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The Uchiha’s grimoire guide to winning:chapter 2: homecoming
🕑 Added 2025-07-02 02:32:25 +0000 UTC
The compound gate loomed, heavy wood banded with iron that gleamed dully in the late afternoon sun. It wasn’t forbidding, not exactly. More like… watchful. An eye half-lidded, observing the world beyond its walls. Home. The word felt strange on my tongue, a pebble worn smooth by conflicting currents. Ren Uchiha’s home, saturated with ten years of laughter, scraped knees, and the scent of his mother’s cooking. And his home, the phantom memory of sterile corridors and the hollow ache of betrayal. Both realities churned within my skull, a dissonant symphony only I could hear. The Sharingan, newly awakened behind my eyelids, felt like a live coal nestled against bone.
Father, Hiroshi, walked beside me, a silent pillar of controlled tension. His earlier pacing in the hospital had condensed into this rigid alertness, every sense tuned to the periphery, his hand hovering near the kunai pouch at his thigh. Mother, Aya, held my other hand, her grip firm yet gentle. Her warmth seeped through my skin, a counterpoint to the icy dread coiling in my gut. She hadn’t stopped touching me since I woke – a brush against my shoulder, fingers smoothing my hair, the constant anchor of her hand. Her Sharingan had deactivated, but the worry in her dark eyes was sharper than any blade.
As the guards – cousins Takeshi and Shiro, their usual stoicism replaced by wide-eyed awe – swung the heavy gates inward, the compound unfurled before us.
It wasn’t just buildings. It was a breathing thing.
Imagine a village within a village, frozen in a moment of exquisite, melancholic beauty. Traditional structures with sweeping, dark-tiled roofs lined winding paths paved with smooth river stones. Paper lanterns, painted with the distinctive Uchiha fan, were already being lit against the gathering dusk, casting pools of soft, golden light that shimmered on the koi ponds dotting meticulously raked gravel gardens. Wisteria, heavy with late-season purple blooms, cascaded over wooden trellises, scenting the air with a sweetness that felt almost cloying against the undercurrent of anxiety.
And the people. They were everywhere.
Not crowding, but… present. Leaning from polished wood verandas. Pausing in tending miniature bonsai forests. Halting conversations mid-sentence as we passed. A sea of dark hair and darker eyes, all turning towards us. The silence wasn’t oppressive, but thick, expectant. A held breath. Then, like the first drops before a storm, the murmurs began.
“Ren-kun…”
“He’s back…”
“The eyes… did you hear…?”
“Awakened… so young…”
The weight of their collective gaze pressed against my skin. Pride shimmered in some eyes, raw and fierce. Relief softened others, visible in the slight slump of shoulders previously held rigid. And beneath it all, an undercurrent of something darker, heavier: fear. Not fear of me. Fear for me. It radiated from them, a palpable warmth tinged with the sharp tang of ozone before lightning strikes.
A small figure detached itself from the shadow of a maple tree and launched itself like a tiny, desperate comet.
“Ren-nii!”
Miyako. My little sister. Six years old, a whirlwind of boundless energy usually contained in pigtails and perpetually grass-stained knees. Now, her face was blotchy, tears carving tracks through the dust on her cheeks. She slammed into my legs, thin arms wrapping around my waist with surprising, desperate strength. She buried her face against my stomach, her small body trembling violently.
“You left!” The accusation was muffled against my shirt, thick with snot and terror. “You went away! Like… like Grandmother did! You didn’t come back! I called and you didn’t come back!”
Her voice cracked, shattering the fragile quiet of the compound path. Her fear was a physical thing, sharp claws raking at the already raw edges of my soul. The phantom memory of another sister, worlds away, flashed – a different face, a different laugh, but the same core terror of abandonment. My throat tightened. I knelt, ignoring the protest in my recently bruised muscles, and pried her gently away, cupping her tear-streaked face. Her dark eyes, so like Mother’s, were huge pools of pure, unadulterated panic.
“Miyako,” I murmured, my voice rough. “Look at me. I’m here. I came back.”
She sniffled, gulping air. “But… but you were gone. They said… they said you fell. That you hit your head. That you might… might…” She couldn’t say the word. Her small fists clenched the fabric of my shirt. “Don’t go away again! Promise!”
