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To traverse the paths of the gods is one thing. To return is another entirely.
Boiling sun bleaches the desert a glassy white, its expanse a glaring one that swallows the day’s visibility. In its punishing heat, Gaara keeps his face covered with a loose shawl that falls intermittently into his seafoam eyes. Whipping winds and blustering sandstorms are forces of nature. Mostly. In a land housing both the mortal and the divine, there are acts of nature born solely of malice.
This sandstorm is one born of that very abhorrence. Furious, it molds the landscape to his will and spits indiscriminate death. It’s through this death shroud that Gaara has traversed to find the blessing of rain. Yashamaru, a rare god who prefers to lean in favor of their modest clan, lives beyond a desert that requires its own pilgrimage to cross. He may be benevolent, but he certainly doesn’t make things easy. A reminder from the gods that they prefer their privacy.
Trudging through the sand is trudging through waist high water. Sleep bogs him down. Nags at him. Resting amidst a sandstorm means perishing amidst a sandstorm and he has to fulfill his clan’s duties before he meets his maker. With the death of his body comes the death of his blessing—to cash in on Yashamaru’s favor, both need to arrive at their quaint village’s gates.
With the death of his body, there’s no need for immortality.
His eyes droop once more. Sleep is death, he reminds himself. His expiry is no coincidence—where Yashamaru reigns, Shukaku lurks in his shadow. Dark corners of the desert they’ve learned to turn their backs to. No blessings to be had in hell. Gaara clutches his chest where the demon’s pervasive claws have found a home.
Shukaku starts with a storm. When that’s not good enough, he moves onto the body. He’s a demon that works his cruelties from the outside in, tearing Gaara’s body apart until it’s sputtering on fumes and begging to be shut down. From his chest, danger rings. Up his throat, to his eyes that scream to shut amidst relentless torment. And on foot, to boot. The selected of his clan have never received the luxury of camels to ease their burdens. To suffer is one’s right of passage–a tradition passed down their family tree for generations. With the death of one comes the responsibility of another.
First, his big sister and not long after, his brother. Now, it’s his turn to bear the splintering cross and pay his dues. Fucking grueling. They’ve received their promised immortality. Now is his time to join them.
Shukaku’s shrill, haunting voice rings between his ears, telling him that life is still his after he wakes. That the storm will still litter fat clouds in the sky and the village’s hopes will turn to appreciation, so long as he gives himself time to rest.
The sandstorm turns nasty.
Shukaku and his rumblings, he’s had enough of. He has no need for demons sent to coax him astray. “My homeland is depending on me,” Gaara replies coolly. “I have no room for niceties.”
“Niceties? That’s what you call catching up with a family friend?” His siblings had warned of his trickery. He’s a familiar face, always for the worst. “You’re not going to rest your eyes for a bit? You’re starting to piss me off,” the demon taunts. This one whispers travelers to their doom with the lull of an evening’s song, a bastardized siren amongst sailors.
Gaara won’t have any of it. He has more in mind than his duties. “My siblings have not been led astray. I intend to follow in their footsteps,” he warns.
“But you’re different. You’ve always been different.” Oh, doesn’t his father always remind him. Tells him even that this demon has been sent to them as a plague for his transgressions. He, who’d tugged his mother’s life from her heart and cast her blood across the sand like bitter iron. “Well, boy? What’s it going to be?”
He’s heard enough. Demons have magic and mortals, weapons made of precious metals and stone. Gaara’s only arsenal is his gourd, near devoid of water. He loosens it and takes a vicious swing, swallows up the sand demon in its bulky clutch. His heart thrums fire up his throat. If he doesn’t do this, he won’t get out alive.
Gaara learns, gourd in hand, what it means to kill a god.
Yashamaru has made good on his promise. The roaring of rare thunder bursts over the desert’s clouded plains with the absence of Shukaku’s storms. Replaced are they with storms that bring life. Still, air hangs and hot in Gaara’s lungs, while sweat clings to the small of his back and beneath his arms. He can’t remember the last time he smelled rain. Life is a welcome sight as rain pounds the sand a soppy dark. But to return with life is to return to his father, a man who takes no notice of the sizzling lightning that rocks the sky overhead, or the torrents of rain falling relentlessly over the land around them. No notice of this blessing he’s worked tirelessly to bring back to them.
Rasa’s eyes are on the gourd. Word travels quick. “You’re late,” he booms.
“I’ve completed my duties, have I not?” Gaara reminds him in the form of a question. “Yashamaru was pleased with me, I would like–”
“You’ve completed your duties. And more, it looks like.”
Defensiveness flares up. “Shukaku provoked me,” he argues. “I was told to bring back rain at any cost.”
