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~on the outskirts of a great city, ca. 600 BC
He spends the entire night watching the gods. With autumn dawning on Rome, the opportunities to see them in the sky grow fewer, to witness their rise and fall and gather their divine messages.
Mercury, full of mischief as always, has already gone silent with his secrets, choosing to show himself during the day, unnoticed under the cold light of the sun. He offers counsel to Sol while Jupiter, restless and expectant, waits for their legions to return home in triumph.
Mars sings of conquest and victories, a blood-red mark on the pristine darkness, promising Rome everlasting fortune in battle, so long as they fight in his name. But the battle will be neither fair nor easy—Saturn, the titan who far outshines the red planet, opposes the era of Jupiter, waiting for his moment to reclaim the throne. Is there a conspiracy brewing against the emperor?
Neptune, distant and tormented, lingers on the fringes of sight, barely visible behind his thunderous brother. Peace is still far from reach.
Sasori notes his observations by candlelight on a piece of parchment, the ink clotting at the tip of the quill as he makes sense of the horoskopos . The fates, ever shifting, seem to whisper that the gods are preparing for a storm.
His grandmother would have tormented him for failing to notice the lack of divine feminine to soften his predictions. Luna has retreated, allowing the aggressive gods to argue their demands to the Romans, to ask for bloodshed and campaigns to the east. Except, that’s not what granny Chiyo would have said about the moon.
When a woman is speaking, a man would do best to listen quietly .
As an Etruscan, Chiyo despised Rome and instilled that disdain in her grandson, passing down the ancient traditions in hopes they would not die with their family. She taught him to read the stars for guidance, to sacrifice animals to appease the gods, and to inspect goose livers to divine the future. These were all sacred rites, but Sasori performed them with little passion, seeing them more as obligations than beliefs he intended to preserve or pass on.
He had already chosen his path. As a hermit, he lived on the outskirts of the metropolis in a modest hut, surrounded by sheep and poultry. Sustaining himself on the blessings the gods bestowed on his crops and the prophecies he sold to both aristocrats and peasants, Sasori waited for Mors , the god of death, to come and carry his soul beyond the veil of the living. It was a life of isolation, spent in the quiet shadow of divine will, with no intention of leaving a legacy beyond his final breath.
Rome could burn to the ground, but Etruria had already faded into obscurity—its people scattered far and wide, hoping to dissolve into history, not as a conquered nation but as one shrouded in mystery and sacred rites of divination. They did not want to be remembered for their defeat, but for the enigma they left behind, whispering to the future through rituals and signs, forever beyond Rome's grasp.
Sasori exploited that Roman fascination with fate to make his living. Though a recluse, his whereabouts were arcane to those who knew how to seek him out. Merchants eager for insight into their ventures, soldiers anxious about meeting an early grave in war, and princesses dreaming of marrying wealthy foreign princes—all came to hear his oracle.
Yet, despite their desperation for his predictions, they still looked down on him, their Roman pride ever casting a shadow over his Etruscan origins.
Lady Diana, the sister of his patron Apollo, may not show her face, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t speaking. New beginnings, setting intentions, reflecting on our inner beliefs. Sasori had no use for those, his own destiny set in stone. But, perhaps, they’d be useful to somebody else.
He hears her before she makes her presence known, her light footsteps on the dewy grass enough to put his hounds on alert. His ruthless reputation usually keeps thieves and outlaws at bay, but his remote hut often tempts the more desperate to try their luck.
Each time, they fail miserably, reminded of why his agnomen, "Sasori of the Red Sand," was earned during his years as a gladiator. The blood of countless foes once stained the Colosseum beneath his feet, and the years spent in debt sharpened him into a weapon that no common thief could hope to best.
“You’re either desperate or moronic, and I’m not sure which is worse for a woman of your stature,” Sasori says in greeting, his voice cold and unwelcoming. No one was ever welcome on his turf.
From the stola draped elegantly on the woman’s frame, Sasori can deduce she’s no commoner but a vestal priestess or the wife of a rich man. The splash of pale green of her cloak tips the balance towards the latter, so did all the gold jewelry adorning her arms and around her neck.
