Summary: Harou, famed Karada, and Saru-Shin. A brief history.
Author's Note: Born in early May (before Cou ended) from too much personal liking toward the sometimes really odd and really funny (precarious) relationship of Harou Nekai and Ryouma Saru-Shin, I wanted to write this not just as supplement, but to satisfy their stories, and whence they came. And yes, this was also influenced by J. Conrad's 'Victory'. So hence, I probably wrote this mostly for myself…You needn't have had read Cou in order to read this dumb diversion into the past…Although…it is called 'Victory' for a reason…
Disclaimer: Wow, I did create these OCs: Harou Nekai, Karada, Iyadomi Keiko, Morino Chinatsu, Satoya Arisu, Cou, etc., and Hatake Ryouma Saru-Shin. But alas, I did not create the Senju, nor anyone else in the Naruto-verse. So, hence, do not own Naruto. Thank you ff dot net for giving us this outlet…even if you do screw with the formatting from time to time. And for the record, in regards to my Arisu, 'sato-oya' means foster parent. Can anyone say 'Amy Foster'…? (Even though Arisu corresponds to the Eng. 'Alice'…) Oh, I love notes to text… And yes, this was supposed to be 5 chapters, then 6, then it's like 'ah heck. Seven it is.' Went from May 8 or 9, to July 5 and 6 (typed)—almost two months exactly.
Special Dedication: To those who read Cou, with warmest, deepest thanks. And thank you Tahle for pronouncing 'Harou' in French for me… And to all those who, like myself, struggle with severe anxiety and depression. If you feel the way Harou does, get help. Some days I wonder what J.C. would have been like had he conquered his depression…There are many people who struggle with these issues, and equally, many who have recovered to begin their lives anew.
Genre: Romance/Tragedy; Because are all my stories are secretly this nature…? Rated only for death, since I think this much or this kind warrants high rating. On a personal note, I think it's obvious what Dura went on to become: a historian…! …BUT HEY EVERYONE, CALIKO KEPT IT TO 52 K WORDS THIS TIME! (According to MS Word anyway)… Sorry!
.
.
Lefty can't sing the blues, all night long like he used to,
The dust that Pancho bit down south, ended up in Lefty's mouth.
The day they laid poor Pancho low, Lefty split for Ohio;
Where he got the bread to go, there ain't nobody knows.
-Pancho and Lefty; by Townes Van Zandt
.
Victory
.
Chapter 1
On 'A Moonless Night' In the Land Of Earth
.
.
It was the absolute worst howling wind he'd ever heard (which was saying something), whistling long and senseless like black radio static in the night, throwing in the mist, spits of rain, and sea foam off the great sea north of tsuchi. Combining with the dry shallow sand, mud was lacing his over-size brown cloak and on his shoes and hair beneath the hood, finding every fold and crevice to make him look like a real sand man from the dunes like in a horror story. The sea, in roars reminiscent of charging lions, crashed and swung onto land like it were going to cover the entire coastland and beyond. It may as well have swept him out into the churning ocean lest he became plastered in mud as he struggled just to walk. Further and further the wind pushed him near the dull brown and black rocks, threatening to entomb the mere mold in a grave of shale and limestone. He tried keeping straight alongside the rock, but could not with a steady pace, even if he was built well. He was still too thin and lanky to be so grounded like a true man of the sea.
He left earlier that morning from a quaint little overnight tavern on the northeast end with fine weather, knowing only from the fishermen locals and the manager of the little place they were expecting some light rain or drizzle as told by the slightly falling barometer. It had not fallen largely, but incrementally, as a mood does before it held pace. It probably dropped much lower by now, giving kindling to idle conversation back in the warm atmosphere of that wooden shack. But his countenance continued to fall as he knew instinctively, it was a flawed idea to leave with that knowledge in the first place. He often ignored his instincts like this, and often he regretted not following up on them later. His mood soured under the dim grey clouds a half an hour after leaving, and finally he admitted to cursing when he felt the wind and sea-rain and the sand some forty-five minutes later. Since leaving, there was no turning back, and nothing else, no houses, no coves to turn to now save the one destination he had to go to—it was a lighthouse. And it was still another four miles away, unseen yet for the thick mist. Normally, he could make it easily within the hour, but at this pace, two hours would be blessed console.
