Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Status: Incomplete

"Give thou thine heart to the wild magic," she murmured, face wet, as she pushed back the branches of the tree, her hands coming away sticky with sap. "To the lord and the Lady of Nature, beyond any consideration of this world."

The air was charged with electricity, and the sky rumbled, even as the sun inched across the horizon, breaking the restrictive hold of the nebulous clouds. Her hair whipped back and forth over her shoulders, soaked and icy against her frozen skin. Her lips felt numb, her fingers even number. Her lips were blue in her face, and her teeth chattered so much she could barely force out the comforting words.

"Do not covet, large or small, do not despise, weakling or poor, semblance of evil, allow not near thee," she whispered the rites of old, the ones her mother taught her when she was small and made her not to say them in church. "Never give nor earn thou shame."

She prayed, desperately, to her old gods; the ones with the creaking temples and whispered rites, whose people barely dared to raise their voices and yet, were heard all the same. She prayed to her mother, her father, her brother as she brushed the tree branches aside, and searched the bark for the entrance to the child.

The night roared its fury, the spirits reeling with wrath, and her face was wet, and she tried, desperately, her words gaining panic and frustration, as she threw herself against the bark, over and over, her voice climbing to a shaky screech.

"Blessed Mother come to me and cast your lovely golden light! Give light to earth so that I may see your glory, shining ever bright!" She cried, wet, cold and terrified. Her tears dribbled down her face, and she was afraid, so very, very afraid.

Afraid that her gods would not come to aid her. Afraid that the spirit would do good on its promise to swallow her sister's soul and ravage the family she'd come to accept as her own. Afraid that the child would die in the arms of a blood-tree, when then world outside it raged and burned for flesh she did not know. Afraid that she would forever be cursed to stand outside this very tree, her fingers clawing the trunk, bloody and frenzied, and no one would ever find her here.

She leaned her forehead against the bark. The sap felt slick, and sticky, and it oozed over her skin, tangling in her hair, as she cried, sobbed, even screamed.

"Please." She begged the tree. It groaned beneath her touch, and she could feel its energy preparing to strike, the fury and malevolence gaining an anger so fierce, it would strike down any who dared to come across its path.

"Please," she begged again, and her bitterness was hot and fierce in her chest. "The child will die. The child—it is innocent. His life…h-his life s-should not b-be claimed, not now—I—please."

The tree stilled, and the storm seemed to hush for a moment, and the tears trickled down her cheeks and mingled with the sap and dirt and sweat.

"Please." She whispered.

The tree shuddered, once, twice, and then the sound of creaking wood echoed in the clearing and she closed her eyes as she felt it close around her.

Thank you.

…

Yasuo knew his sister was strange.

He knew there was something wrong about her; something so fundamentally different it itched at him, made him sweat whenever she looked at him a little too long. He thought it was her eyes, the ones that were so similar to their Okaa-san's; dark, thunderous slate in the night, and pale, shining pearl-gray in the high sun, ever-shifting. There was something wrong about her gaze, as if she could look right through you with a single glance and know everything she wanted to.

His sister was wrong. There was an itch about her, a persistent, digging niggling suspicion that ran deep within him. It started, he thought, when he heard her talking at the creek. She was still little then, but her head had forever been in the clouds, and he'd followed her because he was bored, and she always had a funny look on her face when he pinched her too hard; as if she was pursing her lips from scolding him, and it made him feeling a little powerful—as if, maybe, he could control that little zing of a thrill, and twist it and cajole it into something more.

As if he could control her—Hitomi.

He didn't know why he wanted her to adore him, he just wished it intensely; more than anything else in the entire world. He wanted her to look at him and smile like she did at the plants, and leaves, and fields, and creeks, and stray cats. He wanted her to look at him like he was someone, something, important, like he mattered.

He wanted Hitomi to look at him like he was her brother—older, all-knowing, all-powerful.

Hatsue was different of course, but then Hitomi always made everyone else look normal. His youngest sister was stubborn, and hard-headed, and a little too narrow-minded to be fun but she still looked at him like he wanted Hitomi to—like he was the oldest, better one. Like he was the one that everyone looked to for guidance, for advice—after their parents of course.

And so, he watched her, out of the corner of his eye, and saw her grow. She barely noticed the years passing so far gone in her mind, but she grew all the same, her childish, sharp face smoothing out, into darker skin, wider eyes, and longer lashes, and even sharper angles.