“The gods talk to you, don’t they?” she asks fervently, her voice laced with the sort of desperation Sasori seldom gets the pleasure to see. Her face, though twisted with anxiety, is striking, and he is momentarily stunned by the vibrancy of her eyes, cyanide shimmering like poison, reflecting the flame of the candle he is holding.
The brilliant color outrivals the streaks in her hair, and it registers with latency that her locks are pink unlike the muddy browns and blondes of Rome. A foreigner from lands far away – a foreigner like him.
“They don’t speak for everyone,” Sasori counters, breaking his gaze from the fiery woman at his door to look at the horizon. The sun would soon ride his chariot of fire, lighting the world once more as the other gods retreated to their celestial realms.
There's just enough brightness in the sky for him to take in the barren field surrounding his hut — to his surprise, there are no men guarding this woman. Desperate and moronic, he decides.
“They have to talk to me,” she insists, crossing the threshold of his unlocked gate, her steps deliberate and with a prideful stride up until her feet touch the bottom of the stairs leading to his door, “They owe me that much.”
He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing her. Her intensity piques his interest.
“Gods don’t owe mortals anything,” he replies, his voice calm but edged with warning. Blasphemy is admissible only for emperors and kings who can play this game without fear of retribution. For everyone else, it invites the wrath of Jupiter to smite them with his unforgiving rage.
He turns to shut the door in her face, but a sandal blocks it, pressing firmly against the wood. The woman before him seems undeterred, her expression resolute as she pushes forward, her face mere inches from his. A subtle hint of perfume hits him. Whether it be wine or pomegranate seeds, she smells as sweet and tart as she looks.
“Is it money? Because I can offer you a hefty sum.” Her words are echoed by a hefty pouch dangled in his face like bait, previously hung around her belt. “So much salt that you’ll not have to worry about starving for years to come.” A soldier’s wife, he assumes, one who has gotten too comfortable with her status in the kingdom.
“You can’t conjure the will of gods with money,” he says simply. Only Charun accepts monetary compensation for his deeds, the Etruscan boatman guiding souls in the underworld to their final destination. This woman has no regard for courtesy to mortals or immortals, and Sasori liked that awfully much.
“But I’ll humor you,” the hermit concedes, opening his door wider, inviting her into his secluded world. “Come inside and tell me why a matron would walk these dangerous roads alone.”
Without hesitation, she steps through the threshold, moving swiftly toward the atrium where the brazier burns low, its embers casting a warm, flickering light on the humble surroundings. The scent of smoke and burning wood fills the air, but she seems unfazed, her focus solely on the fire as she moves closer, stretching her hands to warm herself.
Sasori watches her every move, his eyes curious but cautious, as if expecting either the lamest excuse for her bravery or, perhaps, the most intriguing story he’s heard in years. This woman is no ordinary visitor—there's a weight to her presence, an urgency that pushes past her elegant attire and jewelry, something desperate beneath her composed exterior.
“Well?” he prompts, crossing his arms, impatience evident in his voice. He does not like to be kept waiting. “What drives a woman like you to risk walking these roads with no protection? Surely, you understand the peril.”
The pink-haired woman jumps, startled, as though she'd forgotten his presence for a moment. Vesta’s emboldened fire has that effect—soothing worries and calming heartsick souls. But when she meets his bored gaze with her steady one, the momentary lapse vanishes. No shadow falls over the determination etched deep into her features.
Her voice is just as firm as it was outside, when she demands, “I need answers.” Sasori raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. That much was obvious. Thankfully, she continues before his aggravation could reach a most unpleasant form. “And I was told you’re the one who can give them to me. I don’t care about the risks.”
Sasori narrows his eyes, his arms tightening against his chest. Noble women like her sought him out fearing the lives of their husbands or sons, hopeless pleas begging him to ask the gods for mercy. Her eyes tell a different story, one that Sasori wants to unravel. There is something deeper than familial love at stake – something that drove her to abandon the safety of the citadel to walk these roads jammed with thieves and killers.
“Who told you that, exactly?” Sasori asks, his tone suspicious. “That I can speak to the gods?”
