hello! this is an OC (not self, just OC) reincarnation story! i'm sure most of yall know the drill with these. the beginning is rather classic, but it'll branch off more eventually.
my favorite reincarnation stories that inspired me to finally write one myself were: Dreaming of Sunshine by Silver Queen (of course, I literally grew up with it!), Stamping on Butterflies by kjate95, all of peccolia's stories, Vapors (and its sequel) by ElectraSev5n, and recently This Transient, Floating World by the-word-builder. i have so many other favorites honestly, both in the naruto section and outside of it, but for the sake of brevity the only other shoutouts i'll give are to Kill Your Heroes by Evil is a Relative Term, which isn't an OC story but is an amazing Sakura-centric work, and Unsung Story of the Inconspicuous by Wrought, which has probably my favorite OC main character of all time!
anyway, i hope you like the start of nagisa's story! this chapter is a bit abstract, as the title may indicate. i'll be using this story to hopefully get back into practice with writing through some self indulgent world-exploration, since it's been 10ish years since I last tried creative writing but good fanfics just kept pulling me back to the idea of writing. i think i mostly need to work on proper grammar, pacing, and being less awkward/wordy. please enjoy! :)
italics = thoughts/foreign language/emphasis
Chapter 1 - As in a Dream
A low rumbling sound, echoing behind her head and all around her, heralded her first moment of consciousness. It was her earliest moment and memory.
The girl opened her eyes and saw only dark smears of grey across her vision, not that she knew what vision was yet. A soft voice flowed around her, enveloping her. To the girl, it became as much of a warm blanket as the wool she lay in.
She thought maybe she was supposed to be cold, since she had vague impressions of a deep chill on her skin - the slow but intense kind that gradually froze those without protection. But with the voice next to her, everything was pleasant.
A sudden burst of something stole across her view of greys. It was warmer than the voice. Shining yellow and orange, it moved and shifted as smoothly as a living being. She couldn't help but stare at it - her eyes hurt but it was captivating nonetheless. The voice rumbled in laughter, joining the soft roar of her surroundings. The girl couldn't move closer to the object at all, but gazing was enough for her to feel light and fuzzy.
The voice's laughter trailed off and the girl felt a gentle hand on her head.
"Isn't it beautiful, Nagisa?"
.
.
.
That was when her story began, I believe.
My story, however, began on a pleasant hill covered with tall purple blossoms.
We sat together on the same patch of grass. The town was invisible from our little spot—the lavender reached higher than the horizon, leaving the sky as our only view. It was midsummer, like in every other half-remembered, nostalgic tale. I couldn't feel the mosquito bites or the itch of the plants under me, but I could imagine them, reconstructed from all my other summers here. The wind came in strong gusts that rippled our surroundings, despite the burning sun.
Although Béa had sat down normally, I was lying on my back, taking in the atmosphere of our childhood home while we watched the sun lazily meander down the sky.
"When we were kids, you hated this place," my sister commented idly. She wasn't looking my way, but I glanced at her anyway, reminiscent.
"I hated everything when it was this hot," I pointed out. The cool stone of our home had been much more relaxing than the outdoors, and helped me organize my thoughts. What would be the point of purposefully leaving somewhere I was happy with? Better to stick with the place I felt comfortable in than run around where I wasn't.
She huffed slightly. "Such a nerd," she said, "since the beginning. Should've guessed you'd pick a super dry job too."
I decided I probably had to defend the honor of physics, or something. "You're the dry one," I said blandly.
"Hardly," she said, sniffing with mock offense."In both ways. I drink all the time, and I'm way more fun than you."
I didn't have anything to say to that, really. She was very much correct. Unlike her, I had never been the charismatic or entertaining type.
"I'm glad I returned though," I offered, rather than continuing the familiar pattern of insults. "I missed our parents, I think. Maman said I was still too skinny, then tried to stuff me full of bread."
