Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Paper Cranes
Her parents used to think her ability was silly. They would find her sitting by the window, a stack of wrinkly, old paper on the table beside her. "Don't you want to go outside?" her father would ask. "Don't you want to play with your friends?" her mother would ask. Konan would always shake her head and return to fiddling with the slips of paper. When they turned their backs, defeated, a small smile would appear on her lips.
When her father was at war, and her mother mourning with silent worry, Konan would spend her time alone in her room, in the absolute quiet of the house. She would stand, stare bemusedly at the paper, and watch in wonder when, sometimes, it would move and fold itself: a flower, a heart, a frog. One rainy evening, on her mother's birthday, she left her room to show her mother the rose she had made. "I didn't even have to use my hands," she said proudly, placing it in her mother's hair. Her mother smiled, a sad smile, and asked, "What do you mean, sweetheart?"
Konan lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "I just asked the paper to make me a flower for you and it did." Two leaves budded from the bottom of the rose in her mother's hair. "Like this," she said.
Her mother stared at her, eyes emptying like the day her father left. "No, Konan," her mother's arms wrapped her tightly, squeezing with some unknown desperation, "no, you can't. You can't do this anymore. Do you understand?"
Konan wanted to shake her head. No, I don't understand, she wanted to say, but she didn't because she didn't want to see that look in her mother's face ever again. Whenever her mother came to check on her, Konan would look up and smile, holding a sheet of creased paper between her lacerated fingers, to show her how well she was doing. Her mother would return a dampened version of that smile and leave the room.
She folded things by hand, things like daisies and birds so that her mother wouldn't fret. Her skin grew thick in some places, with tiny scars lining every curve of her palms and fingers, but she wouldn't think the paper into being anymore. If she ever wished for something, it would be through hard work. One evening, her mother came and sat in the room next to her, asked her if she would like to hear a story. Konan, of course, said yes, she would, and climbed into her mother's warm, comforting lap.
Her mother trailed her fingers along a sheet of paper and told her of a beautiful crane from long ago that fell in love with a little boy. The crane was not allowed to appear before the boy, because it was not human, so every night, when he slept, the crane would leave a small token: a simple paper crane at the foot of his futon. Every night the pattern would change, but the boy soon learned that it was made the same way, with care and adoration. So, at the end of a thousand days, the boy, too curious, asked the thousandth paper crane: "Who made you? I want to see you." The crane, who had won the love of this boy, appeared before him in the form of a human girl.
"Was she pretty?" murmured Konan sleepily.
"Yes, she was," answered her mother softly, "as pretty as you, Konan."
The boy and girl lived happily together, and while they had both passed on, their legend remained. Her mother's voice lowered, like a cool spring over warm stones, and she said, in honor the crane who loved a human boy, the cranes of the world would grant one wish to anyone who followed in likeness the love of a crane with one thousand offerings. Konan slept, and in her dreams, she saw a boy who smiled at her like the sun through a dark rain; she remembered wanting to give him something in return, but she had nothing.
When she awoke, she went right to work. She didn't know how to fold a paper crane at first, but as the morning passed, she was able to make something that somehow resembled a flower and knew she was half-way there. Her father came home that evening, before she could finish her first crane, and she abandoned it on the table in order to hug him and kiss him and smile because he was alive.
The next day, before her parents awoke, she got up and finished her paper crane, made a little wish and waited for the sun to rise. She did this every day for a month before men came to her house in the middle of the night and killed her parents. She ran and ran, with her vision swimming of the terror in her father's eyes, ears ringing with her mother's tearful cries that she had to run, run away, never look back, sweetheart, I love you, don't cry, go now. Konan felt the tears spill past her lashes, and she sobbed, angry that she couldn't hold them back. She swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. The crumpled paper crane in her hand tore with the weight of her tears.
The next morning, curled up in the corner of an alley, a boy found her. At first, he was angry with her for taking his spot, which frightened her. He suddenly grew sheepish at her reaction, apologizing. She scooted away, the crane clutched tight in her hands. "That's really pretty. Did you make it?" he asked hesitantly.
"Yes, I did."
"Wow!" he exclaimed, a smile spread across his face, a smile that made her feel safe, alive, and warm.
She continued to fold one crane a day, with him beside her. He asked only once why she did it. "Because I'm asking for a wish," she said and he smiled, expressing his hopes that it would come true.
He liked flowers. The day before they met another boy, he found a sprig of dandelions tucked in a corner of broken shrine. He grinned, and with a strange skip in his step, walked right up to her, thrusting it forward. "It's pretty, isn't it?" Konan nodded, arms relaxed at her sides. Without warning, he leaned forward and placed it in her hair. "Now, it matches."
She had forgotten how to make paper flowers by hand. As they sat on the steps of an abandoned hospital, she gave him furtive glances, fingers every so often dabbing at the dandelion in her dark hair. She stared at the scrap of charred paper in her hand, upset that she couldn't remember. Suddenly, the edges started curling in a familiar way, and Konan's face lit up with wonder, before a flicker of guilt licked at her insides and she stopped the flower from being complete. He looked over curiously. "That's a flower, isn't it? I didn't know you knew how to make those!"
The guilt smoothed away as soon as he jumped to her side, hands brushing hers as they cradled the bud. Smiling, she let the flower finish. "I know how to make them."
She made paper flowers as often as she could with her "magic"—that's what he called it. But she always made paper cranes by hand, blowing a little wish into them before setting them in pile with the rest. She made them through battle, through rain, through ephemeral patches of peace.
She folded a thousand paper cranes. She wished for the same thing every time.
Perhaps, she hadn't folded them fast enough. Perhaps, they were too ugly. Perhaps, the cranes of the world were tired because, in a war, everyone wished. She held the body of the boy who smiled and gave her dandelions, hushing her cries in his still-warm cloak. "Come back," she said. "Come back, please."
But her wish never came true.
The thousandth crane soaked up the rest of her tears. Konan wondered if her ability had served her any use at all.
fin.
A/N: This one kind of snuck up on me. I mean, everything about it. I never paid particular attention to Konan, or her team. And the Yahiko/Konan; I swear that I went in not thinking anything of it, but it bled in, anyway. This is my first time writing Konan (and Yahiko), so if you see any mistakes, please let me know. If anyone knows the real legend behind the thousand paper cranes, feel free to inform me, because I made this version up. Comments are welcome, and critique is encouraged. Thank you for reading.