(Quick note from the lunatic author…: Well. I finally made it. Praise God. It took a measly four and a half pages in my notebook, rather than the usual 20 something. Oh dear God, Enjoy. "Sing me back home, before I die…" Thank you so so much for reading. Thank you thank you beyond words; without further adieu…)
Coushander
コウシャンデル
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Chapter 50
Off the Eastern Wall
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When Jiraiya was fifty-three, he decided to see a god.
The decision was prompted by a desire. A genuine desire, emoting from the depths of his inner curiosity and suspicions. The desire was strong enough to surpass one of Tsunade's final warnings, "Toad-sage Jiraiya," she told him, "If you go, I am going to evict you."
The so called sage gave a belly laugh. "You and what army, little lady?"
She lodged a strong finger into his chest so hard it stung and left a bruise, "Me and my index finger, lummox."
"Oh," he said simply. Then, he smiled, "Ooo, I'm so scared."
With lightning fast speed, she flicked that finger up under his jawbone and he was sent flying.
In retrospect, he should have seen it coming, and that's not to imply he was ever idle or blind of outcomes and consequences. One may call him a fool, but he couldn't exactly be called ignorant. Jiraiya knew where he was going. And so did Tsunade. And perhaps, Tsunade was the most worried for him, despite her displays…of affection.
Jiraiya had heard reports from his extensive group of contacts. Tracking Akatsuki was something he had been doing ever since he discovered the late great Orochimaru had joined once. Jiraiya had heard the rumors and bargains, treachery, thieving, and their seemingly limitless strength as a collective, or more primarily, as in pairs of two that had whipped his young nephew fairly well. Some were even immortals, and all were clinically insane. (A trademark, it seemed.) And Jiraiya understood all of this information very well, and yet he needed to go, and see for himself. The consensus in his mind may have agreed on it, but he himself had never proven it. A so called adonais (who happened to look exactly like Yahiko…) of this small organization had walled himself up in the steel towers and folds of metal in Ame. What a mysterious place indeed. To hide. Really—what did this 'god' need with immortals and madmen anyway? Jiraiya smiled.
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The battle was intense. And as the last solider left deserted on an empty battle field, Jiraiya fought it alone with courage, ninjutsu, and summons. But in the end, the rain ninja—or the three—no, six of them proved too powerful for him. He didn't get angry or frightened, it wasn't in his nature to do so, even when he was dying. A frog that lives in the bottom of an old well will never see the ocean, but Jiraiya did anyway, just like his uncle. The red stripes were all he needed to prove it: they'd grown, and touched all the way just under his jaw line. He'd endured failures, he'd endured life and love and loss, but he had endured. And he had not given up.
No surrender—no retreat. No regrets. Oh Sakumo, are you listening…? Oh father, are you watching…? Oh mom, I love you. Oh Naruto; thank you.
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The sun had not risen yet. Rion taught her well. She arrived there at about seven with a clear blue dawn overhead, sparkling a navy sea-blue, getting lighter and lighter until the yellow sun smiled over the trees. There were no tents. There was no threat of rain with a thriving barometer, high and mighty. The conditions were perfect, for an auction.
It was out in the open, on the lawn of an empty lot rented out in the village for the purpose, near the rural area on the east side, she did not have to travel very far being in the east herself, just outside the ninja village. She was third to get a number from the portable folding desk. Besides the stub, Kano also took away a paper listing other auctions hosted by the particular local auction service. Not that she was looking to buy anything—she was ninety-seven for God's sake with wrinkles and black hair—black hair! "It's nice to look," she had told the woman sitting behind the table with a small smile. And oh, were there a seemingly endless supply of clean white folding tables stacking with knicks and knacks and collectables. But here, she admitted, this particular auction was different. Stein's nephew died quite suddenly of an illness just last month, and apparently his wife was not a blade collector, nor admirer. The rest of the nieces and nephews took what they wanted, if anything at all, but the bulk of it was to be sold immediately. Like unwanted baggage, it had to be dumped somewhere.
