Hey there all. Now before you all start shooting me, all of those waiting for AOA and First Steps updates, let me slip in there first with a big SORRY ' I know I promised you all not to let myself get distracted with this fic and well…ok I did, let myself get distracted I mean. All I can say in my defence is well the next chapter were just THERE, occupying my already stretched and overworked imagination and all in all getting in my way. I plead guilty, I have no excuse and I do apologise. My one saving grace is that I'm putting up Tears of Gold at the same time and I know a few of you have been waiting for that at least. As for first steps well, its stupid really, the main reason in isn't up is that one particular chunk I made the mistake of writing it down on paper, and then the even bigger mistake of…misplacing it. So yes roughly five hundred words are somewhere in my room and I admit I haven't had the courage to dive into the crud and find them. For anyone who's interested it's a scene where we see Henry and Ethan for the first time together and their interactions. It's one I rather like, (I think lol), which is why I'm so unwilling to redo it. I'll just say that Moniqua is not above forming an alliance with the enterprising thirteen year old in order to get her way. ^^ Poor Henry lol.
Right that's enough Harry Potter talk, this is for all those of you who actually are interested in reading this beginning of a fic. I won't call it a real story yet because it's NOT going to be continued for the moment. BUT there are some points about the plot that are already apparent in the first chapter and that I should take the time to "warn" about. One in particular.
Jiraiya's past. We know very very little about this from the manga but I do admit to taking this unknown factor maybe a little too far, so far in fact that this will almost DEFINATELY qualify as AU. By all means shoot me for this, I don't expect it to be to every one's taste but I suppose for it was one of the first things that came to mind when I started thinking about the beginnings of the Sannin. As I said, you may love it you may hate it but for me, the plot simply wouldn't come any other way. It shapes MY Jiraiya, his character and his interactions and therefore simply HAD to be.
BUT it is AU and so I do give you all fair warning. Give it a try at least, you never know =)
Luv ya lots
Lili
X x x x x x x x x x x x
When We Were: Chapter 1
…Not
Every good story has a beginning. Often that beginning is small, insignificant really and almost invariably forgotten by the heroes and heroines themselves. The importance of the moment when the story really begins is too often lost on those that play a part in it. A brief meeting perhaps, one to be brushed off minutes later, or a word, a sentence that in the years ahead noone can actually bring to mind. Not the real meeting, the one everyone remembers, when the threads of three people's life are inexorably knotted together, forever destined to be entwined. The real meeting of this story will come too, have no doubt, but it is not truly the beginning.
No, this story actually commences long before that summer day when three children and a rather young man joined hands and became Team 7. Two years before in fact, when those same children were just six. Mature six year olds; Ninja children do not remain so for long; but still children none the less.
The beginning of this story was a moment in history, for so many reasons. A moment that life in Konoha changed and our three children changed with it.
Three children who would one day shape the destiny of the Ninja world.
It was a shockingly beautiful day for a funeral.
The skies shone blue and treacherously bright, the sun a scorching heat across the earth in a vain effort to warm the newly created Land of Fire. It beat down as harsh a master's glare upon a slaves back, at once uncomfortably dry and yet soaking the skin beneath the mourners robes. Rain would have been more appropriate, and the people glared up at the heavens as though in reproach, asking why they did not mourn, as everyone, man, woman and child did on this darkest of days.
On the raised dais, three hundred shinobi stood in tight, silent ranks, a semi-circle of black and white stripes around the wide space that formed the hub of the wheel. In its centre, flanked by torches and burning incense, lay an alter and behind it the coffin, draped in richest silk, half pure-white, the other decorated with gold. Upon it was a portrait of a man, still in his prime with long, dark hair and a wise, awe-inspiring majesty that the artist had somehow managed to capture from life.
At the foot of the dais, lining the streets and filling the square, the civilians, many, many times their number, stared up from below, unable to see the proceedings but still present, still honouring their fallen hero. A sea of misery at its stillest in those precious hours before the tempest. No sound, little movement. And the deep, dying emptiness of loss.