Béa smiled vaguely. "When I got back she wouldn't let me help with any chores for, like, three days," she said. "Eventually Papa convinced her to stop, since we were both super annoyed. She totally needed the help, too."
"That's not too bad, considering. She treats me like a glass vase," I remarked. Béa didn't laugh. I was uncertain as to why I expected her to, but it just seemed like something she might have done. When we were younger, or yesterday.
"You kind of are like one," she said, eyes still fixed on the fast-drifting clouds.
Once again, I couldn't say anything. She had always had this impressive talent for silencing any remark I could have thought up. She was the quick-witted and blunt to my meticulous and indirect.
We didn't speak for a few minutes. It wasn't exactly an uncomfortable silence, but I knew precisely what we were both avoiding mention of. The only sounds were of the flowers shifting around us and the wind. Sunset was approaching, carrying a slight chill in the air. I sat up and tried to catch Béa's eyes. We hadn't talked about much of importance yet, but I needed to make sure of something.
"Hey. You'll take care of yourself, right? And everyone?" I asked quietly. "When I'm not here anymore?"
Béa seemed to shake slightly at the reminder. She looked just like another of the flowers beside us, shivering. "Obviously," she muttered.
"That's good to know." I said. "I guess I'm sorry. That it'll be difficult, I mean."
I decided to lie back down, but Béa quickly grabbed my hand with both of hers before I could. Curious, I looked up at her face.
Oh, I thought. She had been looking away because she was crying. Tears were pulling tracks down her cheeks. That did make sense, didn't it? I tried to marshal some kind of smile for her. "It's fine." I said.
She didn't respond, busy staring me in the eyes. That was alright, since I was too tired to say more, anyway. I decided to fall asleep on the hill rather than wait any longer—there was nothing else I really needed to do. I placed my head on the grass and chose to wait again.
.
.
.
At the time, that moment on the hill seemed to be an ending. In truth, it was the start of something else greater.
I met the girl, Nagisa, a little while later. I must have died from my illness, eventually, although I couldn't remember anything after that day. My memories of those last few months were indistinct. After death, I lost my own world. The ties to the familiar memories and people within it eroded away from me, like weathered old ropes finally snapping and casting a boat adrift.
I floated meaninglessly through time for what could have been any amount of "time", lacking both direction and awareness. It was difficult to put into words how it felt, since my consciousness wasn't active and cataloging sensations. I know that if I had been awake, the scientist in me would have been eagerly taking in everything.
But I wasn't, and I couldn't. I only remember it as something that happened in a dream—it doesn't have the same realism as events I experienced.
My journey through nothingness slowly brought me to a "something". I began to feel heat and movement around me. I pulled some of the scattered pieces of my identity together again. A scene faded into my view. The location and the world coalesced together out of the void, as a telescope comes into focus.
I sensed a life below me. It was fading away and losing its grip, the way I had, not that long ago. She thought of herself with the name "Nagisa", and didn't know that much else about the world. Out of the blue, I felt drawn to Nagisa. A dying soul, eye to eye with a dying soul.
I didn't want her to fade away from her world, too. I reached out to her.
Instantly, I coughed from the influx of feeling. The voice—my mother—became larger in my field of view. She spoke again. She sounded concerned for me. Was it because I was coughing? Coughing was a sign of sickness, I knew. I also knew I wasn't sick, since I was used to being sick, and I didn't feel sick, only cold. If my mother brought back the fire she showed me before, maybe I could finally heat up.
"Is she doing okay?" another person asked, then held me close. They spoke with a deeper tone than my mother. This was likely my father, then. I couldn't understand anything my parents said, but I was accustomed to them anyway. My father featured occasionally in my memories, though not as frequently as my mother, who was always nearby. I was poked in the nose a few times; I tried to squirm away a bit but moving was a challenge when being held. I managed to squeak and giggle a bit, though.
"I believe so. This is the most I've ever seen her move, though."