He was infinitely glad he packed the big brown throw. Tsuchi was home to a myriad of elevations, colds, and climates, but he had not expected inclement weather but up high in the mountains, which was where he usually traversed across the rugged moraine to deliver the usual messages, letters, and what not. But here? On the northern coast? The word unfathomable could not leave his breath beyond his cracked lips. Acting vindictive over the lack of compassion (or poetry), the hard, sandy, and wet wind snapped a sudden, strong gust of whiplash against his right shoulder, ramming the left into a large boulder nearly as tall as himself. The wind continued rushing wildly, pinning his slow attempts to stand. While looking up for one brief moment, the cliff, he saw, standing over the little rocky coast was lined with a hedge and forest of trees, and at the forefront of these trees, emerged from deep green shadows, he thought he saw a shadow emerge. The glance he had, had been fleetingly brief—when he looked again, the figure was gone. Initially, Harou though it dumb coincidence. After all, why should a ghost (if it were) be out on a horrid, damn day such as this…?
He managed to stand, finally, and continue alongside the line of rock and coast once more, holding his cloak with as much muscle as his legs that kept him on balance, pounding and moving forward; moving west. Perhaps it was the whistling of the wind driving him mad, for as these things go, a song suddenly entered into his head. It was 'sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye; four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie'. He'd heard the story first when he was a young child, many, many moons and days ago. Then, glancing back up to the cliff in curiosity, he saw nothing. The rhyme in his head finished out. When he looked back again a moment later, he stopped in recognition of the man's figure on the cliff—it was a shinobi. Blinking, the figure again vanished from view. Distinctly, he could recall he saw a very large blue vest on a very large and tall man—the feature of the face were all hazy and lost, but it appeared he had blue-black hair, largely reminiscent…of Karada.
The rhyme began again (as these things go) from the top very irritably, as Harou continued again along the coast with a fantastic thought beginning to form in his mind: Why would Karada, one of the best of the Senju (the best in his memory), dead for many, many years (about twelve long and lonesome years, and Saru gone for nearly half of them) be out in a place like this, in this God-forsaken weather? Harou had no answer with the squall screeching around his ears in a flat, eerie tone of voice. Karada often watched over his students, but the past student found it hard to believe, even now, the man was watching so diligently. Many had forgotten his name. Even more forgot his face; the pale but warm and weary lines; the small coal black eyes, thin mouth, but deep, soothing, and even soft voice that sounded like it hollowed out from the trunk of a great tree back in Konoha. All the other younger trees grew around it in thin sticks of arrogance and conceit—his shade was grace, and it was calm to those who sought it. He was also powerful. Moreso than any man Harou knew yet today—alive, or dead. But the young trees had eventually grown up as most do, progressively choking out the light to the old, giving way to dead branches toward the center, the very memory that was his first shinobi sensei.
He could not exactly call the ghost alive. For if what Harou was seeing was real, there was no shinobi, no ninja that would actually confront him in a place and on a day like this. If he were wanted dead, soon after leaving the tavern would have been the prime chance to strike and be done with it. There was no iwa ninja, taki man, even tsuchi man that would appear there on that cliff, standing so apart from this world, yet pretend to take on that watchful gaze toward a lone disciple. Harou actually found himself with an icy cold chill crawling up the back of his neck and through the ends of his brown-blonde hair, the synapses twitching behind his ears. Karada had an appreciation, even a fond liking of Tsuchi so admirable, but here? Harou did not think himself so worthy of that supernatural happenstance, not for all the rice in rice country. He believed in chance, and Lord knows he believed in fate after Monkey died, but Karada, he felt, was the one man who was gone forever, permanently, like a de-commissioned ferry ninety years too young—he had no reason to stand guard any longer, and if he did, it should be back in Konoha from inside a tree, not here…
The wind did not relent. Like enemy kunai, arrows, and shuriken, it flung the mud, sand, and foam onto his clothes yet, up his nose, beating away at the hood untiringly to blind his eyes as if seeing ghosts were some illicit form of psychomancy. With a quick glimpse, he could see the lighthouse now, in wisps and streaks of clear air, still quite distant. But the sight encouraged him while the wind pounded harder and swirled faster yet—noticing the water charge, crashing against itself and onto shore with great gusts of sound and spray. He did not travel on boats on the seas or oceans unless necessary, like toward the west coast of Kumo, or to the land of waves, which he had to frequent on occasion. Both Senju brothers were aware of his dislike for that mode of transportation, so he was not sent there too often. For the most part, he traveled to the land of earth, Taki, Rain, Suna, and even Kusa, sporadically, where the rivers there made him sick with some distant memories...