Different fabrics of different classes, all of them black, clung to the hunched and silent bodies, hot and uncomfortable. So were the faces. The people were angry, simultaneously restless and tense. Bloodlust and the sullen silent thirst for revenge hung heavy in the air, repressed by respect and terrible sadness, but tangible none the less. Hatred was bubbling once more to the surface.
They were a people who had suffered War long enough for it to become the norm, and death was a stranger to few of those present. But this blow was deep and terrible enough to bring the greatest of the five villages to its knees. Konohagakure was bleeding and the dark clouds seemed to settle heavier and colder with each passing moment, albeit invisibly, summoned by the proclamation that had brought every man, shinobi and civilian alike, to gather as one undulating mass before the cliff-face.
The Hokage was dead.
Perhaps it was the heat but the world seemed to shudder at that terrible truth. How could such a thing come to pass? How could such a man, such a hero have been snuffed out like a late-night candle? How could they have let him die? How could he have abandoned them when they needed him still so badly. War still raged fiercer and bloodier than ever and the one hope for peace was now gone.
High above the crowd, every eye seemed drawn to the stone face of the man they mourned. He looked down on the proceedings and to the people it was a small comfort; surely even in death he would watch over and protect them. The wisdom and power that had brought them out of chaos, were not lost but forever etched as a reminder to all that would follow.
Below the carving, a group of roughly ten people stood alone and close at the very centre of the semi-circle, three woman, one with a babe-in-arms at her breast, and a young child among them. The infant clung to the elder woman's hand tightly, her honey gold ponytail lightly swinging as she trembled. Her grandmother's face was pale and drawn, as though etched in stone like that of her husband.
Beside them, the woman with the babe was paler still, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks marrying the haunting loveliness of her face. Although no more than twenty-five, a terrible weariness seemed to ooze from every pore and the deep amber irises that marked the woman and the toddler as mother and child were dull. Her hair too was the same rich gold as her daughter's and it hung to her knees in a waterfall of sunlight, twisting and dancing at the winds mocking touch.
That her last days should be filled of so much death. First her husband barely six months before. He had never even seen Nawaki. She glanced at the tiny babe sleeping peacefully in her arms, brushed a protective hand over the wisps on blond hair, touched his chubby cheek.
Her son was barely a week old, born into this world on the very day his grandfather had left it. A prosperous omen, the wise ones had said. The boy would be meant for great things. The word "Hokage" had been left unspoken in the air.
Two deaths, all but heralding her own. It seemed unjust that fate should make her suffer the pain of losing them both before taking her life. It rendered the poison crueller still. The poison she could find no antidote to. She, Ryuka Senju, the greatest healer in the land.
She had held it at bay long enough to give birth, by the use of many drugs and medicines that would kill her in the long run as surely as the poison itself. They had burned off her stamina gradually for three months, the three months necessary to deliver her unborn child, alive and healthy. Now she was drained, empty. Such a pitiful end for the kunoichi she still was deep down.
Ryuka did not miss her old life. Healing the sick was the greatest joy she had ever felt and she had dedicated the last ten years solely to it. Only the pride perhaps still lingered. That indefinable air of calm, of confidence that came with making the rank of Jonin and Anbu captain. Now, it was all that kept her upright, tall and slender like a willow branch. Her mother had expanded volubly and voraciously on the subject of her foolishness in leaving the confines of her bed at all. Her mother who was still ignoring her stonily for her refusal to comply. A half-smile, a gentle glow of love for the tarter standing in front of her, then fiercer, more powerful one for the little girl who clung to the older woman's hand.
The widow and the child stood a little apart from the rest and the rigid uprightness of her posture seemed to indicate that this was intentional. Not one hair escaped from the confines of the two buns, held in place by jewelled pins. Seal tags hung from these, and rich silk of her robes and the crown upon her head proclaimed her high status. She was known, respected and feared; the jinchūriki. The Keeper of the Nine-tailed fox.
