AUTHORS NOTE: Standard Disclaimer applies. The characters belong to Kishimoto-sensei.

That being said, however, the madness that his characters would be facing and the world they would dwell in whilst in the midst of such mad occasions belong solely to the dark oubliette I proudly call my mind. Any complaints, suggestions or violent reactions must therefore be laid solely at my irritatingly ditsy feet.

Welcome to this dark world I have created. The possibility of this story has consumed me from the moment I have conceived of the idea. I must admit that for the past few weeks I have been enamored with the readings that featured heavily the characters from Kishimoto-Sensei. Poor amateur scribe and itinerant word-merchant that I am, I am but a humble servant to the lure and seduction of my Muse.

Like a siren's inescapable song—she beckons and I come helplessly, inevitably—to her side. Maddening as she is, one cannot escape the lure of inspiration once it invades the imagination until like an inferno that burns everything in its path—it consumes you, completely.

I am hoping that you will give a try to this work. It will feature a style of writing I have not attempted in nearly six years. Here's to hoping I rediscover the knack for weaving words.

Narration

"Dialogue"

Internal Monologue

Specialized Dialogue

WOVEN INTO YOU

PROLOGUE

What raging fire shall flood the soul?

What rich desire unlocks its door?

What sweet seduction lies before us?

Past the point of no return, the final threshold

What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?

Beyond the point of no return

Phantom Of The Opera, "Past The Point Of No Return"

NARUTO (14 years old)

The estate sale proved to be just like every other one he has been dragged to since he could remember. By the time he turned twelve, he has been to so many sales he couldn't even recall the first one he's been to, but he was fairly certain this wouldn't be his last. At least, not if his partner in crime has any say in the matter. His sense of duty made his attendance mandatory but it was his cursed curiosity that always fueled his intent.

His eyes roamed around the small room used for today's auction, noting the larger than usual venue and the small raised dais where most of the items that would be up for sale would be put on display later in the day. For now the floor was alive and teeming with people milling around, vying for a peek at the lots that will be up for auction, greeting their contacts and sizing up their competitors. The red and white draperies behind the auctioneer's lectern caught his attention and for a few second he wondered why the color called to him so. They weren't even his favorite colors.

Though if any had asked I couldn't tell them what exactly my favorite was anyways. It's probably orange since I seem to have a ton of stuff in that color and it's soothing in its own way, no matter what idiotic color-blind troglodytes say.

Clearing his mind of the oddly introspective thoughts, he forced his bored gaze to shift around and found amusement creeping up to him when he noted the different people that filled the auction house. There were of course, the usual bevy of crusty old men and batty old women who looked like they were the same age as practically everything else that's up for sale; the bug-eyed academics and eccentric collectors staring at him beadily through thick blurry glasses that looked more the bottom part of a soda bottle than actual lenses; the odd risk takers here and there who were in it for the cheap thrills and the smattering of professional pickers and specialty shop owners that knew best the merchandise they were seeking and what could be found in a sale just like this one.

Not that it would make a difference to them, the batty old coots. They'd buy anything and everything if it's old enough, tacky enough or weird enough to merit a story or two.

The words sounded scathing and amused inside his head but he knows ultimately only he would know of them. The words that come so easily inside the mad cavern he calls his mind will never go past lips that for some reason have grown used to being sealed. He didn't know if his silence was part of the trauma of the accident that took his family away and left him in a coma that lasted for four months or a defense mechanism on his body's part triggered further by the partial amnesia he woke up with but either way the ability to speak has been lost to him for two years and the desire to speak has not roused since then. His father said that ever since he lost part of his memories he only said a few words before silence finally took over.

Maybe that's the reason I have some memory of hearing my own voice. I think at one point I must've been able to. And when I temporarily lost it, I lost even the habit of it.

