Okay! Chapter 4, up and ready to be posted! I like the beginning of this, but... the middle and end, not so much. This one'll probably one day be rewritten, or something. I don't know. ..; What do you guys say?
3! I want to give a special thanks, to The Obsidian Goddess. She's like, my number one fan, other than my boyfriend; who automatically doesn't count. Sorry, Brandon. I love you to death, since I know you're going to read this, too. Eheheh. But, yes. Thank you, so very much, for supporting me. And for being patient with me and my long-delayed updates. ; Don't worry, if I don't update for a while, I -will- do it, you have my word. I really do want to finish this thing. It'll take a long time, though, as you can already tell... There's a LOT more to come. This's the tip of the iceburg. ... Did I spell that right? Ice...burg...? Oh, who cares!? Thank you, both of you. The Obsidian Goddess, and Brandon. And thank you, everyone else who reads this fanfic, because every person who reads it, whether they review or not, is important to me. Love you guys!
Before I get started with the actual fanfic. There are a few things I want to clear up. It might seem, given this chapter and a few to come, that I'm actually doing a bit of hopping to cover my tracks with certain things. Or, maybe no one'll notice this... Either way, I'm going to say it now. About Zabuza's father. In the last chapter, Zabuza mentioned that he was not at all abused as a child; his father was just strict, and punishment was severe. You're undoubtedly going to see a few things(a -few-? Not sure if that's an understatement or not..) that might possibly make you think, 'WTF?' No, nothing like.. molestation or rape. Pssssh. But anywho. Zabuza does not consider any physical damage his father deals him as abuse; merely, punishment. Punishment for things he has no control over, but.. nonetheless. What else was I going to bring up, that I forgot about? Uh...
... This first flashback, Zabbykins is asleep. The second, he's not. He's just kind of... spaced out, staring at a whole lot of nothing across the room. Or maybe he did fall asleep? You'll never kno--ow! ... Eh. Or something. I'm trying -really- hard not to make this corny. xD The fanfic, I mean. Like, with his mother, and all the things that'll happen later. (Yes, you'll get to see into his past two more times like this. Bwahahahaha. .. Sorry?) If my ideas are really horrible, then, I apologize. But I really -am- putting a lot of thought into this stuff. So, nyah. I didn't want to just.. have Zabuza look the way he does just BECAUSE, you know? I actually wanted to give it some meaning. And no, he did not magically recover from his little ailment, as you'll see towards the middle of this.
Yes, everything I put into this fanfic, no matter how small and trivial it may seem, is in there for a reason, usually. USUALLY. Just don't pick it apart and think like, .. a blade of grass or something is symbolic. xD; Oi. Any symbols and/or important mentions, etc. will be revealed in due time, as will what they're there for. Don't worry.
And no, I haven't forgotten about Kubikiri Houchou, Kisame, Raiga, the Demon Brothers(whose names I'm too hyper to remember. Meizo and Gozu or something?), or Zabuza's desire to become Mizukage in the original Naruto. You won't see much of him planning a coup d'etat, but it -will- come into play at the very end when everything wraps up. Your duty, as readers, is to decide, however, what really happened on Zabuza's part, and what did not. Take that however you want it. 3 And no, that was not a spoiler. Just a heads-up.
Chapter 4: Man That You Fear
Every morning, whether the sun was shining warmly from above or tears poured down from the Heavens in the form of raindrops, she could be found amidst the flowers, singing to herself as nimble fingers plucked free unwanted weeds or sprinkled water down on the blossoming, color-filled plants so deeply cherished. And some mornings, when there was no extra work to be done, she would sit on the edge of the stone fountain's base with a book, exploring inside the pages to a world of fantasy and romances that always ended in happiness. No matter what day, no matter what time of morning, always she would be out there in her garden, among the flowers; her flowers. It was her escape, her sanctuary. Her paradise.
And in her paradise, he too found paradise. Because his paradise had always been with her. In her arms, at her side... hiding himself behind her to occasionally peek out and catch a glimpse of the unforgiving world. But he'd never once had a reason to fear that world beyound the hem of her dress, because she protected him. She hid his eyes from the things he needn't see. She covered his ears from the words that didn't need to be heard.