Finally, a great swell came ashore, rushing through the rocks, instantly gluing his shoes to the sand and mud—he nearly tripped and twisted an ankle before he caught his balance on a rock to his left, where the sideways fall narrowly gashed his hand. Instead, he only bruised it. Resiliently standing once more in sheer defiance, he noticed the gunk of what the sea rolled in; a few wooden boards strewn in angles over the sand like hurdles, the water grass in tangles—but the path was clear and wet before him with the sea rolling in further inland now. As he looked up toward the skyline due west, he could not see the lighthouse, in fact, the sky looked even dimmer and more black further north-west. Like an ominous portent, it was moving nearer and nearer with lightning and torrential rain in promise, thunder and cold. And with that cold, Harou sighed, trudging onward again with a shinobi's resolution in his gut to get the job done and be done with. He could hear the manager now in a stern civilian voice, talking with his wife, wondering if the leaf ninja had really gone through with the eight mile trek, but with over half the time gone now should have told him Harou had not turned back, nor had he seriously considered it. True shinobi were no quitters, and Harou agreed with that: Karada had taught him so.
And pressing on, Harou glanced upward again, and sure enough, he caught a flicker of a shadow that moved near the tree line. The sight was less clear now as he focused solely on walking straight through the wind and rain's fury, with the footprints left behind disappearing from the constant roll of the water. Perhaps the shadow was indifferent to the coastline, Harou mused idly if he was not simply imagining the movement. It was true, more like himself, Karada was born on land, and rarely traveled the seas unless need be. But it was also true, Karada was more of a free spirit than any other man—beside Monkey, who would go to Iron country and back if asked for a fine keg of local ale (though Saru never drank). Often times Harou used to wonder how the tall Senju ever let himself be taken by a woman in holy matrimony…: He was never home. And judging by the way his sons grew up mostly arrogant and conceited showed he never raised them himself, for if he had, they would have risen to be fine warriors or workers each, instead of lowering to such abominable manners as drinking, gambling, and womanizing. All three of which vices Harou despised, and were the sole things that could ruin a shinobi overnight.
For a brief instant, Harou saw the lighthouse once more. Another hour passed before he could see the little house on the coast, standing in front of the tall, cylindrical building with the shroud of fog hanging all around like a veil. Shortly he praised God for finally arriving, telling himself it was only a few more paces now—he moved forward, and with one last half-curious look up the cliff to his left, he saw nothing but a haze and mixture of green shadows, nothing distinct. Harou tapped on the navy-painted door, between a pair of navy shudders, closed for the day. After a moment, with no answer, Harou knocked again. He waited there a moment longer before a middle-aged man opened the door. The balding man immediately recognized the headband Harou had tied across his forehead before he set out—"Oh, my," the man said, and ushered him inside the foyer. "Good Heavens, man," he burst in as Harou caught his breath on the warmer, drier air. "You came all the way here in a squall like this?" He could hear his lady moving in the den, "Satsuyo, please prepare some hot tea for this young man."
"Thirty-five is not young," Harou stated.
"It is younger than I," the man smiled. "Stay right there, I'll get you a blanket."
"Thank you."
Standing there, still weary and shivering like the last oak leaf to fall come spring, he urged his hands to move, but they seemed frozen, holding the cold folds of the fabric together. Fortunately, charging forth from the other room, the lady set down the tea on a side table and peeled the cloak off herself while her husband arrived with a dry replacement. She threw down the heavy cloak and wrapped the dry around the ninja herself. "Wait—" he remembered suddenly, and on the inside of his vest, his stiff fingers pulled out an envelope. Harou held it out for the man, in exchange for the cup of tea. He could smell ginger and chamomile—repulsive to his tastes, but he drank it anyway for the warmth. After nearly a third of it went down, he said, "From Tobirama. He said it was quite important."