He admits that, aside from the odd looks he gets sometimes for his 'difficulty', he certainly hasn't missed the skill much. Truth be told, he actually gained a skill to compensate for the one he lost. Not that he needed his voice to get his point across. During those endless months of trauma-enforced muteness his dad did everything to find a cure.

After doctors confirmed that physically there was nothing hindering his vocal tract from producing the necessary sounds and that everything was simply a glitch in his mind, he was forced to learn how to sign to get his messages across. He learned the language quickly, picking up the hand gestures (and a few weird ones aside) with surprising ease. But whenever signing couldn't be done or the person he spoke with didn't know it he learned to make do with the pen and small pad he always kept with him. Whenever writing or sign language were out, he could and was quite creative in using body language and gestures to get his point across. He has resigned himself to the silence of the world from his end of the spectrum and he had the consolation of indulging in his own brand of snarkiness in the privacy of his own head.

Not that anyone would know that. Even now when I could talk people act as if I didn't. So, really, what difference does it make except surprise a couple of disgusting bigots who make fun of those who really can't?

However, much to his father's delight, his trauma with his voice, unlike his memories, found a way to be healed. He can speak now, only habit made him reticent to do so. He found no burning need to breach the gap that his silence created since it allowed him leeway in a world that somehow no longer seemed as certain for him. People gave him space once they realize his 'disability' and even when assured that he has the ability to speak, the continued to give him the same polite uneasy smiles that conveyed their true anxiety.

Why give up the advantage? I certainly operate better with the disadvantage they think I operate under rather than seeing it from my perspective.

The memory sparked inside him the usual flood of annoyance and disgust. Maybe that's part of the reason why even when he could talk now, he preferred not to. There was something to be said about silence in a conversation he never really realized until he was forced to be quiet. People around him—or in general as far as he could tell—are never quite as comfortable in silence. They twitch and fidget and give away so many tells that it's astonishing how no one ever notices. He has met with countless people during his silent months and he found to his growing amusement just how many of them made a fool of themselves in front of a person they were assured couldn't spill their secrets or talk back.

Saves me tons of time and I don't doubt it frustrates the hell out of people when they figure they can't do anything to someone one like me. I don't need more of their pity or their scorn. I don't need for them to pretend when their own bodies and their words betray them.

As usual the memory of his self-imposed silence reminded him of why he became temporarily disabled in the first place and that led him down the same dark thoughts that made him clench his fist. Years after the accident, he could still tell whenever people gave him those kinds of looks. He has grown inured to the distrust and pity fairly early on—but he can still feel the glares of condemnation and doubt that pierces through him like a piercing brand every single time—the kind that burns through him like a fiery brand that simply cannot be willed away.

Like someone would be dumb enough to wish to experience a horrible accident for kicks and giggles. Like I deliberately set up the most appalling way to change my entire life simply because I could. Like I planned to end up disfigured and mute and without a good chunk of my memory for something as paltry as money.

The months of speculation has dwindled into hastily hissed whispers and uneasy looks concealed beneath the shadows by the time had awoken from the coma that the accident induced but that was all the saving grace he was afforded. The accident gave him four months of sleep and then delivered him into a life that had chunks of his mind missing from it, silence from lips can no longer willingly create sounds and skin mottled black and blue from his head to his toes. Well that, and a body that has been stunted at its peak.

For some reason, his body slowed its inevitable growth, a means, the specialist speculated, of equalizing and adapting to the stasis he was forced to be in while he was comatose. The only thing—biologically speaking—that continued to flourish while he slept was his wild mane of hair. By the time he walked out of the hospital his once choppy gilt-edged locks had become a long flowing cascade of golden tresses that reached down to his hips.

Maybe it's the hair that makes people think I'm weird, he mused thoughtfully, tugging a few strands of the sunshine-hued mane. His hair certainly caused much of the attention he brought to himself. He didn't really know why he kept his locks long, knowing somehow that he used to wear it in a ragged shaggy mass that used to get into his eyes. It was a bit too long though—though raggedly cut at the ends, it was sleek and fine almost like gold silk.

