Chapter Text
“You’re not from around here.” She raises an eyebrow at the words, eyes still following the needle, watching the rhythmic puncturing. The thread that fills the holes left behind. “Your accent is rather strange.”
“Rather obvious, I would say.” Perhaps a bit brusque. She doesn’t know why she’s still here. The blood washed off easily, the chill of the water still lingering on her skin. There was no business she needed to conduct. It was mere coincidence that found her here.
Lucky, she supposes. For this girl at least.
The glare is expected. Familiar. A reasonable reaction.
More understandable than the nonchalance that greeted her bloodsoaked face. The indifference to gore-spattered ground and the blood already congealing on the bark of the dogwood trees that surround them.
“If you’re expecting gratitude, I have none to give.” She still doesn’t know the woman’s name. Clearly young, though the slope of her jaw and what little she can see of her frame makes it clear that she’s long since left her teens.
The furrow between her brow complements the scowl that graces her face. A practiced expression. One that has clearly seen significant usage.
“For all I know, they were after you,” the woman continues. The glare has not changed. There is no shift in her demeanor. No fear in her eyes, hard as granite. “I know a shinobi when I see one, chakra or not.”
She hasn’t been told to leave yet. There is no welcome to overstay.
Her knees creak as she sits down, the bottoms of her sandals brushing the water below. The blood comes off her sword in flakes. A slow surrender. It doesn’t take longer for the red to disappear entirely, consumed by the stream.
“Not exactly an astute assumption,” she snips back, rubbing worn fabric along the blade with perhaps more force than needed. Her grip is tight, metal cold even with the barrier of cloth that separates them. “And no, they weren’t after me. You simply have bad luck.”
The words clot in her throat. She sheathes her sword once more. Lays it to her side, tucking the stained cloth back into her pack.
“I’m nobody,” she murmurs. “There is no one who would come looking for me.”
There’s too much love left between her and Madara for such a thing.
The needle stops.
“Mio.”
Her head turns of its own accord. Watches the needle pull free, thread growing taut with a practiced hand.
“My name is Mio.”
The frown is gone. Replaced by something far more considering. Her eyes have thawed just a fraction, brown irises dark enough to be nearly indistinguishable from her pupils. Colors close to bleeding together. Her hair lays unbound now, cascading down the back of a heavy haori. Mio had let it fall loose, she remembers. Dirt and twigs had become twisted within the braid from her tumble onto the forest floor. Dust still remains, along with a few shreds of leaves. The only treatment her hair has seen so far were fingers tugging through thick strands, picking out the worst of that had gotten caught.
It takes her a moment to speak. It shouldn’t.
“Izuna.” There is little chance of her name being recognized this far from home. Her ponytail has long since drifted down the Naka. Her clothes are in the style of those worn by those who reside in Mizu-no-Kuni. She has nothing to tie her to the home she had left. Her accent means little. There’s been enough unrest to cause mass displacement. A foreigner is hardly treated with any suspicion.
Her name is foreign on her tongue. It’s been months since anyone addressed her as such. There is no one to address her as such. No one knows her. Not here.
Bittersweet in a comforting way. At first, at least. Her home is long gone. She left nothing of significance behind.
She’s alone now. Just as she had expected.
Perhaps what she deserved.
*
She doesn’t know why she has lingered in Mizu-no-Kuni. She had left Hi-no-Kuni quickly, heading west into Kaze-no-Kuni. A thoughtless choice. Few of her decisions have held much meaning. There are no stakes now. Nothing she does is of great impact.
A restlessness had begun to plague her by the time a year had passed, an itch settling beneath her skin, winding tight around her bones that made her gather what few belongings she had and leave. There was no reason behind it. Nothing she can decipher. She indulges the urge regardless.
A small, treacherous part of her hoped that she would be seen in Hi-no-Kuni. That someone would know she was there. That they would pursue her.