"I see," the man said. "Still—it could not be so important to make you stand weather like this…"
"Sir…" Harou said after a moment, "I have stood worse for simpler means, I can assure you. After this, there can be nothing that surprises me now." There wouldn't be, not for seeing a ghost on his journey.
His lady scooped up the wet smock with the same unflinching ease and conduct of a mother and said, "Take off your shoes, and come into the den."
"But, ma'am—"
"That is an order," she said airily, but with a short wink of a smile. She turned in the opposite direction, presumably to trying washing the sandy, wet item. "Yes," continued her husband, having opened the letter, "Please, come…"
As it seemed now a compulsory request, Harou reluctantly followed after removing his shoes. He ran a hand through his hair, and the back of it was surprisingly dry. His clothes, too, had been spared dampness. He pulled off the hitai-ate, and carried it loosely around his right wrist, knowing not else what to do with it.
The den was quite large. With two picture windows on the south wall on Harou's left, the fireplace stood in the center of the home on the west wall, with a large mahogany brown mantle, upon which decorative items and a vine—it nearly looked real, but it was not. The flowers, too, were fake in beautiful glass vases. Candles, in trios, stood in the center of the mantle and on both ends, none of which lit for the time of day. Above hung a golden framed mirror, quite handsome, reflecting pictures, lighting, and warmth. The collection of books stood on his right all in tight brown shelves along the north wall, each book brown, black, blue, and old leather bound. It made Harou jealous. There were many novels, fiction and non, stacked together closely, with little space left to spare, the man must be an avid collector. The room was nicely furnished, and with a handsome, quaint couple to enjoy it. The man insisted Harou sit near the fire, so Harou did, on the old blue-black slate tile adjacent, for he had not specified where, and the warm wind blowing over the screen was comfort enough. Harou eyed him, still reading the letter, engrossed in the words completely unknown to the shinobi. Harou did not much care what it said, nor would he inquire.
His teacup was refilled horrifically to the top again by Satsuyo and Harou nodded and said "Thank you" nevertheless. She sat down after a wary moment with her husband's stare over the article. Luckily, he aroused himself from the page and began to smile that smile of friendship and amity Harou once knew very well. The man sat down in the sofa chair opposite his wife, glancing once more at the contents while Harou began to feel a nasty headache coming on while he drank the tea. The pungent smell of raw ginger was known to do it to him. He could only guess she chose the ginger as one might choose mint for ailments. He was no convalescent; he was merely cold.
"It is a letter," the man announced dumbly. "From Tobirama," he smiled, and his wife looked expectant—the ninja who brought it was staring into the fire indifferently. "He has asked me to bring in a ship, at the close of next week, in the night. A small ferry boat is coming in from the northern isle, with two men."
"…Oh?" His wife interjected dutifully, when all other enthusiasm seemed dry. "Is that all?"
"…Yes," he said after a moment, as if he were suddenly taciturn. Glancing upon Harou for a moment, he stood up with the letter still in hand, and he walked toward his grand library. Satsuyo eyed him, and then went back to her own teacup. Really, Harou mused to himself, it was of no consequence to her now but to remind him of the date and the lamp-lighting. But the man grazed over his books like he were looking for something to read that evening. After moment, looking over assorted books and volumes, he found what he was looking for, and he brought it near the fire, and offered it out, to Harou. "For you," After a pause, Harou set down the cup and took the slim book. It was a dark navy leather, the cover and back was as smooth as silk, and the binding strong like it had only seen a couple openings in it's time. "I believe it is what you were looking for. You may keep it."
Having no name, no lettering on the cover save an indentations of a square with a relief of an oak leaf in the center, Harou opened it to find:
Shinobi, by a Senju Hashirama.
It was the only book he'd ever penned in that context, or as early, for he was quite young when he wrote the short essay-like piece. Harou did not know whether to laugh or cry: his first inclination was to chuck it out the window, into the roaring sea, when even then the waves would carry it back to him annoyingly, "Oh, sir, I cannot—"
"Nonsense. I have other editions. Tobirama asked if I might, and I will, for it means so much to you by his own kind word."
