Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Status: Incomplete
A/N: I'm trying to complete this story for NaNoWrimo.
She supposed she should remember how she died. It was a big thing—dying. Or at least it was, in her old life. Death was no friend to find comfort in, no wandering adventure that one could take solace in. Death, in her old life, was meant to be fought; to kick off the heavy layer of darkness and soothing warmth, and fight to reach that shining light. Perhaps her brain had blanked that part of her existence out, a survival mechanism—to keep her sane. Even she knew that remembering your own death, remembering those tantalizing last minutes could destroy even the strongest of minds.
The darkness remained, but she paid no mind to it.
Or at least, she deemed to try.
What she did remember was being born. She remembered the push and pull of the contractions, the heavy, wet walls that cradled her and then threw her out just as she was beginning to find comfort within them. She remembered the feeling of hands coming around her to snip the cord that led from her stomach to her mother, the sensation of being cleaned and cajoled into soft clothes and a warm embrace.
Those first few months were…terrifying. She could not remember how she came to be, other than that she had; and that she was here, surrounded by giants and strange, ringing words.
The first thing she remembered seeing were bright, brown eyes that held unreachable depths. Things blinked into existence slowly, color returning to her vision like an old, tired friend. She saw things anew—the rafting of her wooden home, the mud of the hut underneath her parent's high sandals, the brown of the cotton wool that surrounded her.
This world had been a new one.
One that made her feel as awkward as a colt trying to fit into its legs for the first time; as if she'd put on the wrong skin. There were still times when she brushed away dark curls expecting them to be blonde so pale they were white. There were still times when she spoke and could not recognize the timber of her own voice; too melodious, too smooth to fit the piercing hoarseness she remembered. There were still times when she jolted at the sight of her siblings, because she remembered only having one, and yet, now there were two.
This world was one that she could not fit in, not like how these parents wanted her to. She still felt the urges of the sun; the culture ingrained in her demanded that at the high sun, she drifts away from the fields to take a nap, while others in her village worked tirelessly, long finished with trying to urge her to stay.
It made her laugh when her sister looked at her strangely the first time she'd walked without her shoes. She missed, desperately, the feeling of green, green grass under her toes. She missed the rush of the brook near her used-to-be mother's home. The way the air smelled like fresh, fierce cold, the rush of winter coming to greet her on a September night. The mud between her toes, caking her soles made her feel grounded; she couldn't keep her head quite right, but the way the nature made her stop and listen, and tilt her head to catch it, made her feel like she was doing something right.
The flowers in her hair were relics of a long-lived past; days of blurry mothers with clear, blue eyes and wide, gallivanting smiles pressing tulips and daffodils into dirt, and then daisies into blonde, curling hair. The stems caught on her neck, and sometimes, she felt the whirr of curious wings fly past, but she kept them there, stranded on her head, until the homage had passed.
There were days when the urges to leave were strong, far too strong to resist, but she stayed, because her mother looked happier when she smiled, and her father liked to see her waltz her way up the dirt path, his fingers tightening on the forge, as if reassured that she was once more there; as if they were all slightly afraid her mind would fly away with time.
Those were the days where she felt the urge to paint and to draw and to dance, and she missed the sound of music more than anything in her entire two lives. She missed the sway of the beat in the air, the way the rhythm would thread itself around her soul, and she could feel the very pulse of life within the words inching their way under her skin.
Her mother looked at her strange when she sang, as if she couldn't quite understand the words that rumbled out from her chest, all too seductive. Her father liked to quiet his mind, and lean back against the floor of the hut, and find refuge within her song, as if his very soul could find peace when the melodies left her mind, tangled up in her lips.
The songs were bits of what she could remember. Low, eerie folk songs, eras of long past, when her mother would laugh and laugh and laugh, and teach her how to dance the Maypole in the wood at the break of dawn, for that was when Beltane came and the flowers in young lover's locks were tender and flush.
The songs were bits of prayer and whispers of cherished gods, when her aunt would shudder and writhe at the feeling of the spirits in the air, as if she could feel them frothing in the very air; as if Anu, and Airmid would form to greet her if she wished it hard enough and paid them enough in worship and love.
The songs were from the radio, from hearing the same, rasping pop songs on repeat after a terrible day at school, and her mother would smile behind her hand as she belted them out, terrible lyric after terrible lyric.
Her songs were precious and cautiously tentative, but they were hers and she could not stop them from tumbling out of her, the need so fierce it overwhelmed her.