Every morning, when Zabuza woke up, the first place he would go--after pulling on his clothes, combing his hair, and brushing his teeth--was outside into the courtyard. There were three doors leading out into the courtyard: two directly across from each-other, the third located to the far south. The mansion was built with a large square to one side of it, further left than center, so going through any door would lead back inside. The first two led into hallways on the first floor, which if followed led to opposite ends of the room behind the third door; the parlor, where now and then the captivating music of the piano flitted out of.
Trees that extended almost above the roof of the house were scattered all throughout the courtyard, but the branches stretched out far enough to the sides to canopy the ground, so the sunlight that filtered through the trees seemed dyed a lighter green. There was no one patch that was not covered by the shadow of the leaves. Still, given these conditions, the flowers so far below managed to grow without problem. In a way, the trees seemed to be protecting their smaller plant friends, and the flowers responded gratefully by continually shining their vibrant array of colors.
In the very heart of the courtyard, a fountain had been built. Stone fairies danced on a smaller basin, what looked to be daffodil cups tipped to allow water to pour from them. The water flooded over the sides of the basin, into a larger basin, to be recycled back up to the top of the fountain in a neverending cycle. Around the lower, larger basin, on the edge of the base, was where she could be found, seated comfortably. There were also benches located around the fountain, three of them, made of the same stone. On any one of these benches was another possible spot for her, depending on her mood perhaps.
Every morning, when he hurried out into the garden, it was not quite with a smile; smiling was something he seldom did. But for her, he always offered the closest thing, face upturned to hers, as he climbed into her welcoming lap and gentle, loving embrace. And always, always... she would smile back, with a smile bright enough to light the world.
A smile bright enough to light -his- world.
The Lady Momochi, appropriately named Akiko, was a fairly young woman; the year of her son's birth, she had celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday, which fell on the fifteenth of May. In the eight years she and Kazuo had been married prior to Zabuza's arrival, the two lovers had chalked up their lack of a child to his frequent absences, being the military general that he was. There were times where he was forced away for entire months on end, leaving their only means of communication letters written with the utmost love.
As the years passed, and the civil wars raged on, Akiko's life became consumed with fear for not only her beloved husband, but for his bloodline as well. What if something were to happen, and he-- ... he found himself unable to return? Who would carry on the Momochi name, without a son? Night after night, she prayed. She prayed for a child.
And, as the years passed, her prayers remained unanswered, much to her dismay. Her body simply would not take her husband's seed to create the new life they both longed for. She was deemed infertile.
But that did not stop the two from loving each-other, the way that they always had. No; in a way, it had caused Kazuo's love for his young wife to burn stronger. It gave him more reason to return home every opportunity he recieved, to see that beautiful smile set on a chinadoll face. It gave him more reason to cherish her, to worship and adore her, to make her feel like the princess he truly viewed her as. For it seemed that they were all each-other would ever have.
Eight years of marriage, eight years of her unanswered prayers. Finally, with great difficulty, Akiko recieved her blessing. A son. To her, the most beautiful baby ever to be born. They had been warned that, due to his mother's family's history of health, there was a possibility that the child might come out deformed, or worse, stillborn. It broke Akiko's heart especially to hear this, but, not once did she lose faith. Every chance she recieved, she would speak with her unborn child, or hum a little tune for him. Sometimes, she would even sing. Sitting out in her garden, letting the days pass by without notice until her husband's return, she would tell their child stories about him, about the great, strong man that he would one day call 'father'. And sometimes, she would say nothing at all, but instead listen to the sound of the birds singing and chirping happily above her head; she hoped with all her heart that he too could hear them, that he felt the same joy she did from their tiny twittering voices. The same butterflies that fluttered by, she imaged fluttering around her child inside her body every time he moved, whether it be to shift or remind her of his presence with a little kick.She was happy.
August fifteenth came, and he was ready to enter the world at last--three weeks early, though not with any consequences.
He was a healthy, beautiful baby boy. Originally, she had wanted to name him 'Makoto', finding it to be a very dear name for a little boy, one that would hopefully influence his later characteristics into sincerity and loyalty. However, Kazuo and she had eventually settled for 'Zabuza', after much persuasion from the elder of the relationship. To her, it sounded violent, a soldier's name. But if it truly pleased her husband. And so Zabuza came to be.
