All stories start somewhere.
This one begins with a boy who was never meant to be a hero, and the last words of a dead man.
My first shot at a snippets story. Review, please!
Inari no Kubikiribōchō
Where you are is not who you are.
— Nayyirah Waheed
Naruto is gone.
The Wave seems quieter without him. The grave is even quieter.
Inari sits in front of that sword; larger than the lives it took, and sharper than the sting of Inari's hatred. He still can't forgive the hands that held that sword; the hands that fed the mouth that tried to kill his grandfather. The hands that served the man who killed his father. Hands that killed countless lives, young and old and the forever unknown.
The hands whose owner, too, was killed.
Cursed, he calls it, and it may as well be. Naruto told him of its power; to rebuild itself upon the blood of others. Cursed, indeed. It's a sad, miserable fate that it gave its owner to the day it joined him at his grave.
He remembers how Zabuza died. He was there— hidden in the mist; waiting in the shadows.
I can't go where Haku is going, he said. Inari thinks he knows why— he's the demon of the mist, after all. A selfish missing-nin with nothing but cruelty in his heart.
And yet, he wept.
It makes Inari flinch. He remembers those tears; the same as his when his father left him— no, was ripped away from him. Zabuza didn't strike back. Kakashi walked away (relatively) unharmed. But he stood up for Haku, his friend, his son. He went on despite the swords and spears that pierced his flesh.
"We're going to hell, Gatō!!"
He died.
But somehow, he's still alive. Inari can feel him within the sword; his sorrow, his love, and his devotion. He wonders how a hunk of steel and stolen blood could ever represent the will of a man. It's illogical— it makes no sense. And yet, Inari feels him there. Zabuza tells him to take the sword.
He shakes his head; he can't. He's seen it's cursed self. He's weak. He's not Naruto. He can't protect the ones he loves; not even his whole village can, if they meet a stronger opponent than angry thugs. He's not a shinobi. Why would he even need it? He can't use it. He can't protect his family, his home. How can he? He isn't anyone special. He's a bridge builder's grandkid; what worth would he have as a ninja, of all things?
Quit whining and crying like some sorry little victim!
His breath leaves him as if struck. Really, he thinks with his wistful little bitterness, the one that never left him since that day when everything went to hell. He's nagging me even though he's gone.
Determination swells in his veins. His fists clump and tear at the grass between his nails, warmed by the setting sun that makes the hilltops it's grave and cooled by the dew gathered by the dusk. Folding his legs under himself, he stands.
His fingers ghost on the hilt of the blade. Kubikiribōchō thrums under his skin as though pleased, shuddering as his digits smooth down the side and split. Red blood; bloodier than the crimson dusk, deep and steady, trickles from the pad of his cut finger. It vanishes into the sword, and Inari feels a tug pull at his heart. He can feel Zabuza. He can feel Haku. He can feel Kubikiribōchō, and all those who wielded it before him.
"Soon," he tells the blade.
"Soon."
