Book I The Seaside Song

Chapter 1

A Brother's Request

When he hit the waters it was warm against his chilled skin, but it was with such force that he lost his breath and his back ached from the impact.

The bitter ocean filled his mouth when he gasped and he choked on it as he tried hard to kick upwards towards the surface. For what felt like an eternity he grasped only at the oppressive sea, trying to claw his way out of this watery grave. The water met his hand and slipped through his fingers; on and on he climbed and he hoped with rising dread that he was going up. Then the pressure of the water enclosing him seemed to lessen suddenly and he broke through the surface only moments later. The sound of thunder and the pelting of rain greeted him as he gasped for air. He was assuaged by the fact that he was still alive. The sudden gulping of oxygen caused him to cough as he struggled to stay afloat, but he was infinitely grateful for being able to breathe at all.

The air burned its way through his lungs while he found himself now in a different type of darkness. Somehow he fumbled upon a piece of a ship wreck to grab onto, using adrenaline as his lifeline instead of relying on his waning strength. Clutching made him wince as he was pressed up against the wood ledge, but the overwhelming feeling of relief took with it the strength necessary to climb on. He was left to hang uncomfortably against it as the black waves swelled into dark hills around him. He could barely see anything until lightning tore its way violently across the skies overhead and the thunder roared so loudly, he felt the vibrations of it down to his bones. Only then was he able to catch glimpses of the roiling black walls of water rising and falling around him, again and again.

The night had become long and bitter, though he was not entirely sure if it was still night or day. The storm had come upon them in the afternoon. He had tried to help the men he was sailing with, grasping at ropes that burned his hands, watching helplessly as the high winds tore down the mast and ripped apart the sails that had already been drawn up. Adrenaline and desperation had been his constant companions all day and the wet chill had somewhat numbed him, though his hands still throbbed and swelled.

But he had no time to dwell on his physical discomforts, for he became immersed with the fight for survival. He watched men working alongside him go overboard when the waves came and washed them away. He saw from a distance as other men became pinned by the falling debris and the rolling, broken mast. However, in the end, he was just as helpless to prevent himself from becoming like the debris left on deck when the ship splintered and tore apart under the assault of the storm and the waves.

Somehow he had survived that and he could hear nor see any other who had the same luck as him. He would be too tired to help anyone anyway. Right now he was so exhausted he was constantly fighting the temptation to just let himself sink into the embrace of the sea again.

So tired...

Hours of struggling to stay alive had worn him down. He would be lucky if he actually managed to survive through the storm at all. There were no more ships to protect and no more men to aid. He was alone, tossed by the waves and chilled by the wind. His hands throbbed painfully, his chest, ribs and arms ached each time the waves pushed against the very thing keeping him afloat; his fingers felt fat and clumsy, even as they were going numb. Still he dared not let go.

Finally, slowly, the waves began to gentle as its violent strength began to ebb. When the chance came he hauled himself feebly up with his remaining strength and his still burning determination to live. He wiggled and straddled the wood until he finally managed to perch onto the last remaining piece of ship left. It was barely large enough to accommodate his body, but it did manage to keep him mostly out of the dangerous waters. He laid his cheek against the rough surface, panting for breath, and hoped there weren't any hungry sharks looking for a meal in the vicinity. He wouldn't be able to fend off an attack the way he was now.

In the darkness behind his eyes he saw the memory of his older brother looking up to him with expectation and then there was only blackness as the sound and lull of the ocean took away all else.

He dreams of the peach grove by the old castle.

It is March. The wind is still a little chilly, even in the bright afternoon. The knee high grass is green and the gold of the mustard blooms waver whenever a breeze manages to get over the old, worn walls. The dark branches, which had been stark and barren but a month ago, are now weighed down by the explosion of pink blossoms, some pale and some almost red in their vibrancy. The sky is blue, so blue that his eyes want to water whenever he gazes too long at it. It is this scene that he has seen for sixteen springs, before he left home, which still makes his heart ache, even in a dream.

Another breeze comes, swaying the branches overhead and he is filled with that faint nostalgic sweetness that is the scent of peaches. It is strange that there is warmth to the scent; it is not as intense as he thinks it should be, but the thought leaves his mind before it can fully form. After all, he is looking for someone here. The only reason he ever comes to this beautiful place is to search for that other person.

In the pale shadows of afternoon, he finally finds that familiar dark silhouette.

