Disclaimer: Still don't own Naruto.
"When I die, people will come for you."
The child said nothing, only stood by the elderly woman. It would not be long before she would breath her last. Certainly before the hour would end. Best to listen to woman's last instructions. When she was gone, there would be nothing between the child and them. One of the downsides of being a rather secluded family on the verge of dying out.
"They will try to control your actions, your skills."
She jabs a wizened finger into their chest. "But you must not let them control your heart."
"Keep drawing." their grandmother rasps, the breath rattling through her lungs. "No matter what, you must keep drawing, and when the ink runs dry, then use your blood."
"They will protect you", she coughs, "just as I have done for you."
A nod was their only response.
Dry, wrinkled lips twisted into a vicious smile as her hands curled like claws around the child's hands, the grip almost painful with the strength that remained despite her failing health. Death was nearing, and the old woman was Still, they said nothing, their eyes locked onto their grandmother's mirroring pools of ink that was almost deranged in preparation.
Even as the grip became tighter and tighter and ragged fingernails dug into soft skin, the child remained wordless as the elderly woman mouths a silent name and their body burned with the searing agony with her final act. They watched with eyes blurred in the pain that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the dark seal that slithered from their grandmother's heart, down the wrinkled arms and spindly fingers to their trapped hands, before inching its way to settle and curl around their own heart. The markings, passed down hundreds of generations, dug deep and pulsed once more before it seeped past the skin to become undetectable to anyone.
The woman was dead.
And they were left with the seal that was entwined around their heart, and her last orders, whispered with near manic devotion as the life was leached from her.
youmustkeepdrawingdontstopTHEYwillguardyoushowthemwhywewerefeared
And finally—
"Yes, Obaasan."
.
.
.
They scribble tigers with vicious teeth crouched in corners, snakes winding above the walls, and their masterpiece: a dragon that curls around their torso, it's snarling face above their heart. Their grandmother is left in her bed. There is nothing left to offer the dead, and quite frankly, they have too much to do than spending time digging graves for bodies that will soon be dug up again by others who covet their secrets. There are too many walls to cover, and not enough ink(but just enough blood), and besides, the old woman would cuff them over their head for wasting the time.
But finally, they are done.
When the figures with blank masks came, they expected a grieving child helpless in their small state. It would be ridiculously easy to coax the child into joining their organization. They expected another simple recruitment, one to be completed without a hitch just like the hundreds before them.
They weren't expecting for the walls to come to life.
And as they scream in terror and confusion, a child with paper pale skin and ink dark eyes watch, tilting their head at the carnage. They don't flinch as fluids splatter onto their face as inky fangs rip into a particularly loud victim. The dragon shifts restlessly under their clothes, sinuous coils and razor claws almost rough against soft skin in its strain to join the bloodshed. Not. Yet.
They smile.
AN: Short chapter is short. See profile for explanations because this went way longer than expected for a drabble chapter. Inspired by the fairytale "The boy who drew cats," as well as CryptTV's short films "The Birch" and "Itsy Bitsy Spiders."