She missed many things. She missed art, she missed the galleries in her winding, secretive city, where in every nook and alley was something to look at, something to marvel over. She missed the sound of Signor Yazovitch's piano—the polish carpenter who wanted to be a movie star—on bright, sunny mornings, his foghorn voice belting out love songs through the thin plaster of the apartment building walls. She missed the sound of Signora Raquel sobbing on the floor of her ostentatious living room, her makeup running down her face like a waterfall, after her daughter decided to run away with another uncouth man; this one, with long, flowing hair.
She missed, more than anything, the sight of Tia Conchita, with her long, shimmering, dark hair and calf-brown eyes, who lamented about the lack of love in her life—and how she would never be married, as she was far too beautiful to be held down by a single man.
She missed her mother, she missed her father. She missed her brother, Elan, who was an artist—as fastidious and pompous as the stereotypes, the only problem being that his art had the unfortunate circumstance of being atrocious to look at. She missed the way his brow would crease and fold like a thunderstorm, and his eyes would darken whenever she and mother tried to encourage him. She missed the way he shouted, arms crossed, with red cheeks, at the way he and Tia Consuela argued over art.
She missed that Tia Consuela, who had been shunned by a musician who painted the most stunning landscapes, was most cruel and brutally honest, her kindest piece of advice being, "those who cannot do, teach. Perhaps you will find wisdom in those words, Elan."
She missed her mother's lore, her father's stories, she missed the world she'd been dragged from, kicking and screaming and sobbing.
She missed many a thing; many a thing that could not, would not, be explained. The histories of loving summers and cold, joyful winters were ones that would not pass her lips; for they would not understand, and no matter how much she adored this new family, even for all of its faults, they would be afraid, and they would not look at her fondly, as if she were an eccentric, wandering soul any longer; where there was love, there would be fear and suspicion within their once-welcoming eyes.
And so, she stayed quiet. She stayed quiet and hummed her songs, and her prayers, and thought to her many gods, and wondered if death was the reason why she could see the spirits moving so easily in the air or if her mother's and father's stories truly had been right.
She had been two when she'd seen the kappa in the water. Her new mother had set her down near the fields, but as she often did, she wandered, her head soaring far higher than her shoulders, and stumbled onto the quiet rush of a stream.
She hadn't seen it at first of course, because she was watching the way the woods seemed to creak and groan with her presence and the wind wouldn't push her out quite as hard when the melodies left her fumbling lips. She stumbled onto it suddenly; one minute, she was on-land and dry, but leaning over the stream as she tried to catch a drifting leaf, and then the next, she'd felt the slippery scales of the spirit underneath her, and the squeal of surprise that left its beak.
"Hello." The word was warbling and high, and it made her think again, of times that were long past, times she wasn't quite supposed to remember.
The beastie looked at her, its mouth open wide, and she took in the sight of his blue-green scales, wide, black, glimmering eyes, and his tufty crest upon his head.
"I'm sorry for falling on you." She told him quietly, eyes riveted on the way his scales gleamed in the high-noon sun. "It was very rude of me."
The beastie watched her still, the shock having not receded yet, at least, not until she posed her next question.
"May I touch your scales?" she asked, "they look quite pretty."
"N-No!" It squawked, floundering in the bed of the stream, its claws making ripples in the water. "Why can you see me man-child?"
She tilted her head up, eyes catching on the pretty shape of a cloud. "I don't know. I've never seen a beastie like you before." A smile filled her face, and she looked back upon the squirming creature. "You're one of the prettier ones, I think."
"Man-children, Man-women, Man-Men should not be able to see me!" It growled, and for a moment, it hesitated, eyes still shocked and confused, as it struggled to figure out what to do.
They stood, for a moment, spirit and child, entwined in a small eternity, each one locked within each other's gaze, exploring this new discovery.
And then, suddenly, the sound of her mother's voice pierce through the quiet, and the kappa jolted, slipping back into the water with a sharp twist of its shimmering body, and then it was rushing and rushing away, under the tide of the water.
She watched it leave and stayed at the bank until her mother found her again and began to scold her for leaving the tree by the fields.
"But I saw a pretty cloud, Mama." She looked up at the fretting woman's face, "And I thought I should follow it."
To anyone who reads this story: enjoy!
There will be more mystical/supernatural stuff bc death and things :)
A/N: trying to complete this for NaNoWrimo