Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto in any way and make no claim on its copyright or any characters from the series. Original characters are my own property.
Author's Intro: Ah, I don't know what this is, it's something, and we'll see what (if anything) happens with it I suppose. It won't hurt to publish it anyway. Anyway this is a fanfic that will apparently feature Kamizuru Suzumebachi (who premiered in the Bikouchuu filler arc) which might be a first in Naruto fanfiction (is that a good thing?). Anyway, there may be manga spoilers at some point, but there aren't any right now. Also, this story may not have a strong chapter organization, so while requires a chapter organization, I may have a looser structure in this than in anything else I've done.
Please comment if you read this, with good or bad replies, or even simple acknowledgements that it was read, I very much appreciate it and will try to make note of that.
That's it, enjoy!
Other Gifts
The first sign was the loss of absolutism. It did not really brighten any, nor could normal vision have detected anything at all, but to those with eyes and experience to know the difference between absolute darkness where the sun never touched and the utterly faded glimmer of light from above it was obvious. It had many meanings, this change, and drew on the search for greater signs. Such were the tiny clues present in deep places.
Other signs followed, subtle at first, then more obvious. An absence of calcite formations indicated many recent passages by large presences, culminating in a naked path gliding through the darkness. Bricks, their alien clay scattered on the nature stone, could be touched and marked along the base of the passage. Other debris followed, pieces of metal, cloth, and wood, scattered in disarray and without organization. They were very old, no such wispy debris would have survived so long above, but their foreign nature and the lack of water in this particular location had preserved them for a time. Even so, they would soon be gone as this place measured time.
In the end skilled interpretation was not necessary, for the situation resolved with abject blatancy. A crumbling and crooked skeleton, bearing no possessions save a metal plate lying across the brow, lay before a crushed formation of clay and stone, a small structure of one single enclosed space.
A hand reached out and grasped that plate of metal. Though no natural creature could see in this lightless black, it reached out with perfect assurance, knowing exactly where the piece lay, and not touching the brittle bones at all. The darkness allowed no sight by natural means, but vision was yet possible for the one who turned that plate in a gloved hand, slowly scraping off the mineralized outer surface that the dark life here had made into many a meal. The fragment was damaged by those invisible creatures, thinned and crumbling even as it turned, but enough remained that the mark in the center could be felt through those gloved fingers, a touch of frightful sensitivity. Strange sight could glimpse things in black, but not all, so touch was required to trace the outline of the roughly etched marking. Two irregular geometric outlines overlapping each other, such were the marks the hand detected, and suspicions were confirmed.
The gloved hand closed, crushing the degraded metal to powder. The skeleton, a hindrance, was kicked aside by feet encased in tough boots. It made soft crinkling sounds as it shattered to minute pieces against the stone base.
Boots crushed bone shards without sound as they passed the space occupied by the skeleton. Beyond lay a shattered wall, once holding a door made of a single slab of stone. Granite it appeared by the grain under a gloved hand, a stone foreign to this place. The origin was clear enough now, this thing had fallen from far above. A crack must remain even this day, allowing the echo of sunlight to enter, parting the dominion of darkness.
The granite slab remained, now fixed in place by forces of immense power slamming it into the substrate. That entry was blocked, but the sides behind it, made of clay and stone bricking, were crushed and perhaps passable. Curious hands reached out and tested them. They were held, but not solid; a reasonable force might free them and create a hole.
Measuring with the sensitive feel of his hands the observer tested the bricks, judging the sequence they would need to be removed, the one that would open a passage but preserve stability in the same moment. It was not so difficult to find, not for one whose body had charted endless passages of tiny space and maddening instability. Slowly the removal began.
Movements deliberate but assured pulled and pried free one brick at a time, with hands, needle, and knife, setting each one down in silence, the entire operation soundless and lightless. It was soon completed; a passage just wide enough to squeeze head and torso forward had been opened.
Without hesitation a slender body slid forward, passing head and shoulders through, the space tight enough that the arms must proceed first, or they would not be able to move within. Up to the base of the ribcage the body submerged into the tiny gap, precarious but assured.
The inside was simple, a single small enclosed space above another granite slab. This slab was not rough like the doorway, but smooth and polished, marked with a pair of characters. One hand traced these carefully, noting them for what they were, a name. This information completed what had been suspicion from the very beginning, that this sunken object was a tomb.
Uninterested in the bones of the dead, and unable to move the massive slab in any case, eyes cast about carefully in the black within to search for anything of potential value. There was no sanctity here, in the low places of the world nothing could be spared the dead, and thus the dead possessed nothing, something unused was simply waiting for a user.