Even now, with frail hands, weary eyes and her once beautiful face lined and gaunt, Lady Mito Uzumaki, possessed more power and presence than any other kunoichi in the land.
But on this day, it was the man that held the shinobi's and the entire nation's attention. He that stood alone, as was his fate, from this day forth.
It was he they now looked to, for guidance and leadership in the crisis that was sure to follow just as it was he they would now obey unquestioning. The death of Hashirama Senju was an attack terrible enough reawaken the anger in the people's hearts, but also to unite them in their common fury. This fury crackled in the air, willing, waiting for the new Hokage orders. For the quest for retribution.
The enemy would pay; at one man's word, the entire force of the Village of the Hidden Leaf would be unleashed in a bloody thirst for vengeance.
That same man stood tall and silent as a statue, some three meters in front of the smaller group at his back. His shock of white hair rustled in the wind, caressing the metal mask that cupped his face and forehead. The famous red lines cut both cheeks and chin as though reaching towards each other. The Blazon of the Leaf Village glinted as he moved, lifting his head and breathing deeply before casting one last look at the stone monument to the brother he had loved more dearly than anything on this earth. The brother whose mantle he must now take up, along with all its responsibilities and duties.
The typical gleam of sly amusement was absent from his face, no humour lurked in the scarlet eyes, so different from Hashirama's cool, kindly brown. They suddenly filled with tears and Tobirama Senju, soon to be Second Hokage of the Leaf, quickly bowed his head to hide them from the world
"Damn you, Niichan…" he whispered hoarsely, "You and your bloody heroics…Now you've gone and landed me in it…"
His older brother's face was gentle even through his tightly closed lids, the familiar smile both loving and firm. Hashirama shook his head ruefully, with a strange mixture of both sadness and reassurance. Trust. Trust to do what was hard, what was painful and what was right. Self-righteous git.
"Stupid Niichan, buggering off to paradise without me…I always swore I'd get there first…drink all the Saké before you'd even get a look in."
The tears were running away with him now, streaming down his face too fast for him to blink them back. Not really proper behaviour for a bloody Hokage, he snorted, wiping them brusquely wiping his sleeve even as more stubbornly replaced them.
A warm touch brought his head sharply up and to his right, to stare blindly into the face of the child now clutching desperately at the hand that hung limply at his side. Huge amber eyes shone wetly up at him above a lip that trembled with the effort of holding the tears back.
She looked so lost, so fragile and- he suddenly realised- so much like how he felt inside, that despite the dictates of custom and rank, he couldn't help but scoop up the little girl into his arms and hold her close.
A few gasps and mutterings made their way to his ears but Tobirama ignored his counsellors' disapproval and hugged his great-niece closer to his heart. Even when the wetness seemed through his robes, he didn't put her down and somehow, holding the six-year-old pushed back the terrible weight of his own grief. He had to man up now, his lips twitching into the tiniest of smiles, had to show the world the face of a Leader they could have faith in.
Gently he tapped the little girl's head with one finger, and after a final sniff, she lifted her chin and stared up at him hopelessly.
"Enough snivelling for both of us, yeah? Come on brat, show me your frightening-kunoichi face." He waited, a half smile on his lips.
For a few moments she just looked at him blankly, then with a bravery that touched his heart she swallowed and squared her tiny little shoulders. The child's brow creased into a terrible frown. Her Great-uncle played their favourite game and shrunk away in terror. Something in the little face seemed to come back to life and, although not without effort, she finally bared her pearly teeth in a silent growl.
Tobirama suddenly found his own face stretching into a grin that didn't even hurt and the child returned it cheekily. He dropped her to the ground and took her hand again with a brisk nod.
"Alright brat, let's get this show on the road. You ready?"