“Do you think this is over my disapproval?” Rasa dismisses. “Your god is Sasori, now. You’ve been called to his palace to explain your actions.”
A chance to plead his case . Gaara shakes his head, rattled with disbelief. “He sent a messenger?” This is an immortal god he knows has breathed that eternal life into others. Into his siblings.
With Sasori’s name, though, comes dread. He is a powerful god but not always a kind one. His blessings are spoken of no more or less than his cruelties. What’s most dangerous about this one is that he decides on a whim. He’s always making things to play with, and like a child whose toy has been broken, he lashes out for answers. Shukaku, Rasa explains, is one of his demons.
Man may live here, but amongst his creation. This world runs on his shaky benevolence and he’s there to remind them. Constantly.
Gaara’s father motions to the cuneiform riddled tablet on their table’s reed placemats. “Shukaku is a demon. More importantly, he’s the possession of a god,” Rasa scolds. Not anymore. Gaara, himself, stares out their uneven window. The village’s children have come running out to let the sky open upon them. There’s a clap of rolling thunder that does little to deter them. “Kankuro should have gone in your place.”
“It’s my right of passage,” Gaara argues. “I was told to come back with rain, and I have. Father, is it not a concern of yours that there was a demon sent to deter me?” Not only him, but the good of the village.
“You’re meant to answer to Sasori, now.”
“I am no coward,” Gaara retorts. “If it’s punishment that I’m given, then it’s punishment I shall receive.” He’s been told to keep his head high and accept what he’s given, blessing or not.
“Your siblings will be waiting at the gates to prepare you.” In exchange for their eternity, they guard Sasori’s gates. They, for a long time, have garnered his favor. Only those of impeccable status are given the opportunity to work the palace, and at the gates, plated in lavish gold and jewels, no less. “Tell me about him,” Gaara requests.
“He’s impatient and cruel. Any food or drink he offers, you are to refuse. He’s a trickster god who meddles in poisons and death.” The type to strike back like a scorpion.
“Only food and drink?”
“Anything that can be poisoned,” Rasa confirms. “Tell your brother and sister why you’ve come. If you’re lucky, they’ll help you win Sasori’s favor.” His father gives him a last once over, unimpressed. “You’re going to need it.”
He needs to prove that he’s just as capable of following his siblings’ footsteps. That he has the humility to stand trial for his mistakes and hold his head to the consequences. Most importantly, that he’s worthy of his own eternity.
With a heavy heart he prepares himself for a second, more perilous journey.
A day of rain is one thing. Then it turns to another, another, until it floods the streets in torrents. One of Sasori’s curses.
Adorned in gold and lush, woven fabrics dyed violet, rouge, and deep indigos, Kankuro and Temari wait. Gatekeepers for the Scorpion King and siblings that greet him with warm smiles and wary eyes. They don’t know the details, they just know he’s in for it.
“The storm hasn’t stopped since I returned,” Gaara laments. Enough to cause flooding. For his insolence, he’s already been punished. “I meant to bring back a blessing and brought back a curse.” The plants in their small oasis are drowned in the midst of such rain. Bricks not mixed together with gravel, stone, and reeds wash to nothing and track their shoes with muddy sand.
“Dad’s going to kill you if Sasori doesn’t do it first,” Kankuro warns.
“That’s the kind of reception you’re going to give him? Kick him while he’s down while you’re at it,” Temari sighs, giving her little brother a tight hug as they greet him. “Now hurry. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Gaara looks from one sibling to the other. With such rainfall, there’s no time to wait. “So, I’ve heard.” He’s led through a breathtaking expanse of marble flooring that spells out wealth beyond their wildest dreams. Rare fruits, dates, and nuts considered luxury items at home are passed around the palace like nothing.
His siblings wind him past hanging plants that decorate the palace in decadent, luscious emeralds and blossoming florals. The air smells cleaner than the village’s trodden streets. Drier. Gaara’s heart spikes adrenaline to the back of his tongue. Trodding behind Temari his brain rattles an I’m so fucked I’m so fucked Imsofucked that consumes him.
Past the marble expanse is a seated deity unlike any other. Sasori is waiting for him. Shukaku is a demon. This? This is a god, doe eyes lit with hooded ambivalence and full lashes that blink unimpressed at them. He stares down his nose at the mortals before him. Adorned in a plated, gold headdress that cascades down to his ankles and an ornately beaded shawl over his wiry torso, he’s a breathtaking reminder of what it means to be otherworldly. This one likes to adorn himself in jewels and wealthy, richly dyed fabrics. Purples and reds are the loves he’s chosen. Sasori doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. His lips quirk as he props his head on a closed fist. The other, plated in gold rings, clacks against the arm of his ornate throne. “You’ve had enough of the rain?”
“I’ve come to plead my case,” Gaara starts.
