Title: Notes in the Sand
Characters/Pairings: Hinata (main); NaruHina; KibaHina (if you are smart like I hope you are)
Disclaimer: I do not, in fact, own Naruto.
A/N: I know, I know, I should be working on requests and whatnot, but I'm trying REALLY HARD to finish up my one-shots half-completed hiding in my Pages bin. Please tell me what you think, as I wrote half of this on a trip to the ocean and I'm feeling like the waves (and jellyfish) were messing with my head.
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Hinata is not stupid enough to think anything lasts forever.
She watches as the ocean consumes the lives of many a sailor, pirate, human. It is endless, expansive in all directions, and beckons people of all ages, races, nationalities. Whether they fight or give in to its pull is meaningless (because it will pull you in, she's certain it's only a matter of when). The sea calls to them, like a siren in the night.
It takes men from their wives, children from their mothers, and hearts from their lovers. It, she decides, is what unifies all the people on the island, and, she speculates, the entire world. It remains a subject of fascination, calling to young boys to old men to it's salty depths in the form of hypnotizing waves. Many people from her village have disappeared behind the blue horizon, never to be seen again.
There is always the curiosity exactly why they left, whether it be specific need to get off the island, or the insatiable human desire to explore. They leave with regret close on their heels, be it new or old, and heavy pasts on their shoulders. At least, she hopes they regret leaving. She hopes they at least remember her (the one with the pearls for eyes, that never quite aged).
She's not sure where they go, only that they are no longer where she is. And Hinata nows that the sea has taken another from her. And it gains a score in the timeless game they play against one another.
She watches as they leave, canoes filled with dried food and canteens with the water from the spring (they say it brings luck, but she's not too sure about that). Some leave in packs of 2, others of entire clans. The occasional daring soul leaves by themselves, though it's uncommon.
When they go, it's time for celebration. Or, in some cases, mourning. Most of the time it's both, the mothers and wives and family being left behind (whether they accept it that way or not) mourn silently with tears disguised as smiles while the fathers and friends and optimists alike grin like idiots and get drunk beyond comprehension. Either way, it's a wild party with 2 slaughtered water buffalo, and enough dancing to leave all the other girls' leg's shot.
She tries not to be bothered about the traveler's impending death, and usually enjoys herself.
She can't say it now, though.
The familiar loud drums and lights sound off in different directions behind her, her peripheral vision catching her neighbors dancing the night away in laughter. A few people stand off to the side, each weighted with similar but much less heavy thoughts than her.
A lone pink-haired girl is standing near the bowl of fruit she prepared, and although she is a midwife she insists on rearranging the pineapple constantly in order to keep herself from thoughts of despair. Her childhood friend and husband is leaving for a new world, and all she can do to keep from going insane (on the outside) is to keep telling herself the same lie; he's not leaving me behind. It's all she does to keep the picture of a lifeless body with black hair floating to a foreign shore. Or, worse, a healthy baby boy with black hair being born on a foreign shore, both mother and father glowing (or anything else she could never give him).
She knows there have been others (whether she remembers or not), and will be more. Hinata's not sure the amount of days, months, years, millennia. She's just sure it will come like the inevitable waves of war. And wise as she is, she cannot stop the bloodshed, the tears, and the losing of lives.
The boy she loves (or, she tells herself so, because it's all she had to live for some days) will chase after the water's shadow of the one that's leaving now. Whether he knows it or not matters not, only that she foresees blonde hair and blood matted together, dampened by the salty water of another ocean.
Though she's known this for a long, long time, she's allowed herself to believe in him anyways. She's allotted the spark in her heart to light when he passes by, the twinkle in her eye to twinkle, and that denial of affection to be lifted for some strange, strange reason. It's nice for the time being, this wholehearted feeling of infatuation.
The famous beauty of the tides she is, is known for her fleeting memory. Every few generations, she will forget the friends and family she has made, and will only have the few left of the previous children to regale her of tales of past. But even those have disappeared, and no one will tell her of her past lives. Past loves. They just stare at her when she asks, unsure of what to say, and change the subject.
Only the crazy woman that lives in the northern cave has ever helped her. The woman, rumored to be older than Hinata herself, takes her hands in hers, and she sees many things.
She sees faces, tan skin, red cheek markings, and battle paint in all directions. Sometimes, a voice, and the crackling cry of an infant. A brash young man, laughing a familiar laugh and kissing a familiar kiss. Determination until the end, pushing her on, past a past she will never really forget, but never remember.
She is only sure of one thing about her past: she was loved. And she's conflicted if she will love anyone like The Boy With The Red Marks again.
Maybe she loves the boy that will leave soon, but either way, it will make her stronger. It will make her steel reinforcements all the more colder, and make her all the less susceptible to all the ties of humanity (if she even is human in the first place). Hinata's not so sure if her ancestors would be proud (if she had any), or more importantly The Boy With The Red Marks (if he ever was), or even more so their child (who probably didn't live to reach 3).
All that matters is she will be stronger, to remain after so many will be washed away by the sand. She will remain.
But a single tear falls anyway, only to be washed away by the coming tide.
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