His question rattles her and the woman shifts from his intense expression to the dull flames. She loops awkwardly around the small room, seemingly unsure of herself. “They say your predictions are as reliable as the stars themselves.” Then, regaining the stubborn courage that brought her here, she straightens, “I have no other choice.”
The diviner scoffs, rolling his eyes at the naïveté of her statements. Perhaps he’s judged her too kindly, after all. Another worried wife, grasping at the last straws of hope over a husband who’s likely already dead or disgraced.
“No choice but to tempt the wrath of gods?” Even if he didn’t fully subscribe to the divinity they all feared, Sasori knows too well how mortals cling to such foolish beliefs. A reminder serves him well to play the part of his craft. Not to mention, it isn’t only the gods she could catch the wrath of. “Or my own?” he adds, his voice low and dangerous like the knife strapped to his waist.
Green drops to the flicker of the blade, glowing ominously in the firelight. The unspoken threat should have been enough to send any sensible woman running, but it doesn't dull the defiance in her gaze. For a fleeting second, uncertainty flickers across her face, yet it quickly hardens, and when she locks eyes with Sasori, he’s struck by a resolve as chilling as a gorgon’s.
“I have to know if my husband is safe,” she insists, leaving no room to argue.
Sasori sighs, disappointed in the outcome. He hoped, for once, he’d be proven wrong and face an interesting story beyond that of a barbarian man abandoning his wife to chase prestige in the battlefield. He could not stand that sort of people – spouses united just in name, mindless soldiers useful only instead of meat shields, or women lacking personality.
What a shame, he thinks, his gaze sweeping over her frame, noting how the rich green of her cloak contrasts her soft features with the grace of a nymph. A pity, really, that she's just another lame soul wrapped up in the predictable drama of war. There was potential here for something more—if only her life weren't dictated by a husband too preoccupied with bloodshed to see her.
“If his fate is in Mars’ hands, there’s nothing you can do,” Sasori tells her after a pause. He could use her pouch of salarium with winter on the horizon, but he likely has enough crops saved to last him until spring. His herd’s numerous enough but he didn’t like to waste a single animal for unnecessary divination. Overall, she is not worth the delirium of haruspicy.
“You don’t know yet if Mars has claimed him.” Her voice grows bolder as she steps forward, her hands clutching the fabric of Sasori’s tunic with surprising strength. “Please."
Sasori stares down at her fists, delicate but gripping him with a force that feels almost unnatural, the touch sending an odd lightness through his head. It’s as if the weight of her desperation is seeping into him. Her words cut deeper than her touch.
“I know what you use those geese for. The family has talked about you,” she adds, her voice barely a whisper now.
Sasori’s expression grows darker as he pulls back slightly, still processing her boldness. She knows. Or thinks she knows. The geese—the ancient divination rites, the sacrificial rituals he inherited but cared little for. That kind of knowledge is reserved for those who understood the power that came with foresight, or the illusion of it.
“The family?” he repeats, not bothering to remove her hands from his tunic.
“Uchiha,” she finally says, the name slipping from her lips like a confession. Sasori raises a brow, surprised, though he hides it well. The Uchiha family—wealthy, prestigious, and powerful, their name carried weight across Rome. This woman, then, is no mere soldier’s wife. She's the bride of the Uchiha heir, a man of high rank who has yet to return with his legion.
Sasori studies her more closely. Despite the fine garments of a matron draped over her, the weariness in her eyes tells a different story. She’s not quite young anymore, and beneath the finery, he sees traces of someone who has waited too long, who has perhaps lost more than she lets on.
For a fleeting moment, Sasori considers her situation. He, too, is no longer young—mid-thirties, a hermit living on the edge of Roman society. Among people like him, his age is enough to be considered an elder, while for someone like her, aging without a husband at home was a tragedy, even a curse.
He almost scoffs aloud at the irony. In another life, they might both be dismissed as spinsters, too old for the world they lived in, and find refuge in each other.
“Some time ago, you told Father that his oldest son is going to die a coward,” the Uchiha wife continues, her voice quieter but laced with urgency. The memory stirs in Sasori a vision of a muribund general, younger than he is right now, his body too weak for battle, his spirit too feeble to command. A man broken, waiting for death to come to him rather than riding into it like a warrior.