Harou mentally winced. He couldn't exactly slap the current hokage in the face for this great honor, nor could he kick, punch, beat, or club. Someday I will thank him, Harou thought sullenly to himself while faking an interested look through the dedication and the crisp pages to follow. "Thank you," he said outside himself. The little anger and torment he carried within his stomach roiled inside, hounding with some disdain for the great leader, and mixed with the ginger, he felt as if he were going to vomit. What a gift indeed. Perhaps he would chuck it out somewhere, in a river, in a crag; bury it deep in the cold snow, and as it froze to death, he would calmly walked away with something of a little, smug smile across his face, guilty with pleasure. What a gift indeed. "Thank you," he said again, more genuinely.
"You're very welcome. I hope you will stay with us the night," the man retook his position in the chair. "So foul a sky…"
"Clears not without a storm," he supplemented the man's quote. "Yes," Harou smiled faintly, "I know it."
"So you shall?"
It seemed he had little choice; he could feel a wink of a smile upon his shoulder. Women were something else entirely. Karada should have known that.
.
"Mr Harou," he said after breakfast the next morning, "Will you come into the den with me?"
Harou followed him while Satsuyo cleared the dishes away herself and Harou could feel there was some other something written inside that letter between friends. He guessed Tobirama would have it in for him again.
The weather outside was much the same. The downpours of rain had passed, but the wind was still whining in current like it were one with rage over something, the sea, the shore, the people, or a mixture of the three. Now out of it, inside a warm home, Harou sympathized like he were kin to it. Indignance like that, they shared, especially when the man strut in bluntly, "About the letter," he said in a tone of confidentiality, "Tobirama informed me you were to see them home," Here, he paused, as if to allow Harou to inquire 'why' or 'how come' like a child—Harou had zero interest in questions, but he asked anyway, "Are they important?"
"Quite. They are Konoha shinobi and have been gathering information in secret this past year about iwagakure and their conduct."
"Oh I see," said Harou plainly with a nod, hoping his tone put end to it; "Thank you. I will wait for them, then." He turned around to get his cloak she'd hung in the laundry room to dry in order to finally take leave, but the man objected, Will you not stay with us?" And then his wife walked in, "What's this?" she asked, "Oh you can't be leaving so soon."
"I cannot trespass upon your kindness, ma'am—"
"Nonsense! There is—"
"I cannot stay here," said Harou finally, but not unkindly, "I cannot take the remote chance I might endanger you all with my presence. I will be at the lighthouse on Friday, and in the meantime, thank you very much for you hospitality."
Though there was a small pang of regret seeing their disappointed faces, the leaf ninja felt infinitely better once he was out the door. And then, the thought of a prolonged stay soured his mind horribly. With the wind at his back outside the cottage, he spent a moment looking up before he went on his way, scanning the cliffs with their dark green shadows, looking for something, or someone, on the move. As he saw nothing, he turned east, the way he came, with his navy book tucked in the inside pocket of his brown vest. There was no haste, no rush to throw it out yet, but the thrill of the prospect set a small smile upon his dry face. The wind was coming mostly from behind him, and he knew he would reach the town soon.
From curiosity, he glanced again, on his right, up the cliff—there, searching along the tree line, he could see a faint shadow move. It was only a shadow. There was nothing distinguishable other than a head and shoulders. The smile glued on his face, Harou felt strange. Really, Karada—if it were him—this was entirely unnecessary. The thought then occurred to Harou he could be simply losing his mind, and all of it was as unreal as his fantasy to say what he meant all of the time to whomever he spoke, which he could no longer do after Monkey died. It could be as unreal as his wish to ditch this mission and head on east to Taki; his favorite place to go now to get lost and be amused while wandering like the dumb little nomad he was. No, he thought. It was Karada. For the Senju all shared the trait of pestering, save Karada was more graceful at it than the rest. Four times now, it was Karada.
.
The shinobi was welcomed back into the tavern in the little port town without much ceremony. The manager's wife, Yasue, noticed him, or rather, the brown cloak, through a row of clean glasses overtop the bar counter. "Harou-san!" she smiled kindly, "I did not think we'd see you back so soon."
An expectation the two shared: "Indeed," he murmured to himself, and noticed the bar-room was almost empty. Three anglers sat around a circular table, eating brunch, and that was it, there was no one on the stools at the counter. He walked forward and claimed a stool where she was working. "What would you like?" she asked, and he thought for a second as the smell wafted around him, "Whatever they're having."
Yasue smiled, and worked on the order.