The six-year-old nodded with a determination and a fire in her eyes that suddenly made the world seem lighter. For the first time since the news of his brother's death Tobirama Senju let loose the Legendary smirk that struck fear into the hearts of Konoha's enemies. He nodded towards the famous red and white triangular hat that lay on the alter before them. She swallowed one last time, the pain of loss still fresh but then her back straightened, her chin lifted stubbornly and she reached and took the symbol of the title of Hokage in her tiny hands.
Still grinning, Tobirama Senju dropped to his knees before the eyes of every Ninja of the Land of Fire. Not a sound was heard, not even a whisper of a breath. Even the wind itself fell still and the world waited in awe as the little girl lifted chubby arms and placed the ceremonial hat on her great uncle's shaggy head.
He flicked her nose, looked one last time up at the face of his brother and took a deep breath.
The man who rose was the 2nd Hokage.
He faced his sister-in-law, and Mito Uzumaki placed her hands together and nodded her head regally. A widowed Queen giving way to a new King.
Ryuka, the daughter his brother had left behind sent him her sweet smile and followed likewise, carefully shifting the babe as she inclined her head and saluted, the maid supporting her arm when she swayed.
Behind her, his students, now his friends, watched him solemnly and respectfully. Homura, efficient and expressionless as always, Koharu, quietly beautiful, her chin mulishly set as she fought back the tears and finally Saru, his favourite though no one would ever hear him admit it. In one fluid movement, they sank to the ground on one knee and bowed.
A moment later, one hundred shinobi followed sink and fell to their knees in symbolic obedience to their new Leader.
Sending his great-niece a wink, the new Head of the Village of the Leaf, turned on his heel and marched them both up the central aisle between the men and woman now under his sole command and as he passed, they rose and followed his progress with respectful eyes. Finally, the 2nd stopped at the very brink of the dais.
There he raised both hands high above his head and the crowd both behind and below erupted into cheers. Shinobi and civilians, united in a historic moment of pride, of elation and of a fierce, burning hope for the future.
The new Hokage raised his hands again and huge roar of cheers erupted for the second time, startling and deafening enough to bewilder any typical six year old, even from the safety of his grandfather's broad shoulders. This particular little boy however did not flinch, nor even blink.
It was as though the sounds of the throng around him were on mute, his mother thought, watching her darling as he simply stared up at the dais expressionlessly, and not for the first time she wondered what thoughts were passing through his beautiful head.
Perhaps he was missing his father, she wondered, glancing up unconsciously towards the very top of the building where the shinobi were gathered, her husband among them. He had looked so handsome in his black ceremonial robes, she remembered thinking that morning as he'd left at dawn, to pay his last respects to the general he had served under for over twenty-five years. But his face had been grave, cold; no thought for love or love-making in his deep grief. And so she'd simply kissed his cheek and let him go. For his loyalty had always been greater than hers, even before she'd given up the life of a Kunoichi for the peace of marriage and mother-hood. Her pain went far less deep and her comfort therefore meant much less than those who like him, had loved their superior with their hearts and their lives.
Her heart went out to him now, staring up longingly to where she knew he would be. Near the front lines, a position of trust, of rank and privilege. She could see him in her mind's eye so clearly, tall, thin with gaunt cheeks and the beautiful long black hair that had first caught her eye. Down his back it would flow, like a river of darkness on this still, windless day. Gleaming almost blue with lustre and soft as the richest silk to touch, as if anyone would dare.
The first streaks of grey would be appearing soon, the thought suddenly occurred to her and brought an affectionate half-smile to her face. How long would it take before he plucked them out, his silly vanity outraged by the effrontery of time, daring to mar his greatest beauty.
It was a beauty he had passed on to Orochimaru, she smiled, turning to look up at the boy still perched quietly above her head. The same waterfall of blue-black locks draped over his shoulders and back like the finest of cloaks. Her arm half-lifted to run her fingers lovingly through the strands nearest to her, but she stopped herself just in time. Now was not the time for public displays of affection. Not amidst the people's grief. But still…
A fierce rush of love for him caught her by surprise, this little one she had given up her life for. Her pride, her independence and her deep-rooted lust for adventure.