His sisters weren't the pretty ones out of them all, he had always been, and that was something he lorded over them like a well-earned achievement. Hatsue always flushed in anger when he talked about her heavy-set shoulders and thick soles, but Hitomi only looked at him, with her too-sharp face, and bony cheekbones, and smiled, that soft, airy smile, even though her eyes were far away.

Yasuo wanted her to look at him.

He wasn't the only one, no, of course not. There were many that wanted Hitomi to glance upon them. She was a lonesome child, and apart from Hatsue, she didn't interact with the villager children, but Yasuo did.

He noticed when she turned into a young woman and the rest of the boys that played with him sat up and took notice of the way her curves filled the embroidered yukata she wore, how her face had lost its child-like look, and her lips were fuller, how her hair was longer, glossier, even though she stuck flowers and plants and sticks in them like a crazy person and he knew she didn't brush it a hundred times every night like Hatsue and Okaa-san did.

When they were little, it was easier—they didn't take notice of her, not when she walked barefoot, or hummed her silly songs, or bowed to the trees and talked to thin air, or smiled airily, absent-mindedly, as if she heard someone's rather funny reply.

But Hitomi didn't grow out of these ticks, they only solidified and with that eerie, enticing foreign strangeness came want and need and greed. Hitomi was different and they wanted her for the same things Yasuo did—attention.

She was the only one of the village girls that didn't notice when the boys grew muscles and worked the fields bare-chested, sweat slick on their skin; the only one who didn't look over and flush or giggle.

She wasn't a serious girl, not like Hatsue, who many boys tried to woo, and turned away scorned when she leveled them with an unamused, blank stare. She just didn't care—or at least, that's what Yasuo thought in the beginning.

Hitomi didn't seem like she cared about people, because she wasn't ever looking, talking, walking with them. Hitomi didn't seem like she cared because her head was in the clouds and her eyes were far away, untouchable, unreachable, and no one, not even Hatsue could drag her down when she wished to go.

But then he watched, and he saw—she sang her songs when father was tired and the gray at his temples had begun to thread through his dark hair, and when mother's shoulders sagged at the end of a hard day. Hitomi didn't complain when they cooked meager meals, only smiled and took what was left, pretending she wasn't hungry when he knew he would hear her stomach growl later. She didn't make a fuss when her yukata was too short, and her sandals were too shabby, ripping at the twine, she only hummed a nonplussed answer and began to go barefoot.

Hitomi was different, but she was, ultimately kind.

Yasuo wasn't.

He wasn't kind, not like Hitomi—not even like Hatsue. He was selfish and vain and cruel, and he laughed when Yuki fell into a muddy ditch and scratched her perfect face, and the lord that had called for her hand removed his suit the next day. He liked when the village girls would flush under his attention, and move into his touch, even though they knew they shouldn't. He liked when the grandmothers shook their heads and muttered bitter things about their crying granddaughters' and broken hearts.

Yasuo liked being powerful, liked being selfish and vain, and he didn't want to change it.

He wasn't like Hatsue who labored for everything she wanted, and spent weeks and months working up the money to pay for a new cut of cloth from the tailor to fashion herself a new yukata. He merely smiled and swaggered up to the old woman, and trailed his finger down her arm, and watched her flush and squirm, because she was lonely, and lonely women liked to be noticed by young, pretty men; and he'd come home with mussed hair, and red lips and a brand-new silk cloth.

He wasn't like Hitomi, who was a new stratum of strange unto herself. Hitomi who hummed and danced and skipped and folded flowers into her wild hair, but she made sure to pick fallen children off the ground, and stayed with them to tell wild, winding stories, even though she sat in the mud. Hitomi stayed when people needed her small, strange kindnesses, unlike him. He would merely scowl, and shove the children out of the way, although not as roughly as he would an adult, and continue to skulk down the road.

…

It was a maze of wood and limbs and bones. Red, old blood spattered the walls. Inside, everything was muted. The screaming, horrifying noise of the storm sounded far away within the tree, and Hitomi found herself wiping away her tears as she tried to look around.

Pitch, black darkness greeted her instead. The tree groaned and creaked around her, and she tried to blink, to catch some semblance of light, but caught none save the crackles of lightning that traveled through the walls of this wooden cage.

She sucked in a breath.

…

It was Hitomi's kindness that drew Hiroyuki to their doorstep.

She might not remember it, in the airy skull of hers, but he did. The butcher's boy was a hulking beast of a man, with straining muscles, and an ugly, brutish face, all mashed together like someone had forgot to knock it all into place. He was quiet, and steady, and no one bothered him, no one truly dared.

