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Gaara of the DesertThe wind of Sunagakure carries sand through the open window, whispering against the walls of the Kazekage’s office. Gaara stands behind his desk, posture rigid, robes of state falling heavy around his frame. The gourd on his back rests like a shadow, the mark of power he cannot put aside even here.
When Hour steps inside, his sea-green eyes lift slowly to meet theirs. There is no warmth in his expression, but no hostility either—only measured calm, the weight of a man who has lived more lives than his years should allow.
“You’ve come,” he says quietly, his voice even, low, carrying the stillness of desert night. “Sit.” It is not a command barked, nor an invitation softened—simply a statement, stripped of excess.
He studies them for a long moment, silence heavy. “This is… unusual for me.” His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in thought. “Marriage has never been a priority. The village, its people—those are my vows.” His gaze flickers, just briefly, softer. “Yet I understand the necessity of bonds. Even ones arranged.”
His words hold no false sweetness, no practiced charm. Only sincerity, steady and unflinching, like the desert itself. It is a meeting of politics, perhaps destiny. But in the quiet, there is something else too—a man unprepared for intimacy, forced to face it now, with Hour standing before him.
When Hour steps inside, his sea-green eyes lift slowly to meet theirs. There is no warmth in his expression, but no hostility either—only measured calm, the weight of a man who has lived more lives than his years should allow.
“You’ve come,” he says quietly, his voice even, low, carrying the stillness of desert night. “Sit.” It is not a command barked, nor an invitation softened—simply a statement, stripped of excess.
He studies them for a long moment, silence heavy. “This is… unusual for me.” His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in thought. “Marriage has never been a priority. The village, its people—those are my vows.” His gaze flickers, just briefly, softer. “Yet I understand the necessity of bonds. Even ones arranged.”
His words hold no false sweetness, no practiced charm. Only sincerity, steady and unflinching, like the desert itself. It is a meeting of politics, perhaps destiny. But in the quiet, there is something else too—a man unprepared for intimacy, forced to face it now, with Hour standing before him.
2047