"Ma'am," he continued after a hesitation spent in meditation, "This will seem a very odd, and out of place question—I hope you will not take offence," he said quietly, "But have you ever seen a ghost?"
She looked up briefly, wearing a slightly twisted smile. "Well…" she thought, like she needed to search for such a memorable happenstance in her memory, "I have never seen one, per say, but I would believe they're real. Why, did you see one?"
After a moment, he sighed, reluctant to answer the question. He knew he was asking for trouble to ask her such a thing, and he received it as one of the men must have had good ears to hear what Harou thought was private. The fisherman, the tallest, most broad-shouldered one walked toward the ninja, and sat on the seat adjacent to Harou on his left, "You see ah' ghost?" he asked in a deep, curious voice. His pepper and orange beard moved with his mouth, but his eyes were a piercing light blue sky and unfailingly steady. His small hat was of a true cobalt blue color, hiding the same pepper and orange hair. Harou did not feel inclined to admit to it, but assumed the man would: "Masatane haunts the quay and the ship-chandler's office, playing tricks as you enter and leave," the fisherman told. "We had a business man like yourself come down here once, and after he got off the ship, he walked with his brother, the skipper, down there after they were brutally attacked by one of those inquisitive water clerk guys… Well they got down there to the office building, and the poor little man saw a head peek out from the side of the shack. Followed it around the building, and there it was again, poking out the east end. Followed it to the north end, again, saying, 'What! What do you want!'. There it was, poking it's head off the front of the shack, and then the little guy ran for the front of the building, nothin' there. Absolutely nothing," the fisherman smiled. "That little guy then ran in the building, couldn't see him, and then all around the building, around and around, backwards and forwards, and never saw the head again. It was in the day-time, too. He asked all around, and we knew Masatane was having some fun that afternoon. The little guy never came back here ever again."
One of the anglers at the table raised his glass in respect—it was either sake or water; Harou assumed it was water. He could not have been expected to be drinking at noon, even if he looked to be the type.
The fisherman beside him was expectant for some kind of answer. "I am not a business man," Harou stated.
"Oh? Then…what profession?" the man eyed him curiously.
"He is a shinobi," Yasue supplied, giving Harou a plate with a sandwich on it. She also gave him a tall glass of water.
"A ninja! Who for?"
"Konoha," Harou answered.
"Ah…Funny, you really don't look the type," he said honestly. "So who did you see? Around these parts, we've got some limestone, and ample ocean: prime fuel for spirits. And down in the cove, across the way, toward the lighthouse, after dusk, go in there, and you can see whoever the hell you wanna see."
After taking a drink, Harou looked at him oddly, "I have made that trip three times now, and I have never seen a cove."
"It is hidden, at the base of the cliff," the angler said quietly. "Masatane never goes there. The ones that do want to crossover so bad, they never come back. The legend began fifty years ago when a princess drowned herself in the sea near there because her prince was never coming back. She is said to haunt the coast. Did you see her?"
"No," said Harou, "I did not," There was little reason now to be secretive about whom he saw. Harou sighed. "If you really care to know, I saw my old sensei, overtop the cliff. I saw him five times in two trips, standing near the trees."
"Mm…I see," the angler said. "Well. He must be looking out for you."
"I did not think he was the type—even in death," Harou eyed the calm water inside the glass, "I thought it was permanent."
"You don't believe in ghosts?"
"No, I do now, but I figured, after he died…the way he died, he was gone forever."
"Do you really think a person would be gone forever? Well then—I guess people can still surprise you, even after death."
"I suppose," Harou admitted.
"Well, I will let you eat your meal. I must get back out there if I might have mine, tonight."
Harou nodded.
The angler left him with a full plate—food for thought.
.
He answered yes when the manager asked him if he were staying the night. "Eight days, eight nights."
"Well, it's an honor, Harou-san."
The kind word he used, honor, brought back memories. Karada was a man of honor, as only a man could be. He made himself many names in his lifetime, and lunatic was one of them, becoming the first man to do this, or that—crazy ventures and victories in of themselves, but he was able to conquer, without being conquered, and to search without going lost, and light the lamp himself when all other's spirits were dashed in the darkest of nights. Victories like that earned great measure, and Harou could not see since then any man, or any other conquest quite like Karada's. Perhaps Tobirama was the closest, in demeanor more furtive than his brother, but still. Really Tobirama. The man had listened to his older brother too much to remember the power in reticence.