"But isn't she choking?"
"She isn't choking. It may be all this stuffy air."
"It's not stuffy. This is all normal."
"Yes, yes, local. I am but a simple outsider with weak lungs."
I was passed back to my mother as their conversation continued.
After a few attempts to look around, I concluded that there wasn't much to marvel at. I could see wooden walls, yes, and a roof, but it was hardly noteworthy. As a scientist, I prided myself in my observational skills. There just wasn't much here to observe. My mother placed me on the floor; I took the opportunity to crawl across the smooth wood of my home a bit.
I noticed my parents were speaking more quietly. The conversation seemed to take a more serious turn.
"I found out more about the emigration process, if you still want to know."
"I still do."
"Even though...?"
"We haven't been invaded yet, but who knows how long that will last?"
"It's coming more quickly than everyone thinks, yeah. I was talking to... you know, about it."
"I see."
"You do believe him, right?"
"Yes. No matter my personal feelings, he is usually correct about such matters."
"I won't tell him you said that, promise."
"I should hope not."
"So little faith!"
"In you? I have some. But in him, none."
"Wait, but if you don't trust him still, then, how are you feeling about..."
A moment of silence.
"I must accept my sister's choice. I wanted to watch over her, so I followed her here. That was a long time ago."
"And now?"
"Now she wishes for you and me to be happy. I... think I understand."
"She'll be okay, Miyori. She's pretty hardy. Like a weed."
My mother's laugh was a soft, steady one. I held my head up to look at her. The picture of poise, she covered her mouth with a hand and shifted her eyes away. "That is an apt description," she admitted, still smiling."It would certainly be more in her character to end up in our situation - gambling on the war's victor this way."
"Gambling, huh..." Soberly, my father brought a hand to his chin. "It is a lot to leave to chance. If we're really doing this, we'll leave once the summer starts—it'll be better for Nagi-chan that way."
I recognized my name, so I looked at my father and babbled curiously.
With careful hands, he picked me up and twirled me around the room in circles. "Who's a good kid? Nagi-chan is!"
The only apparent adult in the room brought a hand to her forehead. "She's not a pet, dear..."
He smirked mischievously in response to her exasperation.
Because he had pulled me up higher, I could finally see more of the house: into the hallway and another room beyond that. Straining my small neck to peer through the open door took some effort, but I managed a satisfactory glance.
Unlike our current whereabouts, it was singularly brimming with objects. I recognized some sort of furnace, perhaps, still smoldering. The walls, too, were far from bare. Metal blades of all sizes lined the room, some lined up neatly, some haphazardly scattered. They all reflected light from the embers of the furnace, orange like the shine of my mother's eyes. It was only a small sliver of the room, but every centimeter was covered in equipment.
In all honesty, it seemed to be some kind of armory. Were my parents Renaissance enthusiasts? A faint uneasiness pulled at the edges of my consciousness.
Now that I thought about it, my father's hands were rather calloused, and I could spot a few burns on his skin. They had always felt mildly scratchy whenever he picked me up.
He might actually work with metal then; nobody who was simply a collector would have a full blown furnace and workshop in their house. A simple enough conclusion to reach; a good start.
So, where was I? What was this place called? My memories were muddled and vague, my self of self lost somewhere in the silt kicked up from the bottom of my memories. Had something disturbed those waters, preventing me from divining what problem I faced? Perhaps if I learned the language faster, I might understand more about my surroundings, as I felt that I should. Somehow, not understanding others sat wrong with me.
My father was still spinning me. He enjoyed seeing me smile. I gave him a smile, since it would be rather strange if I didn't—uncoordinated but undeniably cheerful-looking. I was a child named Kan Nagisa, and always had been. Right?
.
.
.
The days grew longer and hotter as I regained my bearings. Piecing together what I knew about myself was a long process, complicated by the constant fog haunting my head. Remembering who I was felt not unlike waking up.
