SAKURA

The day that altered forever the course of Sakura's life began like any other.

The rooster cried the moment the first dusty rays of sunlight broke through the fog and filtered in through the covered window of the small room she shared with her shishou. She sat up from her futon with a mighty yawn, stretching her arms above her head, her elbow giving a satisfying pop. Kicking off the thick cover to get to her feet, she glanced to the other bedroll. As usual, the older woman wasn't there, her own covers gathered in a haphazard pile at the foot of her mat.

There was only one thing Lady of the Woods would allow Sakura ample amounts of private time, and that was the maintenance of her hair. It may have seemed a stupid thing—and sometimes Sakura herself would agree—to carefully oil her hair, brush it until it shone, and pile it into a delicate style atop her head when most of her day-to-day work involved gathering herbs in the heart of the woods, tending to the pigs they kept on their land, and otherwise dirtying her hands and face by healing the wounds and ailments of villagers in need. But she took great pride in her hair just the same.

She would not dare to admit that it was because she'd heard that city boys her age liked a girl with long, beautiful hair.

Not that shishou would ever let a suitor anywhere near Sakura. As she fussed over her hair in the warped reflection of her old mirror, she pursed her lips to keep from sighing. Complaints were not tolerated, and she'd become well versed in the ways of grinning and bearing in her sixteen years on the earth.

She gave one last admiring glance to her hair, decorated modestly with ornate pins passed down from the Lady herself. Satisfied, she dressed in her plain, flowing robes and rolled the screen door aside. The main room of their small home was rich in both the colors and scents of ancient wood, polished and worn down by years of the constant pattering back and forth of bare feet. Informational books of all kinds—professionally bound or crudely sewn together—lined the shelved walls, the sunken hearth an unkempt mess of old charred wood and ash from last night's meal, and the night before that, and many nights before those, too. But there was no time for her to stop and clean, and she squeezed through the half-open front doorway and onto the veranda.

As she always did, she took in a big breath of the cool morning air, taking in the fantastical sight of the mountains cutting through the sky on the horizonline. They were shrouded in the mist of dawn, but on a clear day one could make out the treelines and rocky outcroppings on their faces. In the valley between her and shishou's hill and the range, a cluster of small villages was nestled. Plumes of cooking smoke, small and cozy and white, rose from a few of the houses, and Sakura was content to call this little slice of the world her home.

"Tsunade-sama?" she called, stepping down onto the cool stones of the garden. It was full of herbs in various stages of growth and vegetables that would be ripe within the week, and she stooped briefly to feel at their leaves to gauge their health, pleased. She rounded the corner of the house, stepping over the chickens as they lazily plucked the remnants of their breakfast from the ground.

The backyard of the home backed up to the Shikkotsu Forest, often rumored to be a legendary and mystical place. Every now and then she would pass by a frog or hear the deep, melancholy croaks of toads off in some stillwater pond or another. Sometimes even a snake would slither over her toes, or a slug would carelessly inch directly in front of her path, but for someone who'd grown up playing in its branches, the forest held none of that magical mystery. She could navigate it with her eyes closed, she was sure, and if there were some monster within—either of beast or of man—well, she knew how to hold her own in a fight. Tsunade had made sure of that.

She found her master with an axe in her hands, swinging precise blows down on fat logs of wood. Her kimono was as plain as Sakura's but open at the front to keep from sweating, her gauze-bound breasts pressed against her body to keep them from swinging with discomfort. She had one foot perched on the small platform upon which she chopped wood, her muscled thigh peeking out from where her robe would overlap if she were standing with any shred of modesty.

But this was Tsunade, and if not for her brashness, Sakura would be living the miserable life of an impoverished orphan somewhere in one of the villages below the hill of their healing hut.

"Morning, kid," the older woman said with a fond smile, wiping the sweat from her face. "And perfect timing, too. Take over, would you? I just realized I forgot to set out the gaiyou to dry, and that old bitty will be here before sundown. I'll need to dry it out by hand."

Sakura had already approached and taken the axe from Tsunade's hands, thinking on her words. Using chakra to dry herbs by hand required the most delicate of control; it was always good to get a reminder of how skilled her shishou really was, lest Sakura lose sight of her goal of being the best healer in the Five Great Nations. She still had a long way to go, but no way in hell would she give up.

As if reading her mind, Tsunade gave Sakura's cheek a light pinch, then brought her thumb up to her forehead.

"Your control gets better every day," she said after a short pause. She dropped her hand, propping it on her hip instead as she smiled. "Keep it up. When your yin seal finally forms, we'll talk about what that means for your future."

"Thank you," she said, beaming. "Learning from the best has its perks."

"That it does. Now get to work!"

Sakura spent the rest of the morning hours—and much of the afternoon, too—splitting wood into manageable pieces. Some of it was used in their home for kindling, and the rest of it was sold to villagers. It was Tsunade's strict policy not to charge for her expertise in medicines and healing, and though they lived largely off the land, they needed money for a few things here or there.

The pigs wandered by, some poking their noses to her legs or hands as they went. Their short, black hairs tickled, and she reached down to pat a few on their thick skulls. She wiped at the sweat beading at her brow, and just before placing the final log onto the small platform she heard a man's voice carry up the hill.

It was no voice she recognized, but travelers weren't exactly an uncommon occurrence to their practice. Hell, some villagers who'd never as much as caught a cold a day in their lives sometimes twisted their knees or pulled a muscle, and as she rounded the house she waited there to greet whoever it was, as was custom.

When the voice came again, she noted that it was calling Tsunade's name. The sound of it was rough, his words familiar and not at all the polite speech the villagers used to address either of them.

"Been a long time!" he was saying. "Hope you haven't forgotten about me!"

The man's hair, white enough to glint in the afternoon sun, was so tall it was the first thing Sakura could see of him. As he reached the top of the hill, she noticed that he carried someone on his back, his arms hooked under knees clothed in plain cotton pants. Immediately she felt a slight jolt of adrenaline: was the person injured? Poisoned? Dead?

The white-haired man did not seem bothered, though, which meant that either everything was fine, or he was insane. She swallowed and approached, but as his gaze fell on her he stopped his friendly hollering and gave her a surprised look of curiosity. He was handsome, far too handsome for that wild shock of his hair or his crude manner of speaking.

She bowed deeply despite her judgment. "Is everything all right, sir? The person on your back—are they in need of medical attention?"

"I'm fine," said the person, his voice dripping with annoyance. "Ero-sennin here insisted he carry me the rest of the way after I twisted my ankle, you know? I could've made it just fine!"

"Ero..." she repeated, on guard immediately. So this man was a sage of perversion?! Tsunade had taught never to withhold a service to anyone in need, patient or customer, by the lives they may lead. They'd both patched up plenty of bandits and shinobi and samurai alike, but for these men to be so brazen about his preferences...!

The younger one hopped down, careful to stay off of the joint in question. He was a boy, no older than she herself, with shaggy blond hair and symmetrical marks like whiskers lining the lower half of his face. His eyes shone blue as wildflowers in the summer, and she stared at him for some time before remembering her manners. It had been weeks since she'd last seen another teenager, and months since she'd seen a teenage boy.

"Please," she began, "stay here for just a moment. I'll tell shishou to prepare for your arrival and—"

But the older one held up his hand, a serious look coming over his features. "I'm a modest man who needs no preparation. If you're her disciple as I suspect, take the boy here and tend to his sprain. I would speak to the Lady of the Woods alone, for I have grave news: the Hokage Sarutobi Hiruzen is dead, and she has been named as his successor."