The thought remained half-formed at the time, a childish desire that never came to fruition. A moment of weakness. A foolishness that could have gotten her killed, had she not had the mind to keep to the shadows. To remain anonymous.
The slate is hardly clean by the time she reaches Mizu-no-Kuni. It is far too scarred, far too worn and battle-weary to be considered new.
Only the remnants remain.
*
She should have refused the offer. She had only been passing through the forest, a combination of fate and luck steering her in Mio’s direction.
Part of her had considered turning a blind eye. Drawing attention to herself is a risk she shouldn’t take, even now. She doesn’t know what had made her turn. Perhaps it had been the anger in Mio’s voice, clear across the forest. A gnarled, twisted rage that struck a chord in her heart, ribs ringing in a familiar tune. A feeling that clings to her like ill-fitting skin.
What fear she had been able to hear was drowned out by it. Defiance in the face of death, even when powerless as she was.
The same something keeps her walking in time with Mio. They maintain an even pace with each other, remaining a healthy distance apart.
Mio never quickens her pace. She mistakes it for fatigue at first; a natural reaction to the ordeal. It is only when she falls behind for a stray second, readjusting the strap of her sandal that she sees Mio stop immediately, turning on her heel to keep her within sight. Her expression has not changed from the grimace that first stained her. No relaxation has found her.
The mistrust is blatant, wariness blanketing her frame. It clicks all at once, an errant piece slotting into place. An unsurprising trait in a land like this. A sliver of kinship provides her with an echo of ease. She will respect the other woman’s suspicion, met in match with her own.
It raises the question of why Mio would extend the offer of leading a stranger to her village, to her home when there is no trust to be shared between them. What little camaraderie had found them in the moments after the last body had fallen has long since burnt out, replacing the in-between with an unfamiliar after. She is left on unsteady footing. An unclear path is all that awaits her.
She keeps her katana in reach regardless. Perhaps Mio had lied. Perhaps it is gratitude that keeps them in line with each other, walking at the same steady pace.
*
They don’t make it into the village proper. The house that Mio leads her to lingers in the outskirts. The inside is well kept. There is no genkan to speak of and so she removes her sandals at the door, mirroring Mio as she does. It is only now that Mio begins to turn from her, eyes already settling on the sliding screen on the far wall.
“You can sit and wait here,” Mio says softly, bending down to pick up her sandals. “I’ll only be a moment.”
“I’ll come with you,” she replies. There is no argument to be had here. She has already grabbed her own sandals by the time Mio looks back at her. Indecision flits across her face, a flicker of irritation buried in the undertow before understanding washes it away. She follows silently, careful to keep to Mio’s side even as she walks a few steps behind. A simple courtesy.
The kitchen area is cramped, her sandals scraping on stone as she steps inside. Her eyes remain on Mio as she pulls tea leaves free from a small pantry. They don’t speak as they wait for the fire to kindle, then for the water to boil. She could have offered to use jutsu. To rid themselves of such awkward tension but she knows what the answer to such an offer would be. She’s never been a generous person either way.
Her sister would use jutsu, she knows. Her lip curls, chest tightening at the thought. Impatience struck her sister far quicker than it did her, no matter what claims Madara would make. Her sister favored gyokuro above all else, only saving it for special occasions.
She hated the taste herself. The sweetness would feel rotten on her tongue—water would be her steadfast companion whenever the occasion would arise where she had no choice but to drink what she had been given.
There is no gyokuro. The taste has long-since been lost to her, replaced by the bitter memories of better times that coat her tongue.
Times she had considered better. She had always assumed Madara felt the same.
She had never asked. She had never considered what it was that her sister wanted, what it was that would make her happy. She had assumed that they shared the same desire. Peace, on their own terms.
Her terms.
Green tea leaves are what Mio deposits on the tray. She is left to follow once more, careful to take her sandals off when they step through the door once more, settling at the kotatsu as Mio does the same. Sitting seiza feels improper, unfit for an occasion such as this, where dust and detritus has found a home in Mio’s hair, staining her haori. They share nothing but this moment and the tea that they drink.
