Standard disclaimers apply. Reviews/flames welcome, as always.
The townsfolk are reminded a kind of beauty as chirping birds perch at the verdant trees; something which resembles attraction, a kind of beauty which Sunday morning provides, accompanied by crisp winds and friendly sunbeams. Merchants are busied faces, breathing of the everyday schedules of deliveries, almost machines at the perpetuity they endure as they prepare their stalls anew. Aside from surveillance ninjas trying to look alert (and fueled only with brews of caffeine), they're the meager populace capable of appreciating the morning with vibrancy. In the distance the monuments are gloomy from the absence of sunlight; although at the uppermost hill it glistens with a bright yellow, a sparkling field only blue jays and larks and eagles can reach. Proving to be a bewildering force, residents are more or less unaware by this very sight by which time has rewound itself.
This is the Hidden Village of Leaf. Tangled at an equatorial area north of Mist's forests, Konoha spread itself around with an aura of optimism by which everything was almost dealt with within the fleeting sense of beauty, or something which resembles attraction. An odd magnetism spoken through their silent voices; for they find it difficult to be unfamiliar by all these gestures.
It was February of the seventh morning when the picturesque view of everydayness broke its habit. So much so that the slightest rustle of footwear against the concrete is enough to attract even the listless. Indeed it proved to be a bewildering force, now that the fertile soils are coated bloodied, now that medic-nins become signals of distress at the verge of their shouting voices.
Several windows started to unbolt at forceful taps while their whispering insinuations of slight nuisance echo to the long fall of silence throughout the village. The tall concrete shades are now peopled with an Anbu squad, partitioning the pavements with their bodies, seemingly unperturbed by the questioning folks. The medic-nins meticulously secure the alloyed frames of the cloth mattress, securing their entrance. The familiar was already thirty meters above as it swooshes its steel wings for the office, singing its rhythmic noise.
"I can't reckon such a face," the boar-masked Anbu spoke with certainty as he stares at this paleness of a body before him. The sunbeams outline the dried redness on his chest that is his blood; dirt has tainted his locks brown, and the colors of his garb are faded blueness. He's as dead as any sleeping man.
"Yes, found him at our camp, crippling and all. Must see Tsunade-sama for this one, can't do much,"
"What for? He's dying."
A clanging reverberation and skipping heartbeats as the orb above the vertical rose more energetically. "He's from Mist to boot," the Anbu continues, grazing the forehead protector with a touch.
"I don't recall any war against them,"
"Why didn't you send him to their border anyway?"
"The village's nearer. Can't have a cold heart like you too,"
"We'll wait for the reply. Then you can treat him."
"Shousen can't help much," the medic speaks with a whistle as the pale body glows with an emerald hue, these gesticulations of handseals, and soon an all-too-mysterious cry bellows from the firmament, despite the absence of the falcon.
"That means no from the council," the captain finally says; there was no way to prove his sympathy wrong but his voice wasn't soft-spoken.
"Why call the council? We didn't ask for–"
And so the earth shakes with an elastic quietness seconds after the subtle hint of rejecting an offer for help. The pebbles pulsate against the air and the silhouettes of the shadows begin to dance while the resonating earth against a nameless force become music, and windows start to amass a certain coldness that cleared the panes into hazy swirls. The view was a mist, and so are the fertile soils and the ninjas' garbs; swerving down, ashen in color and at the verge of iciness that the zephyr provides.
After cosmic seconds, the everydayness of the Hidden Village of Leaf will have to spread itself around with a wary mind when icicles spear the earth in whiteness and devouring the houses with sheer coldness. They're starting to understand the unfamiliarity, and they would have to deal with this happenstance with a fleeting sense of terror, or something which resembles a fatal attraction to this creature before them.
It proved to be a bewildering force when Haku opened his eyes.
ARCTIC HEIGHTS
In which the Quiet Konoha is Introduced to a Dying Youngster
The Hidden Village of Leaf was swept with a sense of disorientation as this pale youngster before them severed their routinely existence. But it wasn't because they abhorred him; in fact no sooner did they all learn of the waning powers of antipathy to the nine-tailed fox, and thereupon the seeming anomalies of nature, like Chouji, or Hinata for that matter. Several hours have come to pass and Tsunade, for the lack of an appropriate state of mind, succumbs to a fatal silence as her sight pierces through below. Thirty-nine meters from her were the icicles reaching the heights of a mansion, unyielding against the sunbeams and they stood jagged but with a pristine beauty, unscathed, and only visible tinges of red tainted it to a blooded diamond.