He did not cry, despite how the doctors attempted to force him to. He made little sound at all. If not for his steady breathing and squirming, they might have mistaken him for dead. It was not natural for a newborn to remain so silent. Another problem they quickly caught onto, was the strange pigment of his blood-soaked skin. When cleaned up, yes, he held only a slightly pink coloring, but why so pale, dark--ashen? And it did not change, as the days passed. As the weeks passed. It did not change, despite the passing years, whereas facial features would sharpen and dark, cold eyes would maintain a deathly sunken impression--only slightly correcting over time.
This child's problem, doctors searched and searched until concluding, was a blood deficiency. To his mother, this meant little, except that he required extra care. To the rest of the country, and even his own father, however, it meant that he was not normal. A monster, he would come to be called early on, until the title's sudden ascention into that of a 'demon' instead.
This estranged child, even if he had desired to could not play games with the other children, frail as his body were. Stepping foot outside in the bright hours of day proved to be painful. He held little energy, barely enough to sustain moving through the world like a zombie, a walking corpse, as his color and size both cast the appearance of. It was only in the comfort of night that he was able to truly explore the world outside in the earlier years of his life, which he was not expected to live beyound. Only the pale glow of the moon and stars refrained from burning at his sensitive flesh. And then the blood transfusions began. What his veins lacked, was exactly what he required to live, and so, starting with once a week, trips to the hopsital were made to give the starving body its dose of thick red liquid. It was in these procedures that the Momochi heir first discovered his lust for bloodshed.
In a sense, this child was a vampire to the eyes of society. They grew to fear him, and in turn, to hate him; even his father, who had once been so prideful of the son he and his lovely wife had been blessed with. Now, there was no pride; but the bitter shame that he indeed had brought such a monstrosity into the world. It was his seed that had created the cruel-eyed little boy so fond of sitting in the window of his bedroom, staring passively, but still disdainfully, at his peers below and their endless games. Sometimes there would be hiding, sometimes chasing. Sometimes they would form teams. Sometimes, they would bicker, but most of the time they laughed, a sound that seemed to echo and hang in the dead silence.
The solitude never bothered Zabuza himself. He was content spending his life with his mother, his beloved mother...
Despite having a strong voice, at first he preferred silence as his means of communication, the prologue to the man he would later become: the master of silent killing, Kirigakure no Kijin. First, however... he was a child, regardless of behaviour or mentality.
And it was this child that constantly clung to the arm or skirt of his mother. Was it for dear life, for his own survival, or was it out of the purest gift a child can offer; undying love and admiration? Perhaps, it was both. He did not realize it then, in his innocent years--would not realize it for some time. But she was, had been, the only one whose honeydew optics perceived him as a human being, with the right to exist, the right to be loved. She was the only one who had loved him.
That was why he would wake up early in the mornings, hurry to wash and dress, and run as fast as his legs would carry him out into the garden, where the trees sheltered this fragile flower from the harm of the sun, and, with the closest smile thin, colorless lips could muster, he would climb into his seated mother's lap to feel her warming embrace. And her smile would shine brighter than the sun itself in his eyes, because to him it -was- the sun.
Neither mother nor child were aware of the eyes constantly watching them, the disgusted, if not envious, glint sparked in a set that mirrored Zabuza's.
On one particular blissful morning, surrounded by the gentle humming of nature, Akiko lowered her head to smile at her son, curls of darker brown spilling over only her right shoulder with the subtle movement, and she said something peculiar: "As I sat out here, in the past... I always tried to imagine what you would look like, little one..."
To this, Zabuza's head edged over to one side, barely-existent brows raising in a gesture of curiousity.
Laughing softly, she lifted a hand, allowing it to graze over his forehead; sweeping away messy bangs in the process. "You are your father's son. When you are older, maybe you too will see the resemblance? My beautiful little boy..."
He'd not quite understood where his mother's comments had come from. And how could he, when she protected him so fiercely? ... The world outside would only sling painful insults towards him, if given the chance. It was her way of preparing him; of telling him, that no matter what others said, she would always cherish her first and only baby...
