this gets a little dark I guess? not super dark, but anything that delves into any of the sibs' childhoods is bound to be pretty upsetting, though it's a real shame we never got to find out very much about kank and tema growing up, I still think there's a lot to explore there and their histories must've been just as rough as gaa's tbh


Day 2 - Childhood memories


Her hands shook as she packed the dirt ever firmer around the base of the bush.

Every gentle tap burned against her blistered skin – handling the war fan recently gifted to her by her father was taking its toll on her palms, her once smooth skin in the process of hardening into thick, protective calluses – and her arms were already aching from a long day of training; not at all aided by the hour she'd already spent forcefully pulling up weeds and digging through the dry, clay-heavy soil of the garden.

But, it wasn't her physical exhaustion that had left her hands clumsy and trembling. It was the sight still painted across her eyeballs in harsh, vivid colours, of a tiny little boy, screaming and wrenching at his own red hair, either unaware of the sand that had stabbed straight through a civilian woman's abdomen, or uncaring.

She had only stared for a brief second, before turning and fleeing, but still, the scene lingered.

Closing her eyes hadn't helped, only enriched the image – black backdrop bringing out the bright red of blood spilling out onto sand, looking almost artificial in its vividness, the paleness of the poor woman's skin – so she'd gone to the only place she knew that might obscure those awful, horrifying colours.

The garden of her house wasn't huge, but it was filled with every kind of plant that thrived in the desert; all the many beautiful shades of green of cacti and thorny bushes, and flowers that bloomed yellow and purple and orange and pink…

Her mother had been the one to plant most everything here, a small luxury in such an impoverished nation, but one that she'd persevered with regardless. Temari wished she could say that her mother's love of gardening had been passed down to her, that, even after her death, she performed this task with kind words and gentle guidance ringing in her ears, but she hadn't; any memories of those times were distant, hazy, almost unreal to her now.

Perhaps, at one time, a messy-haired girl might've watched as a beautiful woman tended to her flowers, maybe she sang as she worked, maybe tiny, untrained hands would grasp at dirt, prick themselves against a sharp thorn, be kissed by warm, loving lips.

But that was just wishful fantasy.

The real reason she'd taken it upon herself to continue nurturing their garden – neatly tucked away behind the high, stone walls of the Kazekage estate – was duty.

After her mother's death, much had been neglected, herself and her brother especially; left to look after themselves, a retinue of nameless, faceless servants and caretakers cycling through jobs, too fast to ever build any real attachment to them. Until it was realised that the two siblings had become mostly self-sufficient, after that, only the occasional cook or cleaner traipsed the long, suffocating halls of the mansion.

She'd become the mother that she knew her little brother had needed, she would care for him and shielded him from the drastic changes happening around them, as best she could.

Her father had become so entrenched in his work, that they could go weeks without ever seeing him – and when they did, it was only to observe their training, or ensure that they had everything they needed, none of the games and interest she saw from other fathers in the city. He barely seemed human anymore, more like one of Kankuro's puppets, wordless and stiff, performing the tasks required of him, but any spark of life almost completely extinguished.

She cupped those dying embers between her toughening hands, kept them burning just a little longer, seeking him out, asking about his day, demonstrating the techniques she'd mastered with pride, if only to bring those small, satisfied not-quite-smiles to his face.

The garden that had been her mother's pride and joy, almost as much a part of her family as her own children, had wilted and decayed over the months since her death. What was once a bright, beautiful oasis in a world that could be so very harsh, had become a dull, withered mess, a mocking shadow of what it had once represented.

She had found the gardening books, long buried under old boxes and thick dust, studied the art with the same dedication she was expected to put into ninjutsu, and gradually dragged the garden away from the claws of deterioration, dirt under her nails, rusted tools staining her palms and teeth gritted tight.

Unlike her father and brothers, this was the one part of her mother's legacy she actually had the power to fix, improve; not just maintain.

It was that thought that keep her driven, despite all the pain, frustration and indifference from her family and tutors. So, she would dig tired, aching hands into the earth, pluck persistent, intrusive weeds, ignore the scratches trailing up her arms, bear the heat lashing against her spine and bring the beauty back to this place.

And perhaps then, she would be able to forget the haunting sights and nightmarish screams. Pretend that there wasn't any guilt constantly pressing at the back of her skull.

Perhaps if she could save this tiny part of her past, then the parts that she couldn't, wouldn't matter.