The raw plea, the utter vulnerability in her eyes, was a knife twisting in a wound I hadn’t known was so deep. This wasn’t just Miyako Uchiha. This was the distilled essence of what I stood to lose. All of them. Every single watching face. The weight of the future massacre crashed over me again, a suffocating wave. The coal behind my eyes pulsed, heat flaring. Not while I breathe.
“I promise, Miyako-chan,” I said, forcing conviction into my voice, meeting her terrified gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.” It was a lie wrapped in a desperate truth. I wouldn’t leave them. I couldn’t let them be taken.
She searched my face, her trembling slowly subsiding into shaky breaths. Then, with the suddenness only a child possesses, she burrowed back into my chest, her grip tightening like a vice. “Okay,” she whispered, the word muffled. “Okay.”
Mother’s hand settled on Miyako’s head, her own eyes suspiciously bright. Father remained a silent sentinel, his gaze sweeping the compound, acknowledging the unspoken questions with a barely perceptible nod. The crowd began to move then, not dispersing, but shifting, flowing around us like water around a stone. Elders with faces like weathered oak approached, their steps measured, their expressions grave but lacking condemnation.
“Ren-kun,” murmured Elder Sato, his voice a dry leaf rustle. He held out a small, carefully wrapped bundle. “For the spirit. Ginseng and lotus root. Brew it strong.” His gnarled fingers brushed mine as I took it. The touch was brief, cool, but carried the weight of generations.
Elder Hana, her back straight despite her years, offered a tiny clay jar. “Honey and ginger paste,” she said, her sharp eyes softening as they took me in. “For the throat. And the… shock.” Her gaze flickered, just for an instant, towards my eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the seismic shift within me.
Others followed. Not grand gestures, but quiet offerings pressed into my hands or Mother’s: a sprig of calming lavender, a small pouch of healing herbs, a beautifully folded origami crane left silently on the path before us. Each gift, each murmured word of well-being, was a stitch in the fabric of the clan, binding me back into its weave. The origami crane, its paper wings crisp and perfect, lay in my palm. A symbol of hope, of recovery. From a child who likely didn’t understand the magnitude of what had happened, only that Ren-kun was hurt and needed wishing well. The simplicity of it, the pure, uncomplicated care, was a balm on the raging storm inside my head.
Miyako refused to relinquish her grip. She walked glued to my side, a small, determined barnacle, her presence a constant, warm pressure against my leg as we navigated the familiar yet suddenly alien path towards our home. The whispers followed us, a susurrus of concern and awe: The Sharingan… Ten years old… After a fall… What does it mean?
Our house stood near the compound’s heart, slightly larger, overlooking one of the larger koi ponds. The sliding doors were open, revealing Aunt Fumiko bustling inside, the sharp scent of medicinal herbs already warring with the aroma of simmering broth. Her stern face softened minutely as we entered.
“Took you long enough,” she grunted, but her hands were already reaching for Miyako, gently prying her off me. “Come, little limpet, let your brother breathe. And wash your face. You look like a drowned field mouse.” Her tone was brusque, but the touch was infinitely gentle as she guided Miyako towards the wash basin. Her eyes, however, snapped to mine, sharp and assessing. “Well? Still seeing the world through fire and blood?”
The Sharingan apparently when activated could taint your vision crimson at the beginning if your body was not strong enough to handle it.
The question was blunt, typical Fumiko. No coddling. I met her gaze, feeling the faint, familiar hum of her chakra, that calm medicinal green I now perceived without conscious effort. “It’s… settled. For now.” The red lenses had receded, leaving only the memory of their clarity, their terrifying insight.
She nodded once, a sharp jerk of her chin. “Good. Sit. Both of you look like death warmed over.” She herded Mother and Father towards the low table in the main room. “Food’s almost ready. Don’t argue, Hiroshi. You need it as much as the boy.”
Dinner was a subdued affair, charged with an electric tension that hummed beneath the surface of polite conversation and the clatter of chopsticks. Steaming bowls of miso soup, fragrant rice, grilled fish, and simmered vegetables were laid out, a testament to Aunt Fumiko’s efficiency and Mother’s quiet direction. Miyako, scrubbed clean but eyes still red-rimmed, sat pressed against my side on the tatami, her small hand finding mine under the table and clinging tightly. She ate little, her gaze constantly flicking to my face, as if verifying I was still there.