...Eyelids flickered. Briefly, his nose scrunched up, as a low, uneasy groan of sorts rose and died in his throat. It was with great hesitation that Zabuza's eyes forced themselves open again, halfway to begin with. In his mind's eye it had been his mother's face smiling down at him, a scene straight from his memories, her soft humming spreading peace all throughout his heavy body.
But when finally his sight adjusted to the dimly lit room, there were two crucial facts he came to realize:
One, the reason for his sudden sluggishness was not simple fatigue, but something far more severe; for too long he had been neglecting his inescapable health problem, and this was his body's way of warning him that it did require blood to avoid something if continued to be overlooked would prove both catastrophic and fatal.
Two, there was in fact a set of eyes peering down at him; larger, more innocent than his mother's, they were the eyes of the little white flower.
Haku.
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Haku had been sitting in the same position for hours now. How she had managed, was completely beyound her comprehension. Back propped against the headboard of the bed, the man from the night before--Zabuza-- occupying her lap with his head, the position was not very comfortable at all, not to mention she could not slip on her clothes or finish drying off, leaving her with goosebumps along her arms and chest.
Somehow, she didn't seem to notice her personal woes. Not only from the shock that he had barged right into her room, but also, the shock that he gentle about it. Then there was the shock of actually seeing his face--every detail of it.
He was not a bad-looking man, by any means! Why did he wear the bandages as she had seen him the first time? Or was it not an issue of hiding something? While to her, his appearance came across as very unusual--she'd not seen a man like him, but, then again, she was not very worldly to begin with-- the only real explanation the young girl could stab at for the makeshift mask were the two rows of sharp teeth lining the inside of his mouth, which... didn't come across as a big deal, anyway. They added a nice touch to his already unnerving face.
This was, truly, the first time she was able to see him. Why he had chosen her, instead of any of the other women--especially the more matured ones--no longer mattered. He had, and so he was here, sleeping not-so-peacefully on her bed despite Gatou's stressing that no man, under any circumstances, was to be permitted into the bedrooms. She...was honoured. Not just honoured, no; excited, almost unbearably so, making it painfully difficult not to fidget. For his sake, she refrained. During their last encounter, it was she who slept. This time around, maybe, just maybe.. he would stay longer. He would talk to her more. The thought of that deep, somewhat surly voice devoting its time and attention to her like last time flared a blush in her cheeks.
Occasionally in his sleep, her guest's face would contort; his lips would pull back in a twitch--how she had come to discover those deadly canines, or eyelids seemed to quiver uneasily. However, the rest of his body, save the steady rise and fall of that broad chest, lingered in dormancy. She found herself torn between concern and curiousity. Her hand crept back to his forehead, first fingertips resting barely against it, then, when all seemed well with the simple contact, the rest of her fingers followed.
As she peered over into his sleeping face, a surprise greeted her; the fluttering of the eyelids this time was followed by his eyes opening, and clouded irises shifted and fixated on hers. Just like their first encounter, there was the familiar sensation that he were not just looking into her own lighter-brown pools, but the soul tucked safely inside the confines of her being. However, there didn't appear to be any sort of confusion on his part. Did he know where he was, then? Did he remember? --Her hand retracted, to rest at her side again."Nn, Za..Zabuza-san...?"
Slowly, Zabuza moved into a sitting position, one calloused hand lifting to press firmly against his forehead in the very spot her far smaller one had abandoned, face contorting again into an anguished frown. Still, his eyes fixed themselves on her. Expectant?
The cold chill she'd forgotten earlier returned, producing a shiver as both arms moved to grasp firmly the opposite arm. What was he waiting for? What did he want her to say...? Little by little the excitement was dwindling down to a tiny, insignificant spark. Across the room burnt a single lamp, its light dim as a fire, yet still the cheery orange glow filled the room top to bottom; including the darker-toned form's stoic face. Around each thin eye lurked heavy shadow, pitch black. His mouth remained slightly ajar, making her wonder if perhaps there was something on his mind, something that he intended on saying, until the continued silence turned away the notion. The best she recieved was what sounded like a sigh. Temptation begged to move closer to him, to inquire as to whether or not everything was indeed all right, but... Zabuza by no means appeared to want the company. Strange, should that have been the case, considering it was he who had engaged in this awkward reunion to begin with...