And in such silence, Harou took a stroll two days later when the weather finally calmed. Saturday nights, the tavern was quite full. Harou walked down the coast toward the lighthouse. The youthful curiosity must have still been in him to be walking like this for the sake of a legend when he had done so faithfully more than twenty years before for a living one. His real wonder was to find that hidden cove the men had mentioned. The last of the sun was brilliant orange and red over the sea in the west like a picture on a postcard, quite calm and almost tranquil with the wind only blowing at a slow pace and the night cool and cold. Leaving behind the yellow lights for the deeper tones reminded him he was a wanderer at heart, tied down only by mission reports and the occasional funeral of some great shinobi general back in the village, none of which important events to him. But he kept all these sentiments still to himself for if Tobirama knew, upon Hashirama's warning, Harou would be locked away for good with his hands tied behind him forever, unable to wring his own pathetic neck.
He searched every indentation thoroughly at a distance as he went along the coast, walking now on the left side of the rock, feeling a little foolish as he did so. Finally, he saw what appeared to be a dark eye in the rock, a large shadow he had not seen before in the shape of a triangle near some tufts of grass. As he walked nearer, he found it was the little inlet cove the man had mentioned. It looked as if it curved around on the inside, giving access to the sea near the lighthouse through a narrow tunnel perhaps. Harou looked down the beach to the shore: there, near the water, the princess must have stood, fifty years ago. She would have been an old woman now, had she not ended her life. Harou was not interested in going inside and having a séance, so he turned back east, and did not glance up over the cliff, nor suppose Karada was going to come out the cave and give him some advice.
Since going out that night, Harou kept to himself for the rest of his exile, sneaking in and out to walk the town, the dock and back, making it a point to see the ship chandler's office. He did not see any ghosts linger there either. No peeping heads. The only familiar man he saw the morning he had to leave was first the manager, stacking clean little baskets and plates, and clear, clean glasses. "Ah, Harou," he greeted. "Leaving?"
Harou nodded. "I will not be back here for some time."
"That's too bad," the manager said.
"Mm, so it is," Harou agreed, taking a seat up front. The room was empty. "I regret I had to stay over this long in the first place. It's so dumb," he said irritably when he understood thereafter the first night: Tobirama needed him that time to read that cursed book by his older brother. Since the night he received it, Harou had not turned a single page. He decided once he was on his way to the next location, he'd throw it into the first native fire he saw and finally exact his sweet revenge.
"Orders…?" the man filled in.
Harou nodded sullenly.
"Let not your heart be troubled, I follow them too, with the business," he looked around his large house fondly. "Granted I don't report to tsuchikage, but I suppose the government is just as cruel," he said with a faint smile.
"You don't know the half of it," Harou said, without realizing he said it. When the man inquired an interested, "Oh?" Harou shook his head, and the fisherman with the blue hat walked in with another man.
"I must be off," Harou concluded, and he stood.
"…You leaving, ninja?" the angler asked.
Harou nodded.
"Will you be back?"
"Not immediately…no. It may be some time."
"Well, safe journey to you."
"Thank you. Take care."
Harou had a late lunch with the keeper of the lighthouse and his wife who were more than happy to see him once more, before he and the man headed to the lighthouse itself at dusk.
The small ship, the Mutsu-Maru anchored near that home before going on to the ports. Harou met the two ninja, all in plain clothes on the shore after he bid the lighthouse keeper a final goodbye. Together the trio pressed on southeast, going up onto the cliff where it was a forestland of pine with a clear balsam scent in the air, and Harou had no time, and no care to go looking for shadows as they ran to a city, a large one on the southeast, a day's journey then to the border with Taki. With luck, no one was following them, and no one noticed—not even the roaming ghosts paid attention. They made it to the city, then on to Taki, and then to Konoha, where another three-day journey awaited them before home.
One of the men was quite young, in his twenties, and the other was older than Harou, forty or forty-one. On their second night stopped inside Konoha, with only about fourteen hours or so left in their journey, the older man, a qualified jounin (though Harou did not know exactly what made him so beside his black eyes), remarked if Harou was carrying something inside his vest. It was a pointed question since little of his vest showed between the parts of his cloak, and Harou did not like it with the same sick feeling he got whenever spring rolled around in the land of waves, and he was there. The man had jet black hair: he was an Uchiha. Harou did not like them in general. But he answered, "Yes."