Gah! I did not just compliment my hair. Next time around I'll be mentioning my blue eyes, my tan and my ripped abs—argh! That's it! I'm getting mental from all these all farts surrounding me! Next thing I know, there'll be another weird-ass pedo-wanna be stalking me from the shadows!

Not that the mistake or the possibility were all that unusual either. For some reason he couldn't begin to fathom, his build tend to make people think he was female despite the fact that he certainly displayed that he had the strength of a horse at times and his actions were less refined than a mad bull in a china shop. Even when he opened his month he knows that his words couldn't be anything but rude and abrasive and still he could count in the fingers of one hand the number of times people didn't mistake him for a girl or someone four years younger than his real age.

"Hey son, you doing okay?"

Amusement colored the soft, calm voice that spoke behind him and he whipped around to look at the figure that interrupted his introspection. Cerulean orbs brightened into blinding sapphire when greeted by an equally arresting pair of lambent russet surrounded by dark lashes that fluttered behind clear black wire-framed glasses. A short, lean-limbed man clad in a rumpled dark green oxford shirt and dark jeans, blessed with dark hair tied back in a haphazard pony tail that stuck up behind his head in all direction, complimented by a robust tan complexion and a ready smile completed the charming image of a charmingly forgetful, albeit harassed academic. He flashed his signature grin at his father along with thumbs up to signal his state of health and mind. The pose—silly as it was—assured them both that he was in the pink of health.

"Having fun yet?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and settled for a few gestures as if to say that he was a bit bored but still kicking.

"Oh what do you mean?"

The people here should get some EMS ready Dad, I think I can hear some of their tickers winding down from sheer boredom and just plain being too old. I think one of the old codgers actually was here when the dinosaurs were.

As expected, a faint blush bloomed on his father's face, highlighting the small faint, line that ran across the bridge of his nose, a childhood accident that resulted in a thin line-like scar on his face. The mark was an easy means of assessing his father's every emotional state and he used it to his every advantage.

Iruka was a very energetic, charming sort—a rare combination of decent athleticism and scholarly nature that never failed to make him a favorite for those that knew him. If the man had any failing, in his eyes at least, aside from his scary mother-hen personality, it was that the man was so easily flustered.

"Hey, that's mean. Come on, let's go look at the offerings. Who knows, you might find something interesting and cool. You know, like a mysterious treasure or maybe some super-secret magic item."

Dad.You're not a kid anymore. Don't say things like that. That's just creepy and besides, who in their right mind would hide anything even remotely magical in trash heap like this?

"Oh you never know. I once found a really cool knife and throwing stars in sale like this one when I was a teen. You remember that one?"

Dad—

"Yeah, well, that's what sparked my interest in history and weapons, kit. I learned that the things I found where called a kunai and a shuriken and that they were weapons used by a specialized warrior class back in the early foundation of our history. It made me excited to discover something so cool and you know—pretty much that's the reason I became a teacher and started the business and well…"

Dad, you really can be such a spastic nerd sometimes.

"Hey! I resent that statement. Do you even know what spastic means?"

Dad, I am not going to have a vocabulary lesson with you. It's my summer break, and I refuse to learn anything scholarly within the next few weeks.

"Funny, that's the same argument you've been using on me since you started attending school and you've managed to use that same line of logic even when it's not your vacation."

Dad! He gave his smirking father a pout that grew even more pronounced when an amused chuckle greeted his ears. Sticking out his tongue at the man disdainfully, he stirred the conversation back into safer, if duller, territories before his temper gets a hold of him and ruin the day even further. Anyways, Dad, did you see anything you liked?

"Just a couple of books. Maybe a few scrolls. The owner of this sale used to go all over the Elemental Nations so there might be a ton of stuff here from different places. How about you? Did you see anything interesting?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug and gestured to the pieces up for auction with a quick flipping motion of his hand indicating indecision. He swept his eyes across the room and gave another small shrug.