The Hokage rests her head on her palm and her elbow grazes the wooden edges of the surgery room. It was a convenience for her to sign papers, she thought; downing a colorless liquid, burning her throat with a rouge face and she'd be reminiscing about days where surgery only meant an interceding handseal. Chuunin medics have started to chisel the ice and they create a sharp cadence through her earshot, toiling with an utmost sense of frustration while Shizune scrawls her observations, sidestepping every second to correct her posture for a better perception.
The clouds scatter in the firmament and the glaring orb reached Tsunade's cheek, slightly annoying her. "No good doing that," she whispers, and her right hand reaches for her waist.
The medics're more or less comforted by the indication that they can rest their weary hands. A sliver of ice fell to break the disturbing stillness and the sound echoes throughout the room; and Shizune, with chary mindset of sorts, has placed the notes on the table; and she smiles anxiously. Yes, Konoha didn't abhor this pale youngster, even to the least; they were just unnerved by him.
"No good at all," she says yet again, "Stand back," they obliged, and a kunai takes its course mid-air like a bullet and mustering a sufficed force to touch the ice, begetting a grayish scrape and the wedge falls on the floor.
"It's imbued with chakra," she concludes, and the nodding heads implied agreement. Haku lays arctic before them, a decent pastel creature embellished with brown and seemingly velvety tresses, and they smooth out against the terrifying beauty of the ice which enclosed him like a coffin. His eyes avoid the sight of Hokage, seeing only void; and they've discerned him only with a heartbeat. The ostensible hoarfrost emanate a fog that made Tsunade wear another layer of clothing, and the sunlight which illumined Haku's face were frail; not even a jewel has escaped.
"He preserved himself using his abilities I think,"
"He?" Shizune quizzically whistles and stared at the observation notes, gripping her pen by her fingers. "She... I meant he looks... feminine."
"Tsunade-sama, how're we to recover him then?" a medic-nin asks, feigning to sculpt the ice.
"If I break it to pieces then the fragments'll kill him,"
"Well he's missing-nin anyway," the other reasons, intently looking at the forehead protector, touching the ice. "Maybe we should report this to Mist?"
She sighs. "This is Hyouton, a kekkei genkai. I've always remembered how Mist was critical to these clans," she whispers, striding towards the youngster. "Mist'll kill him if we surrender this man to them,"
"Not our responsibility–"
But then the Hokage makes an exasperated hiss and her locks move in fast motion, narrowing her eyes at the medic. "Did you become a medic to let people die?"
The cold air swirls around them, and a long fall of silence devours them.
"Tsunade-sama..." was Shizune's sympathetic murmur and she harks back at the golden days of the Hokage, the golden days of gesticulations of a caring nature, the kind of kindness which made her a Sannin in the first place. "Maybe we ought to cancel out his own chakra?"
"It'll break, the fragments'll pierce him," the other medic says.
"We can't let him die," Tsunade whispers, staring onto Haku, and an anonymous sense of concern burdens her, a remote feeling sparked by Nawaki and Dan and even the fox's container, an antagonism to Orochimaru's distaste for weakness, for she found it hard to resist an utmost altruism that Sandaime taught her. And he was right; the Hidden Village of Leaf cares when it wants to, and her role was to foster this humanness. Her fingers caress the clear ice; she recalls of the corpses beautifying the ablaze countries and towns, of the cruelty that discord brings.
She knew that the Hidden Village of Mist was more or less outlined an everydayness of vindictiveness against its so-called anomalous citizens; and but she also sees that no sooner would the bordering country realize that Konoha is nurturing their insurgent. A genesis of discord, another war; it's a skirmish of empathy and pragmatism, and she was beginning to think that the answer lay hidden in the icy heights.
"Shizune, assign an Anbu to the daimyo," she finally says.
"...the daimyo?"
"Let the daimyo verify records of this lad," she walks for the observation notes, and her sight emphasized on the corrections. "Make it urgent before I summon the Mist's attention. I need research on this one,"
"Bu-but he's–"
The Sannin stares at the sleeping missing-nin. "He's done good to stay alive in that ice. But he's gonna be out of chakra soon enough and we have to recover him. Apply level seven shousen to take the lesions out of his right leg and lock this room afterwards. No one's allowed to come here except the three of you,"
"Yes Hokage-sama," they say, and she basks in the authority.