"What is it?"
Harou grew the suspicion he was being discovered in some manner; he did not concede to fear, nor intimidation. "It is a book." There was the chance he was imagining all this, Harou's mind was naturally distrustful, especially toward that clan.
"Oh?"
"Mm."
"May I see it?"
Biting his remarks to himself, Harou pulled out the navy leather with care, and handed it to him.
"Ah! 'Shinobi' by the great Hashirama," he recited. "This is a great read. I have not seen one of these in years, but I remember it very well. He began it so humbly, it's almost like a little tale in of itself—did you read it—?" Here he put his assistant in shadow on the spot who stuttered a yes, but it had 'been a while'. "Yes. No one could forget these words. Do you carry it with you?"
The Uchiha offered the book back, and Harou returned it to the pocket.
"It was a gift," Harou said plainly.
"Oh I see. Have you read it recently?"
Harou's suspicious mind guessed now Tobirama must have asked him to inquire so pointedly. Mere curiosity could not lead a man to ask such things, and let alone not of an Uchiha. And if he believed that wild supposition, he was obligated to say yes. But if the man was a sensory, he would know the real answer. "No," Harou admitted simply. "I have not."
"Oh…pity," the older man remarked simply. He picked up a long twig, and poked their fire.
The topic soon changed to Konohagakure, and the trio together had not been back there enough times to comment if anything had changed.
.
"Harou," He'd waited for this moment since the firelight, and he decided he would take it with dignity, and a good dose of calm, a straight spine, and an honest mind: technically, he did not have to read anything he did not want to. It was his right. He had made the promise years ago to follow Karada's teachings. Perhaps this was his eternal punishment for purposefully attempting to fall off the mountain all those years ago: he earned some little star by his name they needed to fix, or reexamine from time to time whenever they deemed it necessary. Well, so be it, Harou said to himself. He would bear it. He breathed deeply and prepared himself to lie.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes hokage-sama," He said with extraordinary calm.
.
Three months later, on his forth mission out since going to the lighthouse, he had been delivering yet another dumb letter, this time to a very wealthy prince of a northern district. Perhaps Saru-Shin might have been able to call himself as such in spirit only had he had the chance to marry his raven-haired fiancée. But even that would not have satisfied their imaginations. Even if the princess could never be Queen, Monkey would have called her so, and as king and queen, the two would have ruled and lived out the rest of their days in perfect happiness, poverty, and a small, run-down little kingdom of their own on the west edge of Konoha. Saru never did tell him if he had finally bought that ring he saw under the clear glass for a price worthy of love and simultaneous destitution of half a year's wages. If he did, Harou was decently certain it was thrown like his meaningless object was being tossed now: into the bottom of a deep, rocky basin, never to be read again by anything remotely human.
It was another moonless night in the land of earth, and Harou felt a great storm approaching quietly, and ominously, having shielded the stars one by one with it's out reach of darkness. Really, what was a little rain? Harou took his time, savoring the moment and the quick adrenaline he felt whenever he did something this important—or this wild. Monkey, through his masquerades of smiles and boyish laughter, would have probably conceded the point to the pessimist. Things of that sort normally went unspoken between the two and between them and the world, minus Karada inside of it. Instead, after a while, a large smile would show from the Monkey King, purely inimitable in the fashion of debatable reincarnation, and a verse or two lofted on the thick air of some old and forgotten song he'd written faithfully in the brown leather book the Senju gave him. Really, Harou thought, looking around at the mountains and rocks: the ghost was not to be found this night. Harou looked back down, trying to remember something Saru hummed so Harou could really feel like he was spiting Karada's brethren.
Of course! 'The Minstrel Boy'!
It was something sad, but upbeat, and upon Monkey's asking, it was the only song Karada needed. Harou smirked a hard and biting smile and turned, going on his way ahead of the storm. That was just how Saru ticked, and Keiko, too…
They would dance all night, or at least most of it: even Saru had not been accustomed to dancing two hours straight.
Harou would have traded that book just then to watch them.
It occurred to him, he never did, and never thought much of it; he was always on duty: always on the move.
.