“The general who got sick,” Sasori nods, recalling the Uchiha patron visited him in a last attempt to swing the fates, to ensure his son had enough time to secure a legacy on this earth.
“Yes,” she breathes, her eyes wide, as if she’s found a small glimmer of hope in his recognition. “My husband is his brother. He’s been gone to Gaul for the past eight years. Most of the generals from his legion have already returned.”
“And he did not,” Sasori completes her fearful thought, his voice flat at the inevitable dread of what that meant. “You fear being a widow?”
“Far worse. A bare widow,” she flinches at the admission, as most women would from the sheer weight of it. Sasori’s eyes flick over her face, taking in the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the shadows beneath them. The truth of her situation becomes clearer to him now.
The next matron of a powerful family without an heir to secure her place—she stood on precarious ground. A husband who may never return, a family without a legacy. That’s her true fear, whether inborn or inspired in her by the in-laws. Not just widowhood, and not the love of a man or laughter of children, but the uncertainty of her own fate is this woman’s torment.
“Tragic,” he deadpans with no infliction, sarcastic without meaning to. A widow without children is as good as discarded in Roman society. She has no protection, no lineage to claim, no standing. “Don’t you have a family to go back to then?”
She shakes her head, stray locks falling from her braids to cover her ashen face. “They’re all merchants,” she confesses, giving Sasori the full picture. A marriage of interest, a foreigner with a chest full of jewels and spice appealing to a family as important as the Uchiha. “They could be in Hispania or Illyria and I would be none the wiser.”
“Above all, you’re still cives Romanae," Sasori points out . Her lack of manhood doesn’t take away from that, and citizenship brought rights. “If your husband is dead, you and your children would be his inheritors. Quod est lex .” That is the law.
However, loopholes exist in every legal text. Sasori has seen too many families turning their backs to their daughters and sisters, leaving them to fend for themselves when they could not secure advantageous marriages. The only solution then would be to enter themselves in the service of another patron as a servant, much like he too had found himself a gladiator when the death of his grandmother left him with no wealth.
“They could easily cast me out on the streets,” the pink haired woman sighs defeated, already envisioning the grim fate awaiting her if her husband never returns. “I’d have nothing to my name.”
Most women don’t, but Sasori keeps that thought to himself, unwilling to shatter her fragile hope with the harsh truth. A woman’s fate, after all, was often tied to a man—whether it be her father, husband, or brother. “You’d be a free woman to remarry,” he offers instead.
She scoffs, either not delighted at the idea itself or finding the suggestion absurd. Her answer clarifies it’s the latter. “Who would marry a widow with no inheritance?”
As a stoic, Sasori sees marriage as rooted in three things. Love – unlikely, given the cold walls of the Uchiha compound and the suffocating presence of the inlaws, maybe even deadly if discovered with a relative of her missing husband. Wealth – already squandered to secure this faltering marriage.
And last, but not least. “Beauty can weigh more than gold,” he muses, admiring the arch of her nose, the curve of her lips. Yes, she may not be as young as she was when promised to the Uchiha heir, but this woman remains stunning. A muse to inspire painters and singers, and maybe even catch the eye of a god.
“I didn’t come here to seduce a hermit,” she snaps, her frustration plain and his underhanded compliments unwelcome. “Maybe I haven’t been clear – I love my husband and I wish him home safe.” Her voice shakes slightly, whether from rage or fear, Sasori can't tell.
Sasori listens to her, unperturbed by her defensive tone. He has heard such declarations before—words of loyalty spoken by women trapped in loveless or uncertain unions, trying to convince themselves as much as others of their devotion. But her words ring slightly different, her desperation isn't simply about love, but about survival. Still, her annoyance amuses him.
"You misunderstand me," he replies calmly, his gaze lingering briefly on her delicate features. "I was merely pointing out that beauty can be a form of power. It often buys more than one would expect. Even without wealth or inheritance, your appearance alone could secure your future if you choose wisely."
“I already chose Sasuke,” she says firmly, her voice laced with conviction. There’s no room to argue while there’s still a shadow of hope clinging to her soul that Sasuke will return to her open arms with laurels and a devotion to rival Ulysses’. As long as she paints herself a Penelope – waiting faithfully for a man that Atia, as the etruscan god of the underworld, might have already burned to ashes –nothing Sasori says will sway her.