Sometimes the old longing caught up to her, stealing into her heart like a thief in the night and whispering to her of times gone by. Her hands would itch to snatch up the kunai that lay, unused and dusty under her bed, her forehead would feel bare and exposed. She would toss and turn and curse the unfairness for making her choose, for forcing her to take one path or the other when men could skip freely between both as it pleased them. Eventually the bitterness in her mouth would taste too strong, she would rise from her futon and all but run to the door, desperate only to free the bliss of cool, free air upon her face.
Then, the heat would subside, the anger and frustration would drain away and she would sigh and take one last look up at the stars, her head resting gently against the window frame. She would always see his face among them, small, pale, with such sharp, delicate features that made him the prettiest little boy in the entire village. That vast expanse of blackness would be the exact colour of his hair, and, every time, she would end up slipping back inside, padding along to his room and kissing him softly on the brow.
His smile had the power of healing her heart, and its rarity made it all the more precious, she thought wistfully. He was such a quiet little thing. From the moment he had first spoken at barely ten months old, not a word was wasted. His cleverness sometimes scared her. He was astoundingly advanced for his age, his father's pride and joy. "Our little genius," he would always say, his rather hard eyes warm with pride, "A real prodigy."
He would be starting at the newly built Academy soon, in a mere two weeks. The immense centre of learning that the First had designed and built but never seen in use. It would be for the Second to inaugurate the building and her son would be one of the first to have the honour of attending.
Part of her cried out silently at the thought. He was barely six years old and already the Village were demanding her to give him up into their service. The genin instructor who had made the assessment of her son had been at first bewildered and then bursting with excitement.
"He is…unbelievable, Madame. I've never seen a child so advanced for his age! Orochimaru has an…an incredible future ahead of him, I think we can be assured of that."
Again she lifted her head to stare up at her little genius, and something in her chest seemed to catch. Already they talked of his future, of his destiny, Kami forbid the word. He was meant for greatness, perhaps even- she remembered how the man had swelled with excitement as he pronounced the word,
Hokage.
And today, it seemed almost as though her son that taken the instructor's praise to heart.
Orochimaru stared up at the man who was now ruler of the Greatest of the Five Lands, his face blank as a white canvas. It worried her somewhat that he could mask his emotions so well. He so rarely opened up, only to her in fact, and sometimes to his father. But he was her darling, they all knew that.
The black robes were neat as a pin on his small body, his eyes huge and liquid. Her heart ached at the thought of loosing him so soon.
As if he had read her mind, suddenly he turned his head down towards her. Quick as a snake, his bright toothy smile flashed.
"I will be like him, mother." he said serenely, but there was a spark in his eyes that sent a strange shiver across her skin,
"I will be the greatest of the Leaf. The greatest Hokage of all time.", a pause and then, "You will watch me, won't you?"
The sudden switch from an almost adult confidence to the childlike eagerness to prove himself to her, forced her to swallow down the lump in her throat before she could respond.
"Yes, my darling." she nodded back, "You will. And I will be prouder than any other mother on this earth."
She smiled up at him with every ounce of love in her heart and he returned it, secure in the knowledge of that same love and his own destiny.
"JIRAIYA! Get down from there this MINUTE!"
"I'm almost there!"
"Kami help me, Jiraiya I will…"
"Just a bit…THERE!"
The boy's white head burst through the forest canopy with a whoop of gleeful excitement. The sunset was dazzling after days of trekking through the forest; it blinded the boy momentarily, but he didn't leave his hand to cover his eyes. Instead he stared and stared until they watered, taking in the sight that he had waited years to finally see, a huge grin splitting his face in two.
Konoha.
"Jiraiya, come down NOW!"