Father ate methodically, his movements precise, economical. But his eyes, usually sharp and assessing like a hawk’s, held a distance, a shadowed introspection. He watched me, not with the clinical assessment of a shinobi, but with the haunted look of a man who had peered over the precipice and seen his child falling.
Mother tried. She spoke of inconsequential things – the late blooming of the irises by the pond, a funny thing Miyako had said that morning. Her voice was soft, melodic, but it couldn’t quite mask the tremor beneath, the way her knuckles whitened when she gripped her chopsticks. The love radiating from her was a tangible force, a warm cloak trying desperately to smother the cold dread in the room.
It was Father who finally shattered the fragile veneer of normalcy. He set his chopsticks down with a quiet, deliberate click. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. He looked at me, then at Mother, then finally at Miyako, who shrank slightly against me.
“Ren,” he began, his voice low, gravelly. It wasn’t the voice of Uchiha Hiroshi, respected Jonin, Head of the Main Family Branch. It was the voice of a father whose world had almost collapsed. “What you did… scaling the Training Ground Three cliffs alone… without a spotter… without telling anyone…”
He paused, struggling for words, his jaw working. Mother reached across the table, her hand covering his. He didn’t pull away, but his gaze remained fixed on me, intense, searching.
“They speak of pride,” he continued, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “Outsiders. They whisper it like a curse. ‘The Uchiha and their cursed pride.’ They think it defines us. That we seek strength like dragons hoarding gold, for the sheer arrogance of it.” He shook his head, a sharp, dismissive movement. “Fools.”
His hand tightened under Mother’s. “Pride is a shield, Ren. A brittle one. What sits at our core… what drives us… is far simpler. Far more terrifying.” He looked at Mother, and the raw emotion that passed between them was a silent language older than the Sharingan. Love. Devastating, all-consuming love.
“It is love,” Mother whispered, her voice thick. Her dark eyes held mine, filled with a depth of feeling that stole my breath. “This fire in our blood… it isn’t just for battle. It’s for them.” She gestured subtly, encompassing the room, the house, the entire compound beyond the walls. “For each other. For our children. For the family we choose to protect.”
Father nodded, picking up the thread. “A long time ago, our ancestors learned a harsh truth, Ren. Love, without the strength to defend it, is merely a beacon for predators. It makes you vulnerable. It paints a target on everyone you hold dear.” His gaze sharpened, piercing. “So we forged ourselves. We honed our eyes, our bodies, our minds. We sought strength… relentlessly… not for glory, not for dominance over others… but for the power to say No. To stand between the darkness and the light we cherished. Strength was the only currency that bought safety for those who mattered.”
He leaned forward slightly, the intensity in his eyes almost physical. “But what is the point, Ren? What is the point of that strength? What is the point of blades sharp enough to cut the moon, of eyes that see through lies, of bodies trained to endure hell… if the result is only ashes?” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper, ragged with a pain that transcended the immediate scare. “What use is power if it leaves you standing alone amidst the ruins of everything you fought for? If all it guards are graves?”
The question hung in the air, heavy as lead. It wasn’t just about my recklessness on the cliff. It resonated with a deeper, older grief, the unspoken shadow that haunted every Uchiha – the knowledge of their precarious position, the legacy of Madara, the simmering tension with the village. The fear of extinction.
Mother squeezed Father’s hand, her own eyes shimmering. “We are not angels, Ren. We are not saints. We love fiercely, protectively. For those within our circle, we would build heavens with our bare hands. Warmth, safety, laughter… we would give it freely, abundantly.” Her voice hardened, a sudden, chilling edge entering it. “But cross that line? Threaten what is ours? Then we become something else entirely. We become the fire that consumes worlds. We become the darkness that swallows the sun. There are no lines we wouldn’t cross, no depths we wouldn’t plumb, to keep our family safe. To keep you safe.”