When you first come to from a particularly vivid dream, there is always a moment in which you can't tell what's real and what isn't; when you're filled with confusion over who and where you are. That spring felt like one of those mornings, only drawn out over weeks and months instead of seconds.
I worried sometimes, when I had nothing else to occupy myself with, that I might never lose that feeling.
But the time slipped by, and I gradually gained parts of the understanding I had been seeking when I first became... more than myself.
The three of us lived in a moderately sized house, near what might have been the center of a town, since I could see so many people pass by our windows every day. Apparently, it was never particularly bright around our house, even during the middle of the day. Maybe we were in a forest? While we lived in the back rooms, the front harboured a well-stocked weapons shop. We sold small daggers, bundles of wire, large swords, small swords, spiked discs that Father called shuriken, and a few frankly giant blades that looked too heavy for anyone to ever use.
My impression of Father being a blacksmith had been correct. And as it turned out, Mother was one as well. She lacked the patchwork burns that Father had collected, but she spent just as much time toiling over precise metalwork as he did. The way she gracefully shifted around the workshop, always at the right place and time, was mesmerizing to watch. Her long brown hair was held up by an elegant, apparently homemade comb, as the metal in her hold bent and twisted nimbly according to her wishes. I watched her and Father working almost every day, although only from the other side of a sturdy gate that kept myself and the sharp objects very separated from each other.
For a while by then, I had suspected that I wasn't exactly a baby. But the gate certainly made me feel that way.
Father would occasionally hold out some of the blades to me—the duller ones, of course—and describe what made them unique. This one was reinforced and could handle more impacts. This one was curved so as to be drawn faster and cause more damage. This one was slightly thinner and therefore more aerodynamic when thrown. It was certainly interesting and I tried to remember the tiny amount I could understand, though Father wouldn't expect me to; I knew his lessons to be an adult habit of rambling to babies.
"Nagi-chan's such an eager learner," Father dryly said once, prying a large metal needle out of my uncoordinated fingers. "Nagi-chan didn't even stab herself this time."
That sentence I could understand—I had heard the words stab and blood from Mother so much the other day, when she was coldly staring Father down, showing him the inconvenient puncture that was staining my small hand red. Wasn't it unusual to understand those words before the words "tree" or "person"?
Over time, I had picked up that my family and all of our customers spoke Japanese. I had been to Japan before for a conference, but the differences between that trip and my life now were immense; namely the lack of modernity. I wore modern enough clothes, but there was no semblance of advanced technology anywhere. No roaring of a nearby road, not a single cell phone. Somehow though, our plumbing and electricity were exactly as I was used to. We even had a fridge. Mother would stock it with groceries from ordinary-looking plastic bags, and cook dinner on an ordinary-looking gas stove top.
Along with the mismatched technology, there was another fact I noted. My parents, despite the success of their business, seemed antsy. I caught them trading anxious glances during the less busy parts of the day. They murmured to each other in low voices whenever it was completely empty in the shop.
Meanwhile, each day, customers in strange attire would arrive with repairs to be made or to stocks of smaller weapons to be refilled. Many of them had paler skin than my mother and I—closer to my father's appearance. They wore an incredible assortment of scars, on every part of their bodies. The customers, like my parents, weren't in the best mood—their clenched fists and the tension in their brows cut harsh lines into their otherwise calm exterior. I worried that if I touched them even lightly, they would explode out into spectacular shrapnel and leave me lying there, covered in a thousand scratches. They were afraid of something.
It was unexpected just how many of them came by to buy our products. Our business was constant, though the implications of that fact was something I tried to consider but instead kept slipping past me, like trying to hold water in flat hands. All of it must have meant something: the anxiety, the constant weapon sales, the scars. But for my purposes, all that mattered was that Father and Mother could afford nice clothes, and we ate heartily. Even if there truly was some threat out there that prompted those harried looks on their faces, the way I suspected.