Hitomi rarely noticed when her siblings trailed after her due to her mother's request, but Hatsue was working in the fields and she had begged him, promising him a new pair of sandals, so he could follow her this time, so that their sister wouldn't end up killed, and lying dead in a ditch somewhere, the cries of the Senju and Uchiha trailing in the air.

He followed her that day, to a glen in the meadows, glad that she hadn't traversed the forest that day; the one that felt like your very soul left its body when you dared to step in its midst. The glen was narrow, and the flowers that stretched across its plains were lush and rich and he settled back in the grass to listen to her humming; her foreign songs wild and free on the breeze.

She spent the day there, and she made crowns of daffodils and daises and rich, bursting blooms that made her smile, softly, kindly, in that way that made him think of lost things. Her arms were full of thyme, pockets bursting with sage and mint when she rose, the sun yellow like a yolk in the orange sky and made her way back to their home.

It was that day that he noticed that she never did return without something. It was also the day that he noticed she was kind, and that no one really quite knew what to do when she was.

(She was supposed to be feared after all—a witch in girl's clothing.)

He wasn't careful when he followed her, for she didn't notice, hadn't ever noticed, but that day she stopped in the woods, when she heard a grunt of anger and rage, and the crack of wood on flesh and bone.

She tilted her head, eyes shining in the sun like glinting opals, and she settled the herbs down on the ground, and stepped inside.

He balked, at first, superstition clogging his throat, and stringent fear making him stutter in his steps, but he thought of his beloved Okaa-san's face, shining with loss and grief as he brought his sister's spirit-less body, and swallowed it down to follow her.

…

Morrigan, my lady of darkness and war, I petition you—answer my call.

It had been years, decades, centuries since she'd prayed for them, the ones she wasn't to speak about, so not to scare the others around her, but now, in the darkness of the night, and brimming morning, she bowed her head in the blood-tree and prayed.

Tunupa, father of my blood, creator of my world, I beseech you—answer my prayers.

…

"You shouldn't go punching trees, you know."

Yasuo stopped dead in his tracks, fear striking him still.

There was a rustle, and a shocked silence and then she spoke again.

"You're bleeding. Are you sure you're alright? Hands are very hard to heal if they break the right way."

…

She stayed still, hardly dared to breathe, and listened to the groan of the tree around her. She could feel the slick blood on the walls, and the way the tree breathed, closing around her, tighter and tighter, until her cheeks were wet with blood, and her throat felt the bones jutting from the walls, razor sharp.

Still, she stayed, and her lips murmured prayers, her mind already half-gone with fear, as she trembled, yearning, yearning, yearning.

Please, let me find him, please, please, please.

…

Yasuo hid behind a tree, and watched his sister as she smiled, airily, at the boy with the hulking frame and hard, broken eyes. She approached him, and it was almost comical how different they looked then—him the looming, enormous giant, with tree trunks for arms, and she the slender little bird, with breakable skin.

"Look," she said, and she pulled his bloodied knuckles to her. His hands spanned the entirety of her waist. She unfurled his hand slowly, taking care not to rip broken skin. Her dainty fingers traced the bruises, and she clucked her tongue, just their Okaa-san did. "Oh lord in heaven, you've nearly ruined them."

And as she looked up into the butcher boy's eyes, with her strange kindness and hazy clarity, he saw it—the exact moment when she hooked him.

Hiroyuki looked at his sister, the strange, bizarre one with too much wild, and he saw something that told him he was worth more than his father's fists and drunken yells, and the burning intensity in his eye, softened if only just.

"You've got to clean them now," Hitomi told him, looking up underneath her lashes. "So, they don't get swollen, infected—so they don't hurt too much when they heal."

Yasuo watched, and he saw how she weaved calm around her, and settled the boy's shoulders and drew him out of the scarred, twisted shell.

Yasuo watched as Hiroyuki slowly, carefully, allowed himself to lower his walls as she spoke, his hands in her lap, as she tore away a strip of cloth, and mopped his bloodied knuckles.

Yasuo watched as he blinked, slowly, eyes soft, and Hitomi spoke of wondrous things—castles in the sky, and spirits who were kind, and glittering, pleasant cities that shone like gold and held the secrets of the world in their palm, who loved its children, and held them close to its bosom.

He watched as his sister stood, and bowed, wearing her absent smile, and left the boy there, his heart racing in his chest, hands bandaged and clean.

…

She gasped when she heard the wet, rasping whine. Her eyes fluttered open, and she felt the tree loosen around her shoulders, letting her through. She stumbled, skin tearing under the sharp bones and slick with sap and blood, hands brushing the walls, tentative hope fluttering in her chest.