Mah…well…

Iruka nodded and clapped a small hand on his shoulder encouragingly. "Well, if you see something, tell me. We can definitely get something for you. You haven't really been using your allowance for anything and you've helped a lot in the shop lately."

He gave a short nod. Thanks dad.

"Come on. Let's take a look around and size up the competition."

The statement made him snort and he gave a quick sequence of signs.

Dad, half the people here can't even compete for anything save being older than mold.

It amused him greatly to see his father sputtering in shock and stifling the chortle that threatened to erupt from his lips. Pushing back his glasses back against the bridge of his nose, Iruka gave his smirking son a chagrined look.

"Hey, what did I say about being mean?"

Just use signs when I do so no one can tell?

"Brat! Don't be such a smart mouth!"

Can't see that happening since I don't even use my mouth for that.

"You kit, has far too much cheek for one kid."

Says the man who raised me.

"That's why I know you. So come on, brat, help your old man score some treasure."

Yeah, Yeah.

One yeah is more than enough, thank you.

Dad!

THUMP!

The sight of a battered chest dropping unceremoniously unto the auction floor caused the two of them to break their unusual dialogue and pay attention once more to their surroundings. As one, they turned towards one of the auction house assistants—a young man who was quietly unpacking yet another crate that contained an item for the auction. Nimble gloved hands expertly wielded a crow bar that pealed back the thin wooden lathes and exposed the contents within.

To Iruka's surprise, instead of the usual dismissive snort, he found himself watching as his son gazed intently at the crate's content. Unaware of gaining his father's interest, his eyes stayed glued to the motion of the auction assistant as the young man brought out the prized content.

The crate contained a dingy, dilapidated chest that had seen better days. It seemed to have been made of some kind of combination of inlaid wooden tiles and small, darker pieces of what maybe lacquered material but however it may have looked before that condition has long been divorced from what it is now. The lacquer was cracked in so many places the piece looked it was a decoupage project done by an ADD-ridden kid gone glue wild. The wooden tile inlays that may have been used to form some kind of pattern or design was filled with more chipped pieces than not and thin wooden slivers embedded at random corners of the chest gave it a bloated look. There was no way to even see what the original design was or even if there was one.

The chest itself was intact—if you can call something that should be square once and now looked like a squashed up loaf intact. There was a shallow valley that was forced to be made between its flat peaks that created the loaf like image. Whatever it once held might as well be a dampened clump of mush based on the condition of the box that held it.

It looks much like a box that got hand-chopped by something the size of a grizzly.

And yet if he squinted his eyes just the tiniest bit, tilted his head to the side just a little bit he could, for a brief moment, he could picture quite clearly how the chest might've looked like before.

Must've been a pretty box once…wonder what happened to it? Another glance made him snort. Maybe the better question should be what didn't happen to it, he wondered ruefully. Clearly whoever owned it once didn't take proper care of the chest. Well, it could be that the chest met some unfortunate incident. It certainly looked like it took some hefty beating and battery for it to end up in such pathetic condition. An amused once-over at the auction hall made a tiny grin bloom on a small corner of his lips.

They're practically the same age and condition as everything else that's up for sale in this place and just as crusty and ancient too.

"That looks pretty interesting, don't you think so kit? Shall we make a bid?"

He felt the weight of Iruka's stare but for once, he didn't feel like being flippant. Sure, he knows that there wasn't much about the battered chest to draw attention and he couldn't for the life of him imagine anyone else wanting it, based on the utter disinterest its presence made in the ripple of people around him. But still, there was something about it that called to him and in a split second decision that he never realized would alter his fate, he looked at his father's russet gaze and gave a single decisive nod.

Ah, well…if for nothing else, I could use something like that as a doorstop. Or when someone desperate and stupid enough tries to rob the shop I can definitely use it as a projectile. Either ways—can't hurt to find out.