She looked directly at me, her gaze boring into mine, past the child, seeing the fractured soul within. “That recklessness… that gamble with your life… it wasn’t strength, Ren. It was the opposite. It was spitting on the very thing we seek strength for. What pride is there in a corpse? What victory in a funeral pyre?” Her voice broke. “We would mourn you, Ren. Not just us. The entire clan. Your absence would be a wound that never healed. A light extinguished that no amount of power could ever reignite. Is that what you want? To leave Miyako alone? To leave us in that kind of darkness?”
Her words were arrows, each finding its mark in the vulnerable space between my ribs. Miyako whimpered softly beside me, pressing closer. The image she painted – the clan shrouded in grief, Miyako orphaned in spirit if not in body, the desolate silence where my presence should have been – was horrifying. It cut through the older soul’s cynicism, through the strategic calculations about the Massacre. This was immediate. This was visceral. This was the terrifying, beautiful, unholy reality of Uchiha love laid bare.
It was terrifyingly easy to imagine. The compound draped in white, not celebratory lanterns. The koi ponds still and dark. Aunt Fumiko’s sharpness blunted by grief. Father’s rigid control shattered. Mother’s warmth extinguished, replaced by a chilling emptiness. Miyako… lost. The origami crane, a symbol of hope, replaced by funerary white paper. The sheer, devastating waste of it.
The phantom memory of the other hospital, the slowing beeps, the morphine silence, surged up, merging with this imagined Uchiha grief. Two worlds, one truth: loss was an abyss that swallowed everything.
“No,” I choked out, the word scraping my raw throat. Miyako’s grip tightened painfully on my hand. I looked at Father, then Mother, meeting their anguished gazes. “No. I… I didn’t think. Not like that. I just… wanted to be stronger. Faster.” It was a pathetic, childish excuse, and it tasted like ash. The truth – the desperate flailing of a soul drowning in future horrors – was impossible to voice.
Father studied me for a long moment, the intensity in his eyes slowly giving way to a profound weariness. He sighed, a sound like wind through barren branches. “Strength gained through stupidity is no strength at all, Ren. It’s luck. And luck,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, heavy with the weight of a shinobi’s harsh experience, “is a fickle bitch who always collects her debt. With interest.”
He pushed himself up from the table. “Eat. Rest. We will speak of training. Proper training. When you are recovered.” He paused, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder. The touch was heavy, conveying more than words could: relief, residual fear, a fierce, unyielding protectiveness, and a warning. “Do not make us mourn you, son. Not yet. Not ever, if we can help it.”
He walked out onto the engawa, staring out at the lantern-lit compound, his broad back a silhouette against the deepening twilight. A sentinel, guarding against the darkness, both within and without.
Mother managed a small, tremulous smile, reaching across to brush a stray strand of hair from my forehead. Her touch was infinitely gentle. “Your father speaks harshly, Ren, but only because his heart stopped beating when they brought you in. Mine did too.” She cupped my cheek. “You are our light. Never forget that. The strength… we will help you find it. The safe way. The smart way. Together.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Silence. Not emptiness, but the thick, velvet quiet of the Uchiha compound holding its breath. It pressed down on me, heavy and resonant. Outside the paper screens, the world was painted in deep indigo and charcoal. The rhythmic shush of a guard’s footsteps on gravel drifted in, a sound as familiar as the frantic drumming beneath my own ribs – a drumbeat that hadn’t settled since dinner.
I lay flat on my back on the futon, the woven rush matting cool through the thin cotton of my sleep yukata. The air held the faint, clinging scent of Aunt Fumiko’s medicinal tea, mixed with the sharper, clean smell of tatami and the distant, comforting ghost of Mother’s cooking. They knew. Oh, they absolutely knew. When I’d mumbled about lingering fatigue, about the throb behind my eyes that wasn’t entirely a lie, their expressions hadn’t held reproach. Just understanding, layered thick over concern. My flight from the aftermath of their words – words heavy with love and the terrifying specter of loss – had been as transparent as the shoji screens themselves. And yet, they’d let me go.
Hugs that threatened to fuse my bones. Mother’s lips, impossibly warm and soft, pressed against my temple like a blessing and a desperate plea all in one. Miyako’s small arms locked around my waist, a silent, fierce demand: Exist. Stay. Have a good sleep, Ren.
