeling of utter powerlessness and fear of the unknown, at times, felt even more unbearable than death itself.
This night was destined to be long and sleepless, and every minute and every second felt like being tortured in a boiling oil pan.
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