Differences and realizations such as those began to coalesce in my subconscious. They dragged at my ankles, stubbornly biting into me and fighting to be acknowledged as I went through my day-to-day life. I had always been the child of Kan Miyori and Kan Touma, but I had also existed elsewhere. The awareness of not being 'normal' crept up slowly. Either way, I didn't attempt to communicate this to my parents. Keeping quiet about my concerns felt like a well-practiced habit, despite how I hadn't learned to speak yet. Instead of try to stand out, I simply followed the flow of my life. I obeyed directions. I observed.
Father often found me quietly waiting behind door frames. "You're a little turtle, huh?" he would say, picking me up and moving me out into the open. "Just sticking out your head!"
I would close my eyes, not protesting the relocation.
.
.
.
"Carefully," Mother warned, eyeing the heavy load Father had in his arms. "Yes, good, on top of the scroll. No, back up, the one with the green ribbon. There."
Recently, our house had been emptying. Our decorations were disappearing one by one, exposing disconcertingly bare walls like fall leaves revealing lonely branches. My parents had stopped restocking the store, too.
Father stepped back from the box and scroll as Mother bent down and pressed her palm to the scroll. The box vanished with a rush of smoke in front of my wide eyes. In its place, new ink patterns appeared on the paper. What? I thought. I stood up unsteadily from my chosen cushion and hobbled over to the scroll as quickly as my tiny legs could carry me. When I sat down on it, I realized the box was undoubtedly gone.
Almost immediately, I shifted into deep thought. No, that's definitely not right. The law of conservation of mass... states that...
My confusion was interrupted when a loud laugh escaped Father. "Look! Nagi-chan's confused! Poor Nagi-chan." He picked me up. "Fa—er," I attempted to protest, still reaching to the scroll. "Faaa—er."
"Very good, dear. She's been better at speaking lately, hasn't she?" Mother said. She rolled up the paper on the ground and tied it with the ribbon. "That's the last one. May I have some help with checking for anything we missed?"
"Well... I wouldn't want to get in your way. This is more your thing than mine."
"Touma. Dear. Darling."
"Yes, yes." Father said, not losing any of his levity. "I can start with the study and go from there. Do you think we can leave Nagi-chan in here while we look?"
A knock on the door stopped the conversation, and my hopes of getting a better look at the scroll in my mother's hands. "Oh, that must be Shiena. I'll get that." Mother said. I couldn't understand the sentence, but I could guess as to the situation. We had had several regular visitors in the past, so it wasn't an unusual occurrence to hear someone at the door, but I recognized the name "Shiena". I was mostly sure she was my mother's sister—she didn't come by too often; maybe she had a job that required frequent travel.
Mother opened the door and smiled. "Hello there, Sister."
"Miyori-chan!" Shiena nearly shouted, entering loudly.
Shiena was a rather short woman, compared to even my mother. Her presence was impressive, though. She swept into the room, greeting my parents, and her voice filled it immediately, turning the calm early morning into an energetic reunion. Both of my parents received a warm hug and exclamations over how nice it was to see them again, Shiena eagerly promising new stories. The way she drew them into conversation stunned me. She winked in my direction, too, and I managed a small, childish wave. She reminded me of someone I couldn't place.
Mother stood taller and lither than Shiena, keeping her hair pinned up, while Shiena left hers loose and held it back with a clip the color of her eyes. I could still easily see their similarities though, especially when Mother revealed a rare smile. They moved in sync to pack our belongings, as if they already knew exactly what the other was going to say or do. My father, on the other hand, hovered between the living room and the rest of the house, unsure how to best help in face of such profound efficiency. I listened to them chatting as they worked, picking out what little I could; eavesdropping was one of my only habits nowadays, with how little entertainment I had.
I caught a few familiar words, in between the lazy conversations drifting around the room.