They’d gifted me the escape. Now, cocooned in this fragile sanctuary – Ren’s room, with its haphazardly stacked scrolls, the worn wooden practice kunai on the low desk, the lopsided charcoal sketch of the Hokage Mountain pinned to the wall – I committed the terrible, human act of mental sophistry or in more simple terms, I began thinking, thinking about my current circumstances, about either it was a very detailed dream/illusion of a dying man or that I truly was in a world that was supposed to be fictional, that I knew the future of.
One question coiled, cold and serpentine, deep in my gut: Would they still kiss these cheeks if they knew?
Not just about the massacre. That poisoned eclipse was horror enough. But the deeper fracture. That their Ren – the bright-eyed ten-year-old prodigy who loved paper shuriken and his sister’s cooling rice – had died. Not on the cliffs of Training Ground Three, but somewhere in the desperate, prideful scramble up them. Died trying to grasp a strength he thought he needed to make them proud, utterly blind to the terrifying, suffocating pride they already held for him simply being. And what lay here now, tracing the phantom patterns of moonlight on the dark ceiling? A chimera. A mosaic pieced together from the shattered vessel of that boy and the bewildered, grieving consciousness of a man who’d read his family’s doom in ink and pixels. Ren, but not Ren. Dead, yet palpably alive. The same eyes, the same blood, the same fierce love for Miyako’s giggle… yet fundamentally, irrevocably changed by a weight no child should ever carry. Would their love, that fierce, consuming Uchiha fire, bend to encompass this ghost inhabiting their son’s skin? Or would it recoil, seeing only an imposter, a crack in their sacred lineage?
Tobirama. The thought sliced through the turmoil, sharp and unbidden, a shard of ice. The Senju bastard was right about one thing, and one thing only. We Uchiha do love more. Not just intensely, but with a terrifying specificity. A depth that becomes our greatest strength and our ultimate, crushing vulnerability. We love our people, our clan, with a ferocity that could scorch the earth and rebuild heavens in the ashes. That love is the bedrock. It’s the furnace core that powers the Sharingan’s bloody evolution. It fuels the relentless pursuit of strength Father spoke of – strength sought not for dominion, but as the only coin that buys safety for the loved. Tobirama saw that depth, that terrifying potential for devotion, and named it a curse. Twisted it into justification for walls and watchtowers and eventual annihilation. He mistook the symptom for the disease. The disease was fear – Konoha’s fear of a love it couldn’t control, couldn’t cram into its neat boxes of transaction and politics. And fear, I knew with a chilling certainty forged in two lifetimes, is the richest soil for atrocity.
To shove aside the gnawing guilt, the existential dread pressing on my lungs, I turned my focus inwards. Not to the Grimoire, in my mind, but to the tangible miracle thrumming within my own flesh: Chakra.
In the quiet dark, eyes closed, I became a cartographer of my own insides. It was there. A river of potential beneath my skin, a vibrant hum resonating in my very marrow. This was Ren’s birthright, utterly alien to the phantom consciousness clinging to my borrowed bones. That other self had known only the sluggish pump of blood, the electrical snap of neurons, the finite stamina of a body bound by mundane, unyielding physics. This… this was life amplified. Alive.
The academy teachings, memorized by rote by the original Ren, unfolded in my mind with sudden, crystalline clarity. Chakra is born from Stamina. Stamina is the crucible where Physical Energy and Spiritual Energy meet.
Simple words. Deceptively so. The reality was a complex, breathtaking process happening right here, right now, inside me.
Physical Energy or Yang was drawn from the trillions of living cells composing this ten-year-old body. I could feel it. A low, resonant thrumming deep in my core, like the idling engine of something vast and powerful. It was the remembered heat in my muscles after training, the phantom ache of healing bruises from my fall, the raw potential coiled tight in my tendons. Finite. Replenished by food, rest, the burn of exertion. Training forged more cells, honed their output – building a larger furnace within. Captain America? An eight-year-old academy student, their nascent chakra system passively reinforcing bone like steel, weaving muscle fiber denser than cable, sharpening neural pathways to lightning speed – even without active molding – could likely shatter the super-soldier’s jaw. The chasm wasn't just skill; it was the fundamental rewriting of biological possibility. Chakra leaked. It suffused. It made the impossible the mundane baseline of this world.
