I'm aware that it's been two (!?) years since I updated, but even now I get alerts on reviews, being added to communities, and although I don't read/write fanfiction anymore, I wanted to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart.
I have to say that i'm really, really grateful to all of you. You are all wonderful people, and again, thank you so much.
Unfortunately, i look back at my old work and cringe-good I guess because that means I've improved, but bad because, well, this story was a passion project, but I really don't think about it anymore. But I realize I want an ending, so i've written this epilogue on what I think I was planning. It's a little dramatic and I didn't have anyone proofread, but meh.
This is dedicated to all of you, but some special shoutouts are
Ankaa Sage-for being my wonderfully patient beta, I love you
and (I might have missed people through my tears or misspelled, so please let me know!)
to 10th Squad 3rd Seat, Enigma Infinite, Madam3Mayh3m, NightlyRowenTree, grifman275, skidney, Himeno Kazehito, xenocanaan, Apocalypsebutterfly, Raven Blanchard-you all stuck with me from the beginning, and that means more to mean then I could ever say. I love you guys :D
One stroke, then another. The brush, the handle worn slick from years of use, carefully dipped into the placid blue black ink. Another beat of silence, another character on the crinkled paper.
Outside, the sun set, brilliant hues of red and gold arcing over the horizon, basking the village in a crimson glow.
Inside her apartment, Machiko blinked as the fierce light hit her eyes, and she averted her gaze, thick black hair rippling from the gesture, dark eyes set aglow with the warmth of fire.
Her husband was sleeping, exhausted from a long day, their children put to bed, and though she loved them all dearly, she cherished this solitude, her ability to just sit at her desk and write.
Carefully, she blew on the paper, holding slender white hands far away from the still wet words. Rereading her sentences, lovingly crafted, a gentle smile upturned her lips.
This one talked of drinks. Hot tea, of course, but she drew other memories to the forefront, images of thick peanut butter and chocolate milkshakes, of the burn of a vodka shot, the tingling fizz left behind on lips by a sweet drink she couldn't remember the name of. Many people here, in this shaded golden village, would have no idea what some of these were. She didn't even know if milkshakes existed here-she had never seen a cow here.
One she was satisfied that it wouldn't smear, she turned her attention to a nondescript box, already filled with thousands of pages of her smooth hand. Carefully, she slotted it under the F of her box, this cabinet filing system making her smile with nostalgia. She had implemented this the second Minato convinced her to take the role of senior advisor to Hokage, clutching the vauge memories of office internships, of fetching coffee and filing creamy yellow folders of paper. Even in a world where people could make copies of themselves, any office was prone to chaos. Minato had been impressed by "what the other world people can do."
In these boxes held her life work, started from when she first learned to hold a brush, up until now, older then she had ever been before, with children and a husband, a leader and role model.
Piece by piece, letter by letter, you could see the story form through the twists and swirls of the ink, about a woman who breached the barrier between worlds, who spoke ceaselessly of machines that roared through the sky, of bright neon lights and a world where chakra was only mentioned in hippie yoga.
Eventually, when she died-and she knew this would be her final death, could feel the truth drumming deep in her bones-people would read, and they would puzzle, and they might believe it, or they might think she was some fantastical storyteller, weaving tall tales out of flights of fancy and snatched daydreams.
That did not bother her in the slightest-she had not written the story out for them.
She wrote it for her children, she wrote it for the people she had confided in, who had supported and loved her, and continued to even after she confessed, and she wrote it for herself, everything she could remember from her first life-the glint of skyscrapers ripping through blue skies, the deep rumble of a car and the faint smell of gasoline, the steady tick of her wristwatch and voices made tinny over phones. But she also wrote of the glint of a kunai in the sun, of the statue of Mito Uzumaki that she had convinced Minato to commission in her role as senior advisor to the Hokage, of scrolls dripping with ink and hands moving too fast to see. Everything she remembered she cherished, precious treasures, looked on and admired and kept deep in her heart.
"Mama?" The sound, so discordant to the Japanese usually employed, made her look up with a smile. She had told her husband before they had married, and it had been his idea for her to be "Mama" to them. He said he liked how it sounded, but she knew he did it to offer her a link to her past, and she took it with gratitude. Everyone knew that Advisor Machiko's family all knew some interesting, mutually intelligible language, which was a subject of great fascination and gossip around the town.
"Hey, baby." She said warmly, holding her hands out, and her daughter gratefully sunk into her arms, dark hair fluttering in her face. Machiko pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"What are you doing awake, darling? You know we're visiting your cousins tomorrow." "Can'sleep, wanna story" The reply was mumbled into the fabric of Machiko's shirt, as Mito (Machiko insisted on the name, as it had corresponded with the unveiling of the statue) was obviously not as awake as she thought she was.
Machiko laughed, but obliged, settling her closer into her lap, and beginning her story.
"Once, there was a town where it always rained." She wove the tale, of girls with hair full of roses, of a fierce boy with fire in his eyes, of a child with eyes of concentric purple-no relation, of course, to the three co-rulers of one of Konoha's closest allies, Ame. She told stories about a young woman in a world without ninjutsu, who laughed loudly and drove quickly and dreamed of adventure, who was plunged into a fantastic adventure beyond her wildest fantasies, full of fire and storms, of bonds of blood and friendship, who had made a difference when she had always feared she couldn't. She talked until her voice was horse, the last vestiges of light long vanished to the march of dusky twilight, the stars glimmering in the inky night.
"And did she go home?" Mito asked when the story was done, small and warm and secure in Machiko's lap, her soft eyes looking up.
Machiko smiled, and pressed a kiss to her daughters' raven black hair.
"Yes, yes she did."
"Good." Came the yawned reply.
Sitting there in the night, her daughter half asleep in her lap, free and untroubled, she smiled and leaned back against the wall.
She was home.
I'm honestly crying you guys ;(((
Again, thank you for this amazing journey. If I ever get anything published, I'll think of all of you sweet, wonderful people who have stuck through with me-if anyone wants to hear when my other work is put online, message me!
Take care of yourselves
Edit: Quick note: I was getting a lot of questions, so I'm going to say that I specifically left Machiko's husband open because I don't remember who I decided on