Sasori’s eyes drift to the flock of geese outside. One limps awkwardly, a wing damaged after falling from his roof. A lame bird, yet suitable for sacrifice. He wonders what he stands to gain from indulging her request.
After all, as a haruspex, he’s performed countless rituals, seen the insides of more animals than he cares to remember, and never once has Apollo guided his hand. Divination had always felt like a hollow act, one he performed out of tradition and necessity rather than any divine inspiration.
But something is different this time.
As he looks at the woman standing before him—her fiery hair and defiant stance—the feeling creeps over him, an unease that gnaws at his indifference. It’s as if the gods themselves are whispering through the chill in the air, compelling him to proceed. Though he cannot explain it, Sasori knows this ritual will reveal something dire. Uchiha Sasuke’s fate, entwined with this woman’s, is not destined for glory.
Against his better judgment, he makes his decision. “Very well,” he mutters, already turning toward the door. “I’ll conduct the ritual. But you may not like what the gods have to say.”
The woman watches in stunned silence, her mind reeling as Sasori wordlessly accepts her request, moving to fetch the goose. As he brings the bird inside, its calm demeanor seems unnatural, as if the fates themselves are soothing it with a lullaby instead of ushering it toward death. Sasori, knowing what’s to come, pulls his tunic from his shoulders, letting it fall around his waist. There’s no point in staining good fabric with blood.
He briefly considers telling the woman to step back, but she instinctively moves away on her own, her gaze locked on the scene unfolding before her. Sasori catches an unusual expression on her face, a blend of horror and fascination that he can’t quite place. His attention lingers on her green eyes, which seem to hold him captive even as he swiftly slices the bird in half. The goose lets out a final, haunting cry before falling limp in his hands.
Breaking from the spell of her gaze, Sasori begins his practiced task of searching for the liver. Typically, the geese he sacrifices have large, fatty livers—ideal for cooking. But the one that Apollo has sent as a stand-in for her absent husband reveals a far smaller organ than usual. Worse still, the caput iocineris—the liver's head—is missing entirely. The implications are unmistakable: this is a dark omen.
(art by @aprito)
Sasori's eyes narrow as he stares at the bird's small, misshapen liver. The absence of the caput iocineris—the "head" of the liver—sends a shiver down his spine. It is a sign he hasn’t seen in years, one that speaks of terrible misfortune. His breath catches for a moment, and though he’s long practiced in hiding his emotions, the shock is visible enough that the woman immediately notices.
The surprise on his face must be readable to the wife as well, as she demands with urgency, “What is it?”
Sasori swallows, considering his response. He has delivered ominous predictions before, but something about this ritual, this woman, feels different, heavier. The gods rarely speak so clearly, and when they do, it’s seldom good news. His fingers close around the tiny, deformed organ as if squeezing answers from it.
“The liver,” he finally says, voice quiet but firm, “is malformed. The caput iocineris , the head of the liver, is missing. It’s a sign of doom, of something—” he pauses, catching the firelight in her wide, terrified eyes. “—something irrevocable.”
Her barrage of questions falls on deaf ears as Sasori refocuses, plunging his hand deeper into the carcass. His fingers slip past the ribs and wrap around the heart, nestled between the sticky lungs. With practiced precision, he cuts the aorta, separating the heart from the bird’s body. As he pulls it out, dark and slick in his hand, an unsettling thought crosses his mind. Was this some cruel joke from the gods? Or worse, had they cursed him?
“Tell me! What does this mean ?” The woman all but yells pointing an accusatory finger at the black muscle in his hand, as though Sasori conjured it instead of pulling it out of the bird in front of her very eyes. Not only the heart, but as he glances down at his arm, he too was now covered in a sickening hue of bile - a murky blend of green and black - from the wrist up to his elbow. The smell rising from it foul beyond measure.
The gods could not be more outspoken if they stood before them. The message was loud and unmistakable, hanging in the air like the stench of death.
“Your husband...” Sasori hesitates, softening his tone despite himself. “Sasuke is either dead, or if he still lives, he will never return to you as you knew him. The gods have forsaken him.”