Spiritual Energy or Yin was trickier. The original Ren had been taught that it was not thoughts, not emotions, but the raw consciousness that animated the flesh. The will, the focus, the accumulated weight of experience and self. Meditation cultivated it. Study refined it. Trauma… could warp or amplify it, I suspected, touching the phantom ache behind my eyes where the Sharingan slept like a banked coal. It felt like cool water flowing alongside the Yang’s warmth, a current of pure intent. The sculptor's hand to the clay.
These two primal streams – the furnace heat of the body, the cool, shaping stream of the mind – converged. Not directly into chakra, but into a reservoir, a potential state: Stamina. This was the body’s raw fuel, the capacity for effort, the wellspring of vitality. Every living being here possessed it, generated it. The civilian farmer sweating in his field drew on Stamina. The blacksmith hammering glowing steel summoned Stamina. It was life's currency.
The critical divide, the chasm separating the ordinary from the world-breakers, lay in the next step. The transformation.
Shinobi. Samurai. Monks. They possessed the knowledge, the innate or hard-won capability, to take that reservoir of Stamina and mold it. To transform raw vitality into Chakra. This wasn't mere amplification; it was transubstantiation. Turning the base lead of potential into the volatile gold of active power. Chakra could be pushed through tenketsu points, shaped by intricate hand seals, imbued into techniques that defied sense. It could knit bone, conjure fire, weave illusions so real they killed, call forth creatures from myth, let you walk on water as if it you were Jesus. It was the key to laughing at gravity, to breathing destruction, to seeing the lies woven into the fabric of the world.
Lee. His name surfaced as the perfect, poignant illustration. Might Gai’s hard work prodigy couldn’t perform this alchemy. His Stamina – born of Yang honed to an insane, screaming peak and Yin forged of pure, indomitable will – remained just that: Stamina. He couldn’t mold it into the chakra needed for Ninjutsu or Genjutsu. Yet, that raw, untransformed Stamina allowed him to achieve feats that bent physics, that shattered every expectation. His speed, his strength – they were the Yang and Yin within him, expressed directly through his body, his movements, screaming past the need for the intermediary step of chakra molding. A weapon powered by sheer, undiluted life-force. In that other world, from where the older part of me came from, Lee would have been a one-man apocalypse. Here, he was exceptional, brilliant, yet bound by the very rules of a reality where chakra was the fundamental language.
I focused, not on molding yet, but on simply perceiving the flow within me. I felt the Yang, that cellular thrum, concentrated like a warm, dense sun in my core. I felt the Yin, cooler, more diffuse, radiating from the space behind my eyes, interweaving with the Yang’s heat. Where they mingled, in the pathways the Uchiha clan drills had etched into my awareness since I could barely walk, Stamina pooled – a vibrant, restless lake waiting for direction. And hovering at the edges of that lake, like oil shimmering on water, ready to be drawn and ignited, was the nascent possibility of Chakra itself. It felt… alive. Responsive. A living current within my living flesh. A power that could make me faster, stronger, sharper than any hero from that faded, chakra-less reality could even conceptualize.
What was even more incredible, more interesting in my opinion was the fact that it was the basics. For example, if I remembered well, to be a sage like Naruto or Hashirama, you needed more than a substantial amount of chakra to be able to equilibrate at a ratio of 1:1:1 physical energy, spiritual energy and nature energy.
If the future wasn’t a suffocating shroud woven from betrayal and blood. If Konoha wasn’t a gilded cage built deliberately over a mass grave. If my only purpose wasn't to wrestle destiny itself by the throat… gods, how I would have reveled in this. To spend this second life, this stolen chance, unraveling the mysteries of this energy. I would have probably been like an Orichimaru with consciousness. Mapping its currents like unexplored continents. Understanding its dance with bloodlines like the fire in my own eyes. To be a scholar of the unseen forces that moved this impossible, terrifying, beautiful world. The sheer, intoxicating potential of it sang in my veins, a siren song almost too sweet to resist.
But the coal behind my eyes pulsed. A low, insistent throb, a banked ember flaring in warning. Focus. Fascination was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not now until the situation felt less precarious.
I closed my eyes and began letting myself fall into the embrace of Sleep. I could understand why Sasuke had been obsessed with avenging the clan if he had felt even half of the care and love the Uchiha clan had shown me.
Truly, was there anything as damning as love?