"Tomorrow," from my mother, with soft eyes and a slight downturn to her lips.
"Home," from my father, drumming his fingers in an off-beat pattern.
"Love you," from Shiena, her arm on Mother's shoulder. Like a rock, or an anchor.
The house was warm and busy the rest of the afternoon. I came to the conclusion that we would be moving out the next day. Judging by the amount of business we received, we didn't have any financial difficulties. Maybe they bought a bigger house?
When night arrived and my aunt walked to the door, I was tired, on the verge of sleep. Mother and Father each gave her a hug, and picked me up to let her hold me one more time.
.
I would always vividly remember Shiena's eyes, a mirror of my mothers', tearing up when my parents happened to look away. They always stuck with me, even though I never saw her again.
.
.
.
A stern-faced man sat at the desk by the red wall's entrance.
From my spot in my father's arms, I glanced around. The sun shined down through the leaves on gigantic trees, and a bustling crowd pushed in and out of the entrance around us in other lines. To one of our sides, I noticed a tired-looking pregnant woman with crimson hair that seemed to capture every ray of golden light in its strands. To the other, a quartet of heavily armed men were having an intense discussion, eyeing the nervous merchant standing a few feet away. Somehow, the place we had arrived managed to be both terrifyingly strict and casually welcoming to those of us attempting to enter. Although there were all kinds of other people near us, they were nervous, eyeing each other as if a fight could break out any second. They clutched their large bags tightly, trying to keep their possessions as close as possible.
"Papers." the stern man snapped, staring at our little trio.
Father shifted from foot to foot a bit, but mother stepped up and handed him a folder, calm and elegant as ever.
While he checked over the folder, he waved his partner over to talk to us. She had strange, pale eyes, and even with a friendly expression seemed just as threatening to me.
"So," she began, eyes not leaving my parents. "Staying long?"
"Hopefully, yes," Mother said. "We obtained approval for immigration this spring."
The woman brushed her long hair behind one shoulder and made a vague sound, writing something down on a notepad. She still didn't look away, however. "You ninja?" she asked.
Both of my parents shook their head. "No," Mother said.
Again, the woman didn't react much, but she spent a while examining us. Her unsettling eyes looked even scarier now; the veins around them almost seemed to be bulging out. "Ok then," she said, eventually. "Any items you're bringing that you'd like to mention to me?"
Mother nodded. "A few weapons," she said. "Everything of note is written down on page five."
Apparently satisfied, the pale woman nodded and stepped back, allowing her partner to continue reading in silence.
It seemed to take ages for him to finish inspecting the papers inside, but after a while he nodded. "All right. Make sure you show up to the security check within a month, or we'll have to... hunt you down." He smiled meanly then—his first facial expression the entire time we'd been waiting. "Which wouldn't be very pleasant for you."
His instructions continued on, and I continued to not understand them. I busied myself with trying to catch glimpses of the people walking by again, and their unusual hair and eye colors. Like a kaleidoscope. Blue, green, red, pink, all passing by. I listened to all my senses. The beautiful trees behind us rustling in the breeze. A bug flying past my ear. The sound of feet on roads and tense conversations. Little blonde wisps of my hair sticking to my forehead. The burning summer sun. Nature and man.
"Well, go ahead, then," the man at the desk said with finality, catching my attention.
My father set me down, and my mother grabbed by hand in hers, walking us through the gates. I took a small step in front of them, trying to see better. Around us, houses and wide streets stretched out away from the wall. The buzz of daily life rang in my ears. Up ahead, I caught a glimpse of the cliffs overlooking the city. Then I saw four heads, carved into them, staring down at me, in a familiar way. Had I heard of heads on a mountain before?
.
Mother squeezed my small hand in hers. Her gaze was locked somewhere ahead.
"Konoha," she whispered to me. As if we were sharing a secret.
.
.
.
"You can't do this! Why are you leaving me?"
A dead body in the lavender fields.