She inspects the tea even after Mio takes the first sip. A habit she’s unwilling to break. She doesn’t care if the action causes any offense, not when paranoia has kept her breathing. She’s satisfied soon enough, her eyes flicking upwards and catching Mio’s gaze.
There is nothing in her eyes.
The tea is bitter on her tongue and it burns as she swallows, chest filling with warmth. They have only just slipped free of winter, the last frost still to come and the heat is a welcome salve. She sips slowly, savoring it.
“You look like you have questions,” she finally says, setting down the cup. “I have none to answer.”
Mio smiles. A sharp, jagged look.
“Rather arrogant to assume I would hold such interest, Izuna-san. You would have to be worthy of such attention for me to have anything to ask.”
“If only you were as proficient with a blade as you are with your tongue,” she snips. “The sharpness of your words could be lethal, were they able to hold any weight.”
Impolite, she knows. Her sister would scold her for such manners, as if she would not act the same.
“You don’t carry yourself like a soldier.”
The words knock her off course. A slight deviation from the path, one quickly righted. She doesn’t bother to hide the tension in her frame. Neither of them do.
“I never was one,” she responds. Her fingers burn where they grip the cup, porcelain threateningly delicate in her grip.
“Is there a difference between a soldier and a shinobi?”
The tone is measured. Even.
Mio’s eyes are not.
The tea has turned bitter on her tongue. The leaves have long since sunk to the bottom of the cup, bloated and formless. An itch now rests beneath her skin, fingers twitching at the words.
“I was born into war,” she finally says. Her voice is quieter than she intends, sound settling like dust but she can’t bring herself to speak louder. “I had no choice in my upbringing. I had no choice in who I was to become.”
It’s enough of an answer. It’s all she can give.
“Did you choose to leave?”
Mio’s voice has softened a fraction. A hint of mercy has been given. There is no bridge to close the gap between them, nothing to keep her here but she stays. She listens, even as her tea begins to grow cold and her tongue grows leaden, straining beneath the weight of the answers she can never give.
Her tunic scrapes against her skin as she shifts. She is tempted to tear off her gloves, to let Mio bear witness to the constellation of scars that decorate her hands, pink and puffy skin long since faded white. To let her see, to let her think of how old such marks must be. How young she must have been when her hands first took hold of a kunai, arms straining beneath the weight of a sword far too big for her tiny body.
Her lips form the word before her mind can formulate an answer, tongue scraping against the roof of her mouth.
“Yes.”
A lifetime passes in the time Mio stares at her, eyes and face both blank. She feels no need to speak; there is nothing for her to say.
The silence is broken in a single moment.
“There’s a healer in town who has been looking for help in her apothecary, among other things. It’s become more dangerous for her to go into the woods for herbs,” Mio says. “You can tell her I sent you.”
Mio’s eyes flick downwards, brown eclipsed by black in the dying light.
“That is, if you have interest in staying for a while,” she adds. “I don’t know how much she’s willing to pay, but she might let you stay with her.”
It is her turn to stare. The shadows crawl along the floor, darkness waxing as the sun begins its surrender to the horizon.
“I have no destination,” she murmurs. “There is nothing to keep me tethered.”
She is unmoored. Anchorless. The storm has long since come and gone, the tatters of her life left scattered in its wake. She chose to go out to sea.
She has paid the price.
Mio lingers in the doorway, hand resting gently against the frame. She tilts her head upwards to meet Mio’s gaze, the pack on her shoulders a welcome weight.
“Hino-san’s apothecary is on the west side of town, next to the inn,” Mio says. She offers no other information, no further words beyond that.
She nods in response.
“Thank you.” The words feel unfamiliar on her tongue in spite of how often they grace her lips. Her knees have grown stiff, muscles wound tight. She turns without another word.