.. He shattered the silence. "Get dressed, Haku." Nothing more, aside from rising to his feet for relocation into a nearby chair which, as he had done the night before, was pulled to the bedside before his final shifts to gain complete comfort. She watched him, fishing for something--anything--to say, but all that could be mustered was a robotic nod, to show that she had heard, and would obey--the latter being pathetically easy since it had been what she was fixing to do before his arrival, anyway. Her nightgown was still folded in a small square on the dresser across the room, waiting its time patiently to be draped down over its owner's dainty figure. Thoughtlessly she scooted her way over the side of the bed. Deep midnight blue was the color of her carpet, soft to the touch, which caressed her feet each step she took. And when the dresser was in arm's length, she snatched the nightgown up, allowing it to unfold freely.
He was watching her; she could feel those eyes on her as she lowered the towel. She could feel them burning into her bare back, until the white gown was slipped over her head. She could feel them as a fresh pair of ungergarments were slipped up her legs, to their appropriate home at the very base of her form. Yet, she didn't mind. Perhaps she was beginning to get used to this strange man, this enigma of flesh and bone, or perhaps it was because he made no move whatsoever to touch her or frighten her with lewd comments as she'd witnessed men do with other women here.
Spots of her hair still held its dampness, though not enough to fling droplets of water about the room, Haku mused as digits raked through it in hopes of smoothing it out, probably because it had not been properly brushed and dried due to the surprise sprung upon her. Not that it was important. Later on--in the morning, if it came to be that long, it would be taken care of, preferably after his departure rolled around, whenever that happened to be. Meanwhile, the nightgown had done its duty; long sleeves, cuffed at the ends, helped to provide her with the utmost of warmth, so the temperature drop in the room regardless of source no longer bothered her.
It was something new that captured her attention, her worry: had he come back to her because she was a 'good girl'? While part of her insisted it wouldn't hurt to ask, the other part demanded that it wasn't worth it, to forget about the 'why' as she had been doing earlier. It did not matter 'why'. He was there of his own free will, wasn't he?
Umeko had long-since disappeared from the doorway. She'd been upset, Haku could tell, though not quite to the point of tears... But she found that the more she dwelled on it, the worse her curiousity and confusion grew as to what exactly was, or had been, going on. Asking Zabuza seemed a bad idea. Her hands clasped in front of her, at her stomach; but instead of turning her full body, it was only her head that glanced backwards, hoping for some sign of friendliness in the assumed soldier. Alas, it was too dark. The only thing she could make out were his eyes. The eyes themselves were preoccupied with something else, something across the room; away from her. An invisible something, a something that likely didn't truly exist except to the one who so intently stared at it. Still, she wished she could know what that complex mind was seeing...
Maybe that was the reason she dared to draw closer to the Momochi. Reaching out, with the hope of touching his arm, only to pull back at the last second. However, in the dark, it was she who was touched; a hand, familiar, closed around her lower forearm instead. And that was all. Not a tug, not a squeeze. She was left to stare at not the contact between limbs, but his face--hidden, except for those eyes. -That- was when they returned their gaze to hers. Full of passivity yet curiousity, too. "Rest."
Again, he was sentencing her to sleep the rest of the night away. As much as she would have adored to once again obey his command, the shadow loomed overhead that he might be gone come morning. Would he come back again? But the thought of sleep tempted her something awful. That warm, cozy bed, curled up beneath the thick blanket... head resting on a pillow soft enough to pass as a real cloud. Without realizing it, Haku swayed in place, only to be steadied by the same hand that held her arm. Oh, how she wanted to speak with him again...to hear that voice. She longed to learn more about the powerful soldier mere inches in front of her. And why shouldn't she? He was... a stranger.
Yes, a stranger. He was a stranger, in all ways of the word.
Zabuza must have sensed her difficulty, because his laughter filled the seemingly ever-darkening room: "We will talk another time. Rest."
He could easily have been lying. Logically speaking, if he had no intention of coming back, saying such a thing was probably the easiest way out of the situation of staying any longer. And yet... Haku believed him. Something about the way he spoke, for as apathetic as it were, reassured her that his word was sincere, regardless of how opposite the man himself seemed. For him, she would obey. She would rest, until the morning, when she could hopefully see his face again.
Perhaps... when she awoke next, things would make even a little more sense.