"I can see it! I can see it, Mum!" he yelled back down to her without removing his gaze, "I can see the Village! All of it!"
Konoha. The Village of the stories his mother would tell him every night by firelight. The Greatest Ninja Village of the Five Lands. He'd waited so long to finally let eyes on it! His six-year-old heart thumped like a drum in his chest. Even his mother's worried tones couldn't bring him down from his bubble of happiness.
Jiraiya reached up and grabbed the next branch, shifting to get an eve better view. The fifty foot drop below him didn't even make him pause. He'd climbed his first tree almost before he'd learned to walk. The branches, the leaves and the rustle of the wind, he felt at home there, unlike most of the other children.
Wanderers preferred the mountains, the plains and the harsh beauty of the desert to the forest. Under the green trees they tended to feel trapped, claustrophobic. The tribe preferred to sleep with nothing but the sky above their heads, possibly accounting for his mother's unusual tension these last few days.
"JIRAIYA!"
The little boy pouted and took one final look of longing at the landscape, painted in red and gold, drinking in every little detail so as to store it in his memory for ever. His first ever glimpse of the homeland of his father. Then he turned his back on the sunset and shimmied down the tree-trunk as lithe and agile as a monkey, landing gracefully on his feet with a little flurry of leaves.
The look on his mother's face almost had him running straight back up the tree again.
"Jiraiya!"
The five-year-old looked panic-stricken for a moment and then launched into damage-control. He hung his head immediately, his chubby hands going behind his back in a well-practised look of penitence.
"I have told you before! I do NOT want you climbing trees!"
"Awww Mum…"
"Do you have any idea how high up you were?"
"Pooh! I've never fallen, not even ONCE…!"
Behind the mass of white-blond hair, the woman's mouth set into dangerously straight line and before Jiraiya's eyes had time to widen in fear, she reached out, quick as lightening and dealt him a ringing box on both ears.
"Ow ow ow OWWWWWW!"
For such a tiny woman Ichiro Kirara had fists of stone. The little boy jumped up and down like a grasshopper and his mother surveyed him with a complacent smile. He suddenly paused, mid-hop and glared up at her, sticking his lower lip out in an unmistakable pout that always had her softening.
"Fool."
"Old woman."
"Brat!"
"HAG!"
BAMM!
"OWWWWWWWW!"
Kirara suddenly burst out laughing and dropped to her knees. As her arms came tightly around him, Jiraiya's grin slipped out, wicked and wild, the mirror image of hers. He chuckled adorably before quickly ducking under her arm and scrabbling up her back to cling to her neck.
"HIGH-UP!"
Her baleful glare and a swift poke to his side had him in peels of laughter and her heart warmed to hear it. Jiraiya's laugh was a gurgle of fun and mischief, irresistible even to those who would have declared him an outcast since birth. He had his father's good looks too. He was a shockingly handsome little boy, all sparkling eyes and naughty grin, complete with a strong, square chin and a sturdy frame that spoke both of his notorious stubbornness and his overwhelming lust for life.
As they caught up with the tail-end of the procession and Jiraiya slipped deftly to the ground once more, even the most disproving glares couldn't be held for long, Kirara thought smugly, watching her son sprint through the tribe to the very front where his grandfather stood, stern and silent.
She watched her father's grumpy, wrinkled face relax into a scowl that somehow came across as affectionate, and when Jiraiya reached up and naughtily tried to grab his Chieftain's staff from his hands, even from this distance, the old man's eyes seemed to twinkle as he rapped the wooden stick sharply over his grandson's incorrigible head.
The tribe were settling down for the night. Two hundred men, woman and children pausing for rest after a weary day. They had walked over fifty miles, and both humans and pack-animals could go no further. Tents were being unpacked, fires lit and spits set up over the first tentative flames. Pots and pans clanged against stones and children's moans of "I'm HUNGRY!" could be heard on every side.