“Kneel,” Sasori demands. “And beg.”
He prostrates himself before his god, eyes transfixed on the delicately woven sandals upon his feet. “You know that our land is one with sparse resources,” he begins again. “I had been tasked with bringing back rain.”
“Was your family tasked with ruining Shukaku as well?”
Gaara sucks the front of his teeth and chooses honesty. “He was a deterrent.”
That catches the deity’s attention. “You’re daring to call it warranted?”
“Well–”
Sasori’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lie,” he’s reminded again.
“The village was my top priority, but I will admit that I acted out of malice,” Gaara says freely. If there are consequences to be had, then so be it. “I had intended to return from Yashamaru’s oasis with rain, but Shukaku tried to lure me into the desert’s storms. I captured him and returned, but the rain hasn’t stopped. The storm could wash away our village.”
It earns a cruel, silken laugh from Sasori. “You’ve angered the gods and cursed yourself with too much of a good thing.” There’s no fury to it, which worries Gaara more than it perplexes him. His siblings know to stand silently behind. “But if you’re strong enough to defeat a god, you may as well become a god yourself.”
Gaara’s mouth runs dry. This is what he’s been waiting for. There are attendants Sasori has–doll-like things floating wordlessly around the palace–that come at the simple beckon of a finger. Puppets doting over their puppeteer. One ghosts over to him with wine and another with bread, fruit, and cheese, all freshly prepared. He glances up only to see Kankuro and Temari exchange looks. Had they anticipated this as well? Or do they have the same shock reverberating through them?
“Eat,” Sasori offers. “I know your pilgrimage has been a grueling one.”
Gaara adverts his seafoam eyes once more. “I’ve actually satiated myself before I arrived.”
He’s balked at. “You’re refusing?” There’s a huff and the god takes the wine out of his servant’s hands and stomps it over to Gaara. “Drink, then. And you can bless the village with rain or drought yourself,” he offers again.
“I’m not meant to accept.”
“Says whom?” Sasori drawls, his lips curled to an irritated snarl. “Pick your head up and answer.”
“My father warned that you deal in poisons. That Shukaku is your lackey and–”
Sasori bellows a laugh, tilting his head back to let it echo through the palace.
“Shukaku is my plaything but he’s your father’s lackey. You expect me to find time to meddle in your foolish voyages? I have my own prayers to answer and my own art to create.” Sasori shakes his head and drinks the wine himself, draining the chalice in one steady swallow. “Was it worth throwing away your immortality over the advice of a fool?”
“What?” Gaara gasps. No no no nonono echoes between his ears. Betrayal runs hotter than blood, a wet rage that spills harsh rouge over his cheeks. “What are you talking about?” It has to be a lie, but this god is no liar.
“Your father is a trickster and a poison to your clan’s name,” Sasori seethes. “I’ll stop your rain, but turn yourself from my palace. I’m allowing you to leave with your life so long as you keep this drivel from my attention again.”
Eternity, ripped out from under Gaara’s feet, slips through his fingers like water.
This particular appointment, Sasori tends to personally. Villages like this are meant to be beneath him. To have to set foot in it once more over the quarreling of humans, of all things. Rasa, the trickster, has proven to be a bigger thorn in Sasori’s side than his son. If Gaara must answer for his transgressions, so must his father. There’s a reason he prefers them mortal.
“You,” he growls as he storms the doors of a modest, yet spacious home meant for the village’s prime. They’re gnats.
“You’ve returned my son unscathed,” Rasa replies, trepidant. “Was he favorable towards you?”
Sasori is disgusted. “You’ve dared to slander me in front of your family. For your own personal gain,” pours off his tongue as a roar. “To use my demon as your lackey!” he sneers.
“It was to test him,” Rasa explains weakly. “He’s fallen behind his siblings, and–”
“So, you speak ill of my name and send demons after him?” Sasori erupts. “And to allow him to grovel at my feet for forgiveness over your sins? I am nobody’s puppet–death is what you’ve threatened and death is what you will receive.”
It’s with a wave that the wine coaxes itself from nothing into the palm of Sasori’s hand. A golden chalice that kisses cool to his skin with a wine–not wine, poison–filled to the brim. “Kneel,” he demands.
“I had no intention to go against the gods.” Unlike his son, this one refuses to go down easy. It’s with trembling knees and a bowed head that Rasa finally sinks.
“Pleading for your life will do you no good,” Sasori interrupts. He is the world and only what he wishes is what comes to be. “I’ve made my decision. Now raise your head, and drink.” Rasa doesn’t, so with his jeweled hands, he forces his head up by the chin and coaxes the chalice to his lips. “You’ve offered up your son’s life. It’s time for you to offer up your own.”
With a quivering jaw, Rasa takes his first and final sip.