It took Kano the next half an hour to get down to the end. There went the bigger blades, some forged centuries ago which the real blade collectors, the ones who were arriving now with oodles of cash would be gazing at, and the sizes gradually descended: the large blades, the medium sized blades, and then the small and smallest blades, ones mingled with jackknives, each, most painstakingly having their own number attached to them. "Lord," she murmured, seeing the high triple digits on some, "It must have taken you forever to number these!"
The youngest auctioneer nodded, "Yes ma'am," he said genuinely, like he meant it one hundred percent and they spoke nothing else until she returned to look, one by one, at all the engraved black kunai. The names were many. The practice had been so popular around the time the village was formed, but like a passing fad, now it was only done with money in your hand at a place where precise engraving was done. Kano smiled to herself; many names were those of Hyuuga and Uchiha, Senju but of course, as well as many others without those prominent names, simple genin and some chuunin men who once served with those three major and powerful clans that had bound together in the face of so much adversity. And oh, that binding had held. For as long as her lifetime, she wanted to say it had secretly gotten stronger every year. The camaraderie endured with courage through storms, and conviction through strife. These were some of the names of those incredibly brave men. The thought was enough to make her weep with profound joy and endless comfort, but she did not, she held it in for the while she looked and smiled. At least not until her wrinkled dark eyes did a double take to read one name in katakana.
Oh Reader, can you guess…?
Kano Hoseki stood there and gasped, her heart suddenly beating quite swiftly as she saw the long name she knew she recognized. She slowly began to cry, keeping her eyes on the object every second lest she lost sight of it in the sea of other identical kunai. The young man noticed her, and walked toward her slowly, never taking his eyes off her, fearing she was going to sob so heavy she'd loose herself to weakness. But Keiko remained standing as the last of the five and she wept with pure joy in her contented, fast beating heart, "Oh Kousa," she murmured with her cheeks wet. "You gave it to him," she said. And here she had to take out a handkerchief from the pocket of her navy vest. The young man continued watching with some alarm until she laughed. "Oh Coushander," she spoke to it, calling his name. "Oh Kousa," she whispered. She retreated the cloth, but never her tears and finally noticed the bright young man watching her attentively with concern. She laughed again, toward her own reaction.
"He was my husband," she said, laughed, and cried at the same time. "I loved him, dearly. I wouldn't give up loving him," her voice trembled. "It was the happiest time—of my life," she laughed, her heart aching, yearning.
"Lady…" he said after a silence she spent staring at it, "If it means that much to you, you can have it, no charge."
She looked at him.
"Honestly," he smiled.
After a moment, tentatively, she reached out her frail hand, and took it in her hands. It didn't feel heavy, in fact, it was quite light. The most precious thing in the world, next to her tall son gone somewhere again. She looked at it for a long time until the kid—the young man asked gently, "How long were you married for, ma'am?" Expecting to hear nothing short of fifty years or so, he was shocked as her tears, her deep dark eyes glistened, "Only five. Five years."
He blinked in bewilderment while she stared at it longer, wiping her cheeks, smiling all the while, seeing nothing greasy nor unclean about it. Kiri had washed off from it long ago, and yet it had remained, whether in some box or showcase, she could not know. It didn't matter. "May I?" she looked up, "May I have it?"
He smiled, "Sure. It may not be wise though, to tell my father. But yes," he nodded kindly.
"Oh…" a laugh moved in her swiftly and lightly, like the sea breeze when first they came, and first they left. "Oh thank you, young man. Thank you so very much," She laughed softly again. "It bought his dreams," she remembered how furious she was when he threw it away, or in this case, threw it at someone who at least knew what it meant. It bought him sweet, delusional dreams of another life, another way, another purpose. She laughed again, holding it gently, in her hands, getting her fingerprints on it, her memories of him. She smiled with tears in her eyes and she left soon, before the bidding ever started with a contented heart that beat for another seventeen hours—enough time, to return him home.
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by Kariko Emma, Caliko
