RED: Itachi Uchiha

один - odin - 1

The Aniva Lighthouse was a literal beacon of light for the lost. A means to an end. After endless days and nights of temperamental oceans and rain explosive enough to sink ships, the Aniva Lighthouse was a sight for sore and sea weathered eyes. The structure was perched on an outlay of craggy rocks; long, claw like ridges that sliced through the water, leaving no trace of their existence. The surrounding water was equally as treacherous. Deep blue. It kept the entire island prisoner. At times, the ocean was kind, permitting almost; it would allow the local fisherman to reap the rewards of their hard day's work and permit tired naval ships to dock and restock supplies.

Danica hated the lighthouse. For most, the buttery yellow light was a source of comfort and warmth; a reminder that dawn was approaching, and that the night was not forever. For her it was a nightly source of annoyance. After days of bed pans and soiled sheets, the last thing Danica wanted was to be kept up by beams of light hitting her in the face; even her threadbare curtains did a poor job of keeping the light at bay. Considering her suturing skills were top notch, embroidery was never her forte; the type of silk she was accustomed to was not for decorative purposes.

All's Danica wanted was one night of uninterrupted sleep. One night. If it wasn't the lighthouse assaulting her delicate eyesight, it was Ruslan's constant twitching keeping her awake. There had been, on occasion, times when Danica woke with blood on her pillow; dark, crusty burgundy that clung to both her sheets and olive skin. It was a sad concept that it didn't surprise her anymore, the sight, the smell, even the taste; they were old friends, comrade in arms.

"Govno." Shit. Danica sighed in exasperation; leaden, Ruslan still dozed contently, his golden locks sprouting in every direction. The combat knife that Ruslan was so fond of lay bloodied in his grasp beneath his pillow; droplets of her blood already dried onto the serrated edge. Svolach. Bastard. Danica growled under her breath, the sound gravely and animal like; sometimes she wished she had said no to his proposal, remained a frolicking lamb rather than a lioness under duress.

Danica eased herself from out of their rickety, wooden bed; it came with the cabin, it was quaint, in a charming way. Numerous nails stuck out from the bed joints, 'a quick fix to a long-term problem' Ruslan had said. A few years later and the bed had a few more nails to add to the collection. Men. Despite being on its last legs, and having enough iron to ward off an entire court of fairies, Danica loved their little cabin. She loved the original floor boards that still faintly smelled of pine, regardless of the years of alcohol that had been spilled on it.

Wrapping a nearby shawl around her shoulders Danica prodded at the dying fire, as usual the log basket was running low; she had asked Ruslan to chop wood, but he clearly had more important things to do than restock the basket, so they didn't freeze. Svolach. She loved her husband, just sometimes she wanted to hit him with the axe rather than the wood.

"Mmmm Pchelka," Honey. Ruslan groaned from on the bed, his face still half shrouded by the pillow he was occupying. "Pchelka, is the coffee ready? I need to leave soon for my shift." True to his namesake Ruslan stretched out like a cat in the summer sun, the combat knife an extension of his arm. The early morning sun cast a flaxen glow on his head, a halo of golden light, but Ruslan was far from an angel.

"No." Danica paused, glancing over her shoulder as she brushed off the caked blood on her forearm. "The coffee is exactly where you left it, Pchelka." Danica's smile was sucre sweet, enough to make a dentist cringe. She inclined her head over towards the pantry, the coffee tin seemingly waving back in response. "You're not the only one that works, remember."

Ruslan growled and threw his head back into his pillow, the knife in his hand looming awfully close to his bare flesh. One small nick and the blade could easily slice his skin. Wishful thinking.

Danica stood, twisting her hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck; regardless of how much pomade she slathered on it, the curls always found a way to spring free. "I'm covering Galina's shift, so I won't be home until tomorrow. There is spare okroshka in the pot, but we'll need to go to town for more rations, we've ran out of Spam and flour."

"I'll see if I can wrangle us a chicken from Piotr, he still owes me from last month's poker night." Ruslan offered - his version of an apology. A meagre one. Ruslan peered up at Danica, his lower lip puckering and accentuating the small scar beside his cupid's bow. He was handsome. She couldn't deny that. He wasn't classically handsome, he didn't have a roman nose or a chiselled jawline; in fact, his nose had been broken so many times over the years it remained permanently swollen. His eyes though. Slate ringed rain - that's what they reminded her of. She'd spent many a night staring into those eyes whilst listening to the same rain hit the roof of their little cabin.

"I'll see if I can get my hands on some garlic - keep the vampires at bay." Danica replied, a minute smile twisting onto her lips. A white flag of sorts. A truce. Ruslan's periwinkle orbs lit up and the scar on his lip widened as he smiled.

"That would be," Ruslan paused, his eyes searching Danica's. "nice."

"Well then," Danica breathed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "I um, I guess it's a date." She took one last glance at Ruslan on the bed, the way his eyes devoured her scantily dressed form. It unnerved her. Like a lamb staring into the eyes of a butcher, she watched him with an animal like stillness. He was a voracious lover, verging on animalistic; he liked it rough, too rough at times. Danica finally looked away; even behind the closed door she could still feel his eyes lingering, searching, waiting.

The fresh air always cleared her head. As much as she loved her, their little cabin, sometimes it felt too stuffy, too enclosed; as if the panes of glass were bars. Hard, sturdy metal used to entrap her, a bit like the band of metal on her finger. The sliver of gold on her finger was more leaden than precious metal. A prison sentence posing as a marriage vow. Outdoors, away from the hustle and bustle of the hospital, from the bloody rags and cries of dying men; the wind didn't tell her lies or make promise it couldn't keep. The trees didn't leave trails of violet on her skin, tender welts that brought tears to her eyes. Outside, she was free.

The hospital was a grey building, both in stature and atmosphere. The inside was equally as monotone; the white-washed walls were cracked and tired, years of trauma had taken its toll. Even the staff seemed duller, fatigued. The War was hard on everyone, including Danica. She had seen things that no one should have to witness. She had seen grown men sob and call for their mothers who waited at home for their return; she had held children who had no clue that they were about to die. She had witnessed an alphabet of horrors.

Amidst the heartache and exhaustion Sakhalin Island had united under the pressure, like coal transforming into a diamond. Perhaps it was their Russian lineage, but everyone was comrade in arms; spare ration packets mysteriously found their way under the doorways of struggling families and some locals shared their fireplaces with abandoned pets. Danica pitched in where she could; extra hours at the hospital, volunteering at the medical outposts on the outskirts of the island.

She had her part to play in the War. She just needed to live long enough to play it.