The woman sways slightly, her lips parting as though trying to form words, but they fail her. At last, all that escapes is a gentle, fragile whisper of his name. “Sasuke.” The sound seems to drift toward the lifeless bird, as if it could carry her desperate call to the afterlife.
Then, the denial, the outrage, the blame. In a sudden burst of fury, she lashes out, shouting in outrage, cursing the gods and turning her venom toward Sasori. Her fists clench at her sides, and her words strike him like arrows, each one laced with venom and grief. She curses the gods for their cruelty, him for delivering such a heartless message, and the fates for weaving such a bleak future.
“No, that cannot be! You must be wrong!”
Sasori stands unmoved, watching her closely. She is consumed by the raw pain and madness of loss, and in that moment, she becomes something more to him. The stoic part of him, the one that has weathered countless emotional outbursts from desperate souls, remains untouched.
But another part—one that has long been dormant—awakens in the face of her suffering. As her anger rages on, her eyes blazing with emotion, Sasori finds himself oddly captivated. Her grief, her passion, her defiance—each emotion transforms her into something otherworldly.
While Mars may have claimed her husband for his eternal legion, Venus, it seems, has cast her spell on Sasori. He watches her with a strange, unshakable admiration, mesmerized by the intensity of her pain and rage.
If this woman finds herself without a home, Sasori would open his hut to her, if only to be captivated by the intensity with which she experiences her emotions. But he knows she’s not ready for such an invitation. It’s not merely a matter of a hermit daring to propose something inappropriate to the wife of a noble; it’s about allowing a grief-stricken widow the space to mourn in peace and to accept her situation.
“You have asked and received your answer, woman. Do what you will with that,” he says with a shrug, turning his gaze back to the lifeless bird. Normally, he would burn it as an offering to Apollo, thanking the god for the insight granted to him, just as Chiyo had taught him. Yet, looking at the limp goose, he wonders if it would be more of an affront to the god to bestow such a meager tribute.
“Please, it must be a mistake,” she changes her tune, rage turning into bargaining. “Look again! Cut another bird if you have to.”
Sasori has witnessed this cycle before. Soon enough, she will be engulfed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness and guilt as the reality of her husband’s death—or whatever fate he has met—begins to gnaw at her. He would believe that death would be the kinder fate than the torment that might await Sasuke. Eventually, she will have to confront the truth and find the strength to rebuild her life, or risk being consumed by her grief and dragged to Pluto’s domain.
“Doubting the fates will only bring you misfortune and sorrow.” That is as much advice as he has left to offer her. The rest of the journey, she must accomplish on her own. Sasori is happy to nudge her in the right direction though. The innards have not turned black overnight. “Any man who truly loved his wife would have done everything in his power to come home victorious. While your Sasuke sought glory, he did not look to return.”
Now that he thinks about it, Sasori recalls having the same impression when looking at what destiny awaited Sasuke’s brother, Itachi. Back then the general was already bedridden, barely clinging to this realm and Sasori saw that clearly in the hepatic groves and flat channels of Itachi’s sacrifice.
The eldest Uchiha son had given up fighting. By contrast, taking in once more the sight of the desecrated bird, Sasori believes Sasuke is putting up needless fights that lead him nowhere but closer to Mars.
Sasori's words are met with hostility from Sasuke's grieving wife, her gaze turning icy and piercing as she stomps toward him, using her strength to shove him. He stumbles back, landing on his backside, taken aback by the force of someone who appears so delicate.
“Shut your lying mouth! You know nothing about my husband and me!” she cries.
“No, and frankly, I don’t care,” he retorts, his tone unyielding. The sun has fully risen in the morning sky, and he has more pressing matters than to comfort her. “Unless you’re planning to tend to my sheep for the day, I suggest you leave.” The image of her surrounded by his hounds while watching over the herd is amusing, yet a strange ache of yearning tugs at his heart.
As a hermit, he’s never seriously considered taking a wife.
“You’re really just going to kick me out after everything terrible you’ve said?” She throws her hands up in frustration, her voice breaking into a sniffle, a runny nose adding a nasal pitch that would typically elicit laughter. But Sasori isn’t in the mood to reevaluate his entire life over such a brief encounter. He has to make her leave and fast.