There, sitting in the curves of the branches was his older brother. As he nears he sees the other has one hand out-stretched to catch any wavered petals while a faraway look etches on his brother's face. On the other's lap is an open book with a blank page and a barely visible pale wooden slab. He knows right away that his brother has been sitting out here drawing the falling blossoms, probably while composing some more terrible poetry to go with it. It never ceases to amaze him how stubbornly his brother continues no matter how many times his older sibling fails to get better.

His brother was gifted in many things, and once upon a time he had thought no man could be more gifted until he read Older Brother's poems. When he was thirteen, he had demanded his brother to show him a similar notebook that held similar works of art and poetry. He had worded his demand into a request for a gift, one to be given to him on his birthday. All his life he had wanted to know what secrets his brother wrote in those notebooks, ones that changed by the seasons and were always within his brother's reach. He had gathered up his courage at last, so when his brother had asked him what he wanted for his coming of age gift beneath the ripening peaches, he had been more than prepared with an answer.

For the first time he saw his brother give him a look that could almost be described as shy, but his request was not denied. There, within the thin worn pages, were pictures of peach blossoms and peach trees, bare darkened branches, and inky moons. The black ink never ran into the next delicate pages and he came to understand what the wooden slab he had always thought of as a bookmark was really used for.

His brother had a sharp eye for detail and there was a melancholy in the drawings that made him catch his breath at the captured beauty. The poetry next to these effusive renditions; however, was atrocious. Every single poem he read was worse than the next and being placed beside such elegant displays of nature made the juxtaposition even more obvious.

It was the first time he had seen his brother look so hurt, but he had also never laughed so hard.

Yet, even so, Older Brother never reprimanded him for his behavior. Despite his amusement, bad poetry and beautiful art still kept his brother company on days like these. He stopped when he was next to the distant man in the embrace of the peach trees and they watched the pink petals flutter in the wind together. "I heard you are betrothed," he remembered saying at last, breaking the stillness. In his dream, his brother did not move at his voice or his words. "I came to say congratulations," he added awkwardly. The picture his mother had shown him of his brother's betrothed had been a lovely one, and their father had confirmed that he had seen the girl and the painting was not a lie.

Even in stillness he could tell his brother was... sad. Not sullen, not angry, but resigned and... sad.

"Soon, you will be the new lord, Older Brother. Your new wife is also quite lovely," he tried again, working hard to sound cheerful. Silence fell between them and he shifted awkwardly on his feet upon the uneven ground. There was another reason he was here, but he didn't know how to bring it up. He tried several times before finally he sighed and gathered his courage to him. There was no avoiding it. "I have decided to go on a journey, Older Brother. I have been thinking about this for a long time now." He paused but his brother said nothing, forcing him to continue. "I... finally decided last week when this would be appropriate. I've already asked Father for permission to leave. I have also requested a small amount of money to help me on this trip from him." He trailed off again before he willed himself to get on with it. "Older Brother, I have come to seek your blessings before you become too busy with the upcoming nuptials and ceremonies." He declared, almost too forcefully. His brother remained silent but he knew the other was listening. "I will leave only after you become heir and marry, of course," he amended, "but I see no reasons to stay after that. Not... unless you need me to," he finally added, though a bit reluctantly. Those words revealed his feelings and motives too much. He felt exposed, nonetheless Older Brother deserved to hear this from his own lips.

The fluttering paper and rustling leaves were the only sounds to disturb them for a long while as his words settled between them.

"Little Brother," his brother answered, breaking the long stretch of silence between them. He saw his brother's shoulders drop and only then did he realize how tense his older sibling had become through his speech. "I will let you go with my blessings, but I want you to make me a promise," the other began in his low, dignified voice. His older brother's tone was steady and firm. Dark, intelligent eyes met his and the pages beneath his brother's long fingers fluttered again as a strong breeze came over the wall, surrounding them with his brother's favorite scent.

He watched the other's lips move, forming the promise he made that day as the wind stole away the words.

Even though he could not hear it, he knew what his brother had asked. He had thought on those words a thousand times since he had left his home. In his dream, it was not the words that he focused on. Instead, for the first time, he recalled the look in those dark eyes, eyes that were so much like his own. They looked up to him, open and thoughtful. He saw in them the same familiar warmth and the same quiet sadness that the heir of his house only wore in the peach grove. Elsewhere his older brother was always stoic and strong. In front of their mother and father, in front of the old advisors and their countrymen, his brother was a solid rock that they could all rely and lean on. Yet, in this place, that marble face smoothed, and his brother's lips sometimes could be moved to frown or even to a smile. In a lot of ways he too had always relied on and thought of his brother almost as a god. Yet, in the peach grove, under the bloom-laden branches, his brother had allowed him to see the other side - the one that terrible poetry and detailed drawings of crescent moons and delicate blossoms only ever hinted at.