She doesn’t look back as she walks away. It is only once she is down the path that she hears the door close. There is nothing to look back upon now. Nothing save for houses stained the color of the sunset by the last gasp of a dying sun, left to await its rebirth.
*
The apothecary is easy enough to find; The shop itself is spacious and she can see the rooms leading further inwards, which she assumes must be used for treatment. She waits only a moment before a woman ducks out from behind one curtain.
“Do you need something?” The tone is brusque, though there is no hostility in the woman’s eyes. Her hair is pulled back, black strands slowly being eaten away by grey.
“Are you Hino-san?”
A nod is all she receives in reply. An invitation to continue.
“I heard you’re in need of help around the shop,” she says, adjusting the pack on her shoulders. The apothecary is warm in spite of the chill that blankets the land outside and her hanten feels too warm. “Mio sent me.”
“Do you have any experience in medicine?”
It takes a moment for her to respond. To consider how much to divulge. Her skin has not lost its itch, worsened by the way Hino-san stares at her, clearly sizing her up.
“I know battlefield medicine.” The truth is worthwhile. Some of it, at least. “I know which herbs to pick and how to prepare them.”
She shifts on her feet, letting her hand drift to her katana. “I have nothing to fear from human or animal, if that is your next question. Mio mentioned how dangerous the surrounding lands have become.”
“Brute strength is not the only thing I’m in need of,” Hino-san says. “I’d rather have someone competent.”
“Competence doesn’t mean much when you’re dead,” she mutters. “I can provide you with both, though. If you’re willing to give me a chance.”
Her pride has been picked raw. She has been used to hunger since she was a child. She has been used to the indignity of crawling through mud like little more than a worm, throat coated in choking dirt and blood. She had thought she was accustomed to humiliation, to the shame of losing.
Survival is almost worse.
Her arrogance has merely scabbed over the festering wound left by prostrating herself to various potential employers, to barely scraping by at times. She can’t pick anything too high-profile, anything that would require her to unsheath her katana as a hired hand.
She should not feel such things, she knows. There is no pride left for her to possess. She is without a home, without a clan to pledge her allegiance. She had grown too soft in the last years of the war, in Konoha.
Some milk teeth remained. She has torn each one out.
She meets Hino-san’s gaze with a stare of her own. She has likely ruined what chances she had of securing this job but she refuses to let her eyes fall.
Her eyes are all she has. The last tie to a clan she abandoned. To a sister she left behind.
“Drop the attitude and you can stay,” Hino finally says. “There’s a room in the back of the shop you can have. I expect you in the forest at dawn.”
She swallows her surprise. She accepts the offer with a nod.
The only possessions she has are in the pack on her shoulder and the sealing scroll tucked within at the bottom. There aren’t enough things to fill the room, even as small as it is. It hardly matters. She only takes out the necessary items, keeping the rest in the pack next to the rolled up futon.
Hino-san had been charitable enough to leave her alone to unpack, eyes sharp as she turned away without another word.
Rising at dawn is hardly an issue. She’s never slept well.
*
It’s a comfortable enough routine that she falls in. Hino-san’s acerbic tongue is a match for her own and she must swallow the irritation that laps at her throat and gnaws on her tongue. It is easier to simply keep quiet and so she does. Her voice has little use; her hands are far more valuable.
New calluses have grown, fusing with the ones that previously littered her palms. Her fingers ache when they close around the handle of her katana, encircling well-worn leather. Her eyes itch when she runs the cleaning cloth along the length of the blade until the steel sparkles. She listens to the floorboards creak when Hino-san walks through the shop, her own feet flexing, knees bending in preparation for movement.
Her muscles stretch without thought and she must coil herself back together once more. There is no danger here, nothing to warrant any action. There is no reason for her to remain on guard as she does, ready to fight without any provocation.
There is no one looking for her. Not anymore, if there ever was.