Now at the other end of Konoha, down by the northern territory, a certain white-haired scarecrow lays a protective arm over his aggravated blue eye as the sun glares at him through the windows, feigning slumber by his bed. His fatigued groan proved to be a bewildering force against the rest of the village who reveled in the energy of daylight, and so he shifts his body this time, trying to be listless despite his innately vigilant senses. The mattress makes a strained sound, and Hatake Kakashi was the only one who heard it.
He finds himself a silly man.
It seems that Obito will have to wait later as his mind meandered for yesterday's mission. Yet surely, while the rest of shinobis considered missions to be meaningful pursuits, he's embarking to an attraction to cynicism. Crossing the vague line of life and death became an all-too-familiar activity for him it became almost innate; not that he abhors this routinely existence, it's beginning to unnerve him. Oh how he loves his neurons misfiring signals on his brains, this silliness. At seeming slumber; his weakness.
He gets up and groans yet again, somehow looking for air to breathe. The portrait on the wooden breakfront was a sight which took long for him to recognize – Sakura was smiling, and so was he; and the nine-tailed fox makes himself comic whilst the sharingan youngster suddenly become a darkened silhouette. An inane fear suddenly surges within him, and he concludes that a shower would paint his composure anew; and so he swigs a mouthful of milk before shedding clothes for a soothing spell of bathing.
Who knew of a joy when one doesn't regret at all?
He dons his jounin vest after some minutes. And suddenly it occurs to him, this intimidation; while Konoha thrived in an everydayness of peace, he's been disoriented by the tedium his missions provide, so much so that he was beginning to think that he's lost himself to a pool of void. The stoic man turns the knob to see the faceless crowd, and he strolls for the office. Who knew of a phobia to any emotions? The clouds amass themselves and it rivets him, the way they've become free-spirited.
No sooner did he realize however the coldness of the earth several meters away from him, and in the distance his visible eye notices swirls of mist reaching for the cerulean skies. He picks up his book, nourishing an inquisitive mind; and he marvels at the picturesque view of draftiness and the icicles soaring in steadfast height. No; he was dead, or so he thinks.
"What happened?" he asks next.
"Some crazy ninja Kakashi. Wounded and all, now the Godaime got him for sure,"
"Crazy eh?"
"My wife tells me earlier a wounded chap's rushed for Godaime's help, there's Anbu and all,"
"Anbu?" He stares up, and the office's windows are closed.
"No coffee today?" the man smiles and Kakashi gives him money, and sips the coffee then.
"It's not melting," he says, and was now more resolved as he closes Icha Icha and became a human projectile towards the office. Over the months the place reeked of murkiness, and the jounin now understands the Sannin for making an infinity of excuses to escape the prison that is the Kage's workplace. He knocks at the door, and realizes her absence; and so he leisurely ambled for the Missions Department to further a sense of boredom welling from within him.
He halts. A biting zephyr promenaded like an apparition and it stung him deadly, like a forgotten past, and he fosters a growing curiosity. The panes of the double doors of the room proved to be futile, and he's cloudy-eyed at the haziness of the fog, seeing only the tables and hearing a clanging echo from within. He turns the button clockwise; it wasn't locked at all.
"Careless chuunins," he whispers to himself, belittling the chuunins who're majority of the medics, and all the same thanking them. And so he enters; it's become an unfamiliar territory as silence deafens him. He narrows his blue eye at the sight of the pale creature before him, and the way the immaculate ice swathes Haku's body oppresses him. The frost shakes with an elastic stillness next, and air pulsates against his skin; a sense of anxiety slithers from his legs, reaching to seize his arms and his chest.
"Wha–"
A jewel of water dropped while medical equipments resonate against a nameless force; soon the ice thaws into surging waters, rough springtime waters like Haku. He opens his eyes, struggling for oxygen, and his body adjusts at the seeming perpetuity of slumber; Haku spread himself around with unfamiliarity, and would have to deal with this happenstance with a fleeting sense of trepidation, or something which resembles a fatal attraction to the man before him. He rests his right knee at the drenched floors, staring at the platinum-haired scarecrow; and with a fast reflex senbon needles ran their course in the air like a bullet.
tbc.