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..Back into the confines of memories... Back into the Hell of the mind.
And in the darkness, he heard her voice, loud and clear: singing.
All around, springing to life from the nothingness, the same scene; the garden, in all its thriving glory. But this time, he was there, watching as a bystander this painful event he longed so dearly to lose hold of completely. The grass, the trees, the flowers... The sound of running water from the fountain, they all seemed so real, real enough to trick him into believing that it -were- real.
No, something remained missing in this scene. Her voice. It had faded along with the darkness. Stepping from the darkened doorway into the realm of shades of green and eternal sunshine, a hand was instantly brought up to shield his eyes from the unforgiving light. Despite the trees blocking the rays, somehow it was still painful, the sudden transition into a world long-since lost, especially to his eyes, which had become used to the grey skies consuming his life.
Beside him, a familiar little boy moved; conjured up to play the part of his older self in the drama slowly unfolding. No more than eight years old, however tiny he were for his age. Only briefly did he look up to Zabuza. An identical set of eyes caught, then they were gone, the boy's soundless footsteps drawing him further and further into what was supposed to be paradise--what had once -been- paradise. He didn't want to; but when he turned back to the doorway that had led him to this place, it was to find nothing; not a hole, not a door, but a black wall, empty as the shadows casted over his residing area. There was no choice now but to move forward, to bear witness to what he already knew was fixing to take place.
He hurried to catch up to the child of memory, and in five or six short strides they were once more side-by-side, weaving expertly around the bases of trees, until the sound of rushing water became nearly deafening in the silence to Zabuza's ears. It was time to fall behind a step.
In the back of his mind, he yearned for a cigarette. Just one, to distract his senses... Unfortunately, the kid wouldn't pick up the habit for another ..nine or so years. Thin brows furrowed, and his lips twisted into a tight frown.
Like a sheep he continued to follow. The closer he grew, the more sluggish he felt; by the time the fountain came into view, his body was ready to give out. This.. was not his time, nor his place. It was up to the young boy to run his fated course. And so, he allowed himself to slump into the lush grass, back pressed firmly against the base of a particular oak facing the unfolding act. There she was, just as he recalled; seated on the lone bench with her hands in her lap, staring without reason off into the distance. His mother.
Her mind had left her little at a time, raping her of memories, of logical thought, until all she did day in and day out was sit motionlessly in her garden. It had even stolen from her that smile he'd always adored, replacing it with a look of unmeasureable distance. Distance that, when he was this young boy's age, he'd longed to span, to be with her; no matter where her absent mind had deposited her at. The only person he'd ever loved, and she was taken from him, without warning, without explanation.
Oh, how he wanted to speak to her, to return the embraces that she had always given him with one of his own, now that he was able to. But alas, it could never be; she did not see him, and certainly could not feel him, for this was not his world to move freely throughout.
Everything that would happen, had already been slated in stone by his own past. Because this -was- his past.
He watched as the young boy approached his mother--their mother. He listened, painfully, to the quiet pleas he'd shamefully uttered himself so long ago, and during the second attempt mouthed the words along with the desperate child whom gained his pity. And when Akiko did not respond, and the boy reached out to her, to climb into her lap...
...Zabuza felt sick, as the insane woman's shrieks pierced straight through his heart. She had shoved her only son violently away. Screaming, thrashing, now and then pointing a finger towards the grounded youth with cries of 'monster' and 'freak' pouring from a once kind tongue, now turned venomous with the decay of her mind. He could only stare, doubled over with pain, the exact copy of the child whose eyes could not find the tears they surely felt to shed.
Then, suddenly, she was calm again. Inquiring quite frantically for her baby, her beloved baby. For she did not recognize her baby, the precious child she'd prayed so long for, directly in front of her...
He could take no more. Ignoring the growing sickness, ignoring the burning in his legs, ignoring the strange sensation intensifying behind both eyes--Zabuza ran. He scrambled to his feet and ran, away from the fountain, through the trees, to the spot that had brought him to this paradise-turned-Hell, and without a moment's hesitation he thrust himself through the darkness, back to the real world.
Back to the real world, the world that had become his sanctuary from the world he had once loved and cherished. At least there, in the real world... he was impassive without fail. In the real world, he was a demon, after all.
----End Chapter 4----