“Maybe I haven’t been clear,” he repeats her words, pushing himself off the ground. “You have come to me for divination. I am not responsible for the consequences of your hubris. It is not up to us to know our fortune.” That warning usually falls on deaf ears among his clients. If only they would listen and stop before delving into truths they’re neither ready to accept nor comprehend.
“You’re nothing but a quack,” she snaps, shoving him again, though this time he’s ready for it. Her flair for theatrics and violence could certainly keep him entertained—perhaps even vexed—were she to stay. “This means nothing! Why would the gods speak to someone like you? Why would they show their plans in a bird’s guts?”
Then, to his shock, she does something unexpected. She grabs the squishy liver, its blackened goo staining her hand, and hurls it into the fire. They both watch as the flames sputter and fade beneath the weight of the organ. Sasori, moving on instinct, reaches for her, the edge of his still-bloodied knife brushing against her jaw as she freezes. He grasps her hand, slick with the dark blood, and presses a kiss to her fingers.
"W-what?" she stammers, her voice faltering at his bizarre gesture.
“You have just sealed your fate,” Sasori says ominously, letting her go. He doesn’t ask for her name—there’s no need. Soon enough, she won’t be able to call herself by her husband’s anymore.
As she rushes back toward Rome, the weight of her fate clinging to her shoulders, Sasori watches her retreating form, a dark grin tugging at his lips. She’ll return, he knows it. Just as sure as the gods whispered doom in the liver of the bird, she will come back, perhaps with even greater desperation.
Yes, she will return. And this time, she will choose her own fate.
𓅭𓅭𓅭
At his age, Sasori knows he's seen and learned more than most men in Rome. The gods speak to him, warning of unexpected misfortunes and rewarding his devotion with untold insights. Yet fewer and fewer seek his divination, and even less demand the ancient practice of haruspicy.
When his son is born, Sasori decides the tradition will die with him. Chiyo would surely scold him when they met in Hades, but he wouldn't care. His boy, Servius*, was too delicate, too sharp to be burdened with the grim rituals of their bloodline.
"Father, there's a feast in the city," his son informs him as soon as Sasori returns with the sheep. Sasori rests his hand on top of pink locks, ruffling disheveled hair gently. Much like his mother, Servius harbors an undeniable fascination with nobility and the bustling life of Rome. Sasori still finds his wife gazing out the window of their humble home, longing for the life she left behind.
"What’s the occasion this time?" he indulges his son’s excitement, as they walk side by side.
"The lost legion has returned,” Servius says, eyes wide with the thrill of gossip. “But only one man came back. He looked so brave, father – so strong, even with one arm missing."
Sasori hums, though a knot of unease begins to coil in his chest. There have been several legions lost to time, broken by enemy forces and scattered across the kingdom, leaving only a few survivors, However, one in particular held a personal stake for him.
"Do you know his name?" he asks Servius and the boy immediately brightens up, while his father’s disposition plummets under the weight of something inevitable.
"It's Uchiha! Sasuke Uchiha," Servius answers, his youthful pride glowing as he shares the information.
Sasori closes his eyes for a moment, a wave of dark understanding settling over him. Venus and Mars, it seems, have been playing a far more elaborate trick than he had anticipated.
"Let that be our little secret," he murmurs, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder as the familiar smoke from their hearth comes into view. "No need to upset your mother with such news."
Servius looks at him with an expression that mirrors Sasori’s own—stoic, sharp, and far older than his years, one that would strike pride in Sasori’s heart were the circumstances any different. The boy nods, and they enter their home, greeting Sakura in unison,as she presents them with dinner.
Later, when the hearth has dimmed and the house turns quiet, Sakura comes to him with a troubled expression. "I think something’s wrong with the flock," she says softly, almost as if speaking of a jinx. "Or maybe... maybe we’re cursed . The goose we had for dinner..." She shakes her head, a visible shiver passing through her. "Its insides were black."
Sasori's eyes flicker to the hearth’s dying embers. The gods have spoken again. Even here, in the quiet corner of his world, their hand is still at play, making a mockery of mortal life.