Symbolic bits of metal and stone there were, as well as fabric, all pointless and of no value, degrading slowly, for this chambers structure had not kept the seeking creatures of the deep out. Yet one thing else there was, long and thin, a cylindrical shape, though tapered at each end by strange designs, it appeared unmarked. It could not be stone or metal, for neither deposition nor degradation had affected it. The structure was smooth, and faintly cooled beneath the ambient chill air. A single tap of the finger, with a hard stud embedded in one pinky knuckle of the right glove, revealed the truth of the matter. The cylinder was a ceramic of some kind, deep forged and solid, offering little purchase for even the most tenacious of scroungers.
Firmly the right hand grasped that cylinder, and then the whole body pulled back as one, held perfectly stiff and drawn through the tight space without a single disruption. The cylinder was perhaps as long as the distance from elbow to fingertip, including its cone-shaped ends, and filled the open hand completely in width. Sliding a hand along its length revealed a tight groove at the base of each end. The cone-shapes were disguised caps.
The cap turned smoothly with a twist of the wrist, having accumulated no grime in its tenure in the sepulcher. Within the cylinder was a single thing only. Pliable and crinkling with dry stiffness, bound by fine metal ties, was a thick scroll of paper. This was indeed something of value, and it was quickly restored to its cylindrical container.
Swiftly and surely precise moves wrapped that cylinder about the back-straps of the body. It was unbalancing and awkward, disrupting the finely tuned balance of equipment borne as the only exterior presented to the world, but it would only be a temporary arrangement. It was not far or hard to reach the place where this thing might be dumped, and that destination had been planned for the short term regardless.
Putting the name on the tomb with that scroll together in his mind once more, Harvestman smiled beneath his fleshy filtration mask, a cruel motion that had never seen the sun. Once more he would surprise those who discounted him, and his legend would grow.
It sat carefully on the desk; a cylinder of iron-hard porcelain in black and yellow, weathering a gaze so penetrating an observer might have expected a lesser object to melt. It was clean now, some unlucky genin having performed the displeasing duty of washing and scraping the thing free of filth. Such treatment was necessary for objects that arrived in headquarters having come up through the sewage disposal route. That route of entry made the source of the object very clear, though it left the logistics as a puzzle. Many times everything beneath the building had been searched and, supposedly, utterly sealed against all entry, but it was here nonetheless. Thinking on it the Tsuchikage was annoyed, but could not fail to admit his substantial admiration of the sender's ability to consistently bypass all attempted blockages.
Knowing the sender left the question of what to do with the thing, or indeed, what it really was. The Tsuchikage was examining carefully with his unwavering and endless gaze, trying to pierce that shell to divine the contents before he even had to open it. That was something he would only attempt with care, for he would not put it past the sender to place some lethal trap inside the thing, or to leave an original one active, as something that his twisted sense of humor found amusing. It had been years, but the Tsuchikage had not forgotten the device that had been delivered swimming in a bowl full of flesh-eating ooze. The medics had never been able to repair the unfortunate chunin's hand afterward, or figure out what the mixture had been. So he was left staring at it.
Eventually, with a sudden motion that defied the nature of his ancient frame, the Tsuchikage grasped the cylinder firmly with his left hand and twisted one of the odd cone-shaped caps with his right, spilling the contents out onto the floor to the left of his desk.
Out fell a yellowed scroll bound in twin brass ties, clattering softly against the wooden floor, and then stilled. Giving the object a single glance, and adding a light tap with his foot to see if anything decided to crawl out, he picked the scroll up. Placing it on his desk once more he examined the ties first. They were nothing more than thin strips of metal, malleable enough to be flexed around the scroll easily. There was nothing symbolic about them, which seemed strange for something placed in such a fine case. The Tsuchikage considered this, and decided the most likely explanation was that the case had been made for preservation purposes only, and not for high elegance. Such a choice he could appreciate.
Not waiting any longer, he opened the scroll.
It was relatively untouched by age, but the Tsuchikage pealed it back with great care, in order to insure it was not damaged. As he opened the outer end a small slip of paper fell out onto his desk, obviously of far newer material than the scroll itself. Placing the scroll down he paused to take a look at it. A short scrawl in black ink was written on the scrap. It took a moment to puzzle out the twisted and malformed characters belonging to Harvestman's hand, but there was only a single chopped sentence in all.
Found in Kamizuru Ichneumi's tomb.
The Tsuchikge blinked slowly, and read the name again, making certain he was correct. His eyes were old and he wished no errors from something as mystifying as Harvestman's mad scratches. Looking up from the scrap back to the scroll everything made perfect sense now, down to the colors on the casing. It cast everything in a very intriguing light.
Second Tsuchikage of Hidden Stone, the man who sat in this desk had seen more seasons pass than most of the ninja he commanded could barely dream to survive, so he was not easily surprised or engrossed by something, but he surely felt such a pull now as his hands grasped the scroll in wrinkled hands once more.
He began to read.
- from Ichneumon, a large family of wasps (primarily parasitoids), from Greek meaning 'to track'