Only in these fleeting, unrecorded moments between them would his older brother allow that impassive face to reveal a half-formed thought or an unvoiced desire.

The branches above them shook, showering pink petals down upon their dark heads. The yellow flowers wavered in the green sea around them. It was not peaches he smelled though, but the unexpected salty tang of the sea. And his brother looked up at him then, so gentle were his eyes in that moment, he wondered if this was what grief looked like if one had no tears to shed.

His mouth was suddenly filled with the bitterness of too much salt and he wondered, as he looked back from what seemed like a great distance, whose tears this taste belonged to.

The sound of the ocean pulled him from his dream. His eyes felt crusty and tired, refusing to open even though he suspected that he had been asleep for a long time. Beneath him the ground was hard and it did not sway. He noticed right away that his body still ached, his lips felt cracked and his tongue felt swollen and dry. But he was alive.

Those last moments of being adrift at sea came back to him then, but he was no longer at sea, this much was obvious.

He shifted and failed to turn, causing a huffing sound to form behind a mouth that was too dry to properly open. He now understood that the bitter saltiness was not from his dreams but from his current condition. He heard a gasp of surprise from somewhere close by, followed by a rustling of clothes and the shifting of limbs. A cool cloth was put to his parched lips, soothing it slightly and unsealing them before being pulled away. It had a musty smell to it yet nothing had ever felt so heavenly. It came back and gently began cleaning his face. He had never been so grateful for the feeling it incited. Finally, slowly, he was able to open his swollen eyes. The cool drops of water fell through his now parted lips. Just a few drops, and it was so sweet that his clumsy tongue flicked out to try and catch more. When he found no more he opened his mouth wider, even though the corners of his lips protested at the strain.

"Slowly, slowly," a rusted, laughing voice scolded him. It was soothing and feminine. His head was gently tilted then, and a cup was put to his lips. He tried to slow down but his body also wanted to submerge itself into the cool, clean taste. Still, firm, rough hands forced him to slow and not choke on the water before it was taken away. He protested but they were feeble and ignored. He gasped as he was laid down again onto the woven cloth, his hard bed, and he could do nothing more but stare at the straw ceiling overhead. He concluded that he must have cracked a rib because it was a little bit painful to breath, so he tried neither to move too much nor to breathe too hard, though he sensed that he was bandaged wherever it was appropriate.

Presently he became aware of the distant roaring of waves and the sounds of gulls in the distance.

He was not dead, he repeated to himself in continuing surprise. Someone had found him and saved his life. He forced himself to turn and saw an old woman returning back to his side with a damp cloth in her hand. She leaned forward toward him and he realized she wanted to put it over his eyes. He turned back to the ceiling and closed them obediently to allow her to do so. The weariness he still felt would be soothed by it, after all. Somewhere between wanting to ask her where he was and sighing in relief at the feel of the cool cloth on his eyes, he lost consciousness again.

He dreamed of the ocean and the swaying ship. He dreamed of drowning into the dark watery depths. He was dragged down by an unseen force until he hit the bottom of the ocean. There, in the darkness, the scent of peaches came and he was at the grove again, looking for his brother. Something cool was placed on his hands and he remembered how the rope had felt as it flew out of his grasp, the burning friction red and cutting on his senses.

He looked down at his hands then and the rope lay there innocently, as if it had never flown out of them with such a force that jarred his shoulder and slammed him onto the rail of the boat. The branches of the peach grove swayed and petals caressed his chest and hair.

Was Older Brother there?

The scent of peaches flooded his lungs again. No, it was salt water. He was drowning again. He was at the bottom of the ocean floor.

Sea gulls called to him, their distorted voices echoed tauntingly from far above his watery grave-

He woke, gasping. A warm cloth fell from his forehead as he shifted his head. The empty inside of a hut greeted his eyes and his one outstretched hand was bandaged. He swallowed and slowly came to his senses. He had not drowned and he was not at the bottom of the ocean. He was in a small house by the sea. Voices came and the door on the other side of the small house opened to reveal an old man and an old woman walking through the door, smiles on their faces as they looked at each other before both noticed he was awake.

"Ah, young man!" the old man greeted him cheerfully, meeting his bewildered stare. "Glad you made it through. Guess you're stronger than your pretty face suggested, eh?" The old man guffawed at his own joke as the old woman promptly shook her head and sighed audibly. She moved to the corner of the house and filled a cup with water, bringing it to him when she was done.