Hitomi sobbed in relief when she found him—the child.

…

Yasuo knew his sister was strange, and that is why he heard when she put on her overcoat, quietly, and tucked her hair underneath the collar, and unlatched the door. He watched, eyes barely open, as she gave them one last glancing look, and slipped out the door, closing it shut.

And he knew his sister was strange, but he thought of his mother's face when she heard Hitomi's songs, and the way she smiled, at peace when his sister sang, and so he rose, and tiptoed out the door to follow her into the night.

…

"Hush, little one," her voice stuttered on her grief. "I'm here, I'm here, don't you worry now, don't you worry."

He was a mess of blood and guts and entrails, and her stomach was open. His face was pale, sweating. He didn't even move as she rushed to him, hands lifting his face. He was going to die if she didn't do something. He was going to die in the cold, away from his family, inside a blood-tree, a strange girl hovering over him.

Her tears slipped down her face, and her chest heaved as her hands fluttered over his open chest. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't heal the boy, not like this—not with her hands and hope alone. She wasn't a doctor, and even if she was, she couldn't sew him up and hope for the best. She had nothing but dirt and prayers, and for once, she truly felt helpless.

"What can I do?" she blubbered, breathing hitching. "Oh, my gods, oh Morrigan, Tunupa, Saint Mary, Joseph and Lord Jesus Christ almighty, what do I do?"

…

He lost her several times, but his heart stopped dead in his chest as the forest loomed over him, a heaving, roaring graveyard of swaying trees and furious spirits. He saw her enter, determined, as if she was following something only she could see.

The winds battered against him, and he nearly lost his footing as he trudged forward, through the fear and pain and desperation, his will and determination alone holding his legs up.

He followed her, because he knew he couldn't back now, and because he was afraid—because Hitomi was his sister, even for all her strangeness, and he couldn't bear to watch her lolling, life-less eyes and leave silent eternities behind.

…

Her hands trembled, and her mind was panicked.

"I don't know what to do!" she shouted, hoping something, someone would hear her. "What do I do, oh god, oh god."

She didn't want the child to die. Not only because her sister would, but because he was a baby. She could see his round, childish face. She saw his pudgy fingers and short legs, and she wanted to scream and sob, and now, looking upon the bloodied, dying child, she understood the earth's anger, deep and furious, grieving and dangerous.

She understood, and so she begged.

And then, something sparked within her, and it was such a silly little miracle one she barely remembered she could do; that she nearly laughed, but she couldn't with the lump pressing against her throat, and raised her glowing, blue hands to torn flesh instead.

Please, please, please. She begged, and she prayed that she'd be heard.

…

It was morning when he found her.

The roaring storm had receded, and the world was soft. Larks flew, hesitantly, into the morning sky, the sun rising with a pink glow, and the dewdrops on the trees were glistening, a picture of calm.

He stumbled, dead tired, blonde hair stuck to his face, and eyes bleary.

Yasuo didn't know it was her she appeared on the field; she was crying, sobbing, and he couldn't remember a time that she'd done that, even as a child; as she came closer, he saw her familiar bony face, high cheekbones, and silvery eyes, and his heart stopped in his chest.

He stood frozen and watched.

Yasuo watched her, with her slack mouth, eyes wide and afraid as she struggled to him, her dark, wet hair plastered to her pale face, and the front of her yukata was thin, and stuck to her skin, and she looked so small and slender then, like the ebbing night could swallow her whole.

The child sat, swaddled in her arms, bleeding, and gasping, his hands clutched around her neck, and it was that that shocked him to the very bone—her desperate face, and wobbling mouth, and for the first time, he realized that his sister, the one that didn't pay attention, not like she should, was afraid.

So very, desperately afraid.

"Help me."

Morrigan: is an old celtic god who represents the circle of life and both birth and death. her name means phantom queen or great queen.

Tunupa: is the god of the universe, and believed to be the father of Aymara civilization in indigenous religious beliefs

Give though thine heart to the wild magic […]: is a psalm that I found in relation to old, druid, celtic practices (may not be accurate)

Blessed Mother come to me and cast your lovely gold light […]: is another prayer/psalm/rite from old celtic practices (may not be accurate)

Pro-tip: a lot of her hesitance in calling these gods is to do with the suppression of indigenous beliefs in both Ireland/Scotland/Bolivia as Catholicism/Protestantism is preferred; it's also why we see her balk at the fact of actually speaking these prayers aloud, because "pagan" and indigenous beliefs are often scoffed at/disbelieved and considered "false".

Enjoy :)