He took it gratefully in his shaking hands and chugged it down greedily.

"Slowly, slowly," the old woman cautioned him with a small chuckle of her own. He vaguely remembered, as if in a dream, that she had scolded him similarly when he had woken the last time. When he was done he saw that the couple seemed relieved by his sudden show of vigor.

"More," he demanded, returning the cup back to her, his hand steadier this time.

The old man laughed again. "More, he says," the old man mimicked. "What a demanding fellow!" the old man slapped his thigh and grinned at him while the old woman rose and complied with his request. "You got a name to you, young lord?"

He frowned at the teasing light in the old man's eyes, but it was not difficult to guess that these two were probably the ones who saved him from death's door. He owed the both of them more than his name. "Untouched Snow," he answered.

"Untouched Snow, eh?" the old man muttered thoughtfully, stroking his bearded chin. "Ah, it's a good name, I guess." The old man said grudgingly. When the old woman came back he remembered himself enough to thank her this time. She only smiled a shy smile at him with reddened cheeks that showed despite her brown, leather skin. Her reaction caused the old man to snort when the other caught the look. "Psh, you fussy old woman, stop fawning over him. You fall far too easily for every pretty face," the old man muttered in a huff.

The old woman frowned at the old man mighty fiercely for accusing her of having wandering eyes. "You had a good looking face once," she retorted back. "Now, not so much," she emphasized with a sweeping, pointed glance. The two of them glared at one another until they suddenly both broke out into grins and laughed.

Snow felt tired just watching them talk.

"Where am I?" he asked quietly when the couple settled.

"Eh, in a fishing town," the old man answered, cleaning his ear with a bony brown pinky. The old woman slapped at his hand for being rude but the old man just shrugged her away. The other gave better information after this though and Snow came to the realization that he had landed on the beach of a growing township in the country bordering his own. He must have drifted quite a ways to get where he was now, but it was already a miracle that he had survived the trip. It wasn't anything to complain about as he had been aiming to come to this country when he had set off from port anyway. The old man and old woman confirmed his suspicions that they were an old, married couple. The old man was a fisherman who had fished him out of the sea and the old woman had nursed him back to health.

The old man was called Little Dragon and his wife was named Sea Lotus, though the old man just called her his Small Treasure. They were lean, brown, hard and wrinkled. Their humor was crude and their laughter was loud and boisterous. But their eyes were kind and warm. They had saved his life. As the night came over the little hut and the old man and the old woman shared their simple food with him, always making sure to give him more than themselves, he made his decision while he watched them have an animated conversation back and forth. The old man joked about his poor back and the old woman sighed dreamily over Snow's young, stiff limbs, which caused her husband to complain loudly and with great gusto.

Days went by in this manner. He was too weak to do much else but sleep and recover during this time. Then, slowly, he regained the ability to walk and he scoured the beach in the early mornings, barefooted before the sand got too hot. He found that he too was becoming dark and brown under the summer sun. When bored in the day he began to ask the old woman for chores to do around the house and to show him how to properly weave and mend the fishing nets Little Dragon used. She happily complied and soon he had several things to occupy his time.

Sometimes, he would catch the longing in the old couples eyes when they looked at him and he wondered if they had children that had long since left home, though he did not ask. Then, one day, over a week after he woke, he rose and followed the old man out of the hut before the sun could break out from under the sea. "Let me help you fish," he said as they went out onto the beach.

"Heh," the old man chuckled at his words. "I found you on a piece of ship-wreck, boy. Do you even know how to swim?"

He nodded stiffly, though he didn't admit that he wasn't very good at it. The old man scanned his form and chuckled all the more knowingly but seeing his face the old man's own face sobered. "You want to help, eh? I don't have money to pay for help."

He shrugged at this, having already arrived at the same conclusion some time ago. "You saved my life. You feed me, clothe me and house me still. It is the least I can do," he answered evenly in return. "I am willing to learn if you are willing to teach me," the last part was more of a challenge than a request.

The old man stroked his long, wispy beard and studied him for a long moment. "Alright," the old man conceded with a snort, a slow smile spreading upon those worn lips. "Alright boy," Little Dragon muttered, almost gently this time, and led him down to the beach where a little fishing boat sat waiting.

to be continued...

Untouched Snow = Sasuke

Older Brother = Itachi

Little Dragon and Sea Lotus are created solely for this story, they belong in the realm of fantasy and not Naruto.