The sounds of home. However far they walked by day, by night they were a family household, busy and noisy as any other under the stars.
Kirara moved swiftly to her loved-ones' sides and stepped up to soothe the donkey's head with gentle words. The faithful beast of burden neighed back quietly as she began to remove the tents and bag's from his back, still watching the shock of white hair running through the families like quicksilver, offering help, telling jokes or simply whoopping with childish excitement.. Despite their best efforts, not one mother could hold back a smile.
As the sole woman of her father's hearth, it was her job and hers alone to set up camp. Kirara's mother had died over ten years ago now, and her fourteen siblings had either founded or married into hearths of their own within the tribe. As the sole unmarried daughter she was both the prop and the shame of her father's old age, and neither he nor the tribe could quite decide whether they loved it hated her for it.
Ever since the first signs of her pregnancy, Kirara had felt and faced the glares and the silent stares of disproval, all rimmed in the traditional red liner of the Wanderers. To give herself to a man she barely knew, a wounded shinobi passing through the mountains on a mission; there was no greater crime a young girl could commit.
The Wanderers had found him left for dead. Kirara closed her eyes against the sharp stab of pain at the memories. He had worn the insignia of the Village of the Leaf, only just founded, and the face below it had been the most beautiful she'd ever seen.
As the chief's daughter, it had been her duty to nurse him back to health and she had done so with a fierce determination that caused her father's shrewd eyes to narrow suspiciously. She'd always blinked back at him, the picture of innocence.
She'd been young, lovely as a flower in its first bloom and already men had been besieging her father's tent with offers for her hand. Every one he'd asked wearily whether this one would do. Every one, she'd firmly shaken her head.
The shinobi had grown stronger with each new dawn and before a week was up she knew she had fallen into that terrifying thing the elder woman of the tribe called love. He told her stories of his village, of his people, his family and friends, all those he longed for and dearly missed, and she'd drunk in every word with some strange mixture of fascination and jealously. He'd taught her tricks, songs, riddles and slights-of-hand and they'd played for hours at a time, not noticing whether the hours went.
Soon he was dearer to her than her own life; his weak laughter, his teasing smile and the gentle look in his eyes when finally, without thinking he had reached out to brush his thumb over her cheek. Immediately he'd drawn back, shocked at his own actions, but she'd grabbed at his hand and held it tightly.
The silence that had followed had been the most never-wracking of her life, and present-day Kirara half-smiled at the memory. He had been so much older than her, so much more experienced and wise, and all she'd had heard in those endless few seconds had been the heavy thud of her own heart.
Finally he'd spoken, and she'd thought the words might just break her heart.
"Kirara, I…I have a betrothed."
Pain and hurt and blinding disappointment. She'd torn away from him and ran. He'd watched her go with a look of poignant longing.
He'd expected someone else to take over his nursing, it had been evident in the look of surprise on his handsome face as she'd marched determinedly into the medical tent the next day, her face set and mulish. They'd said not a word as she'd changed his bandages, not a word as she'd cleaned the pus from the wound and bound it up with herbs and medicinal plants.
For two weeks the days had passed so, neither speaking, neither smiling, neither breaking the tense silence that separated them as cleanly a blade. Until one sunny morning, the wound was finally healed.
She'd risen to her feet and turned to go, all without speaking a word only this time, it was his hand that shot out to hold her back.
"Kirara…" He'd sounded so torn, in so much agony, she'd feared the pain had somehow returned but the look in his eyes was not that kind of pain. It had brought a warm flush of heat to her cheeks and body.
"Kirara…" she heard him whisper again as he drew her back, slowly, cautiously, unwillingly. She'd followed without a thought.
They'd made love that night, one sweet meeting of bliss and beauty. He'd been gentle yet passionate and after they had finished she'd wept in his arms and he'd wept with her, kissing her until their tears were intermingled. He'd asked her to come with him that night. He'd told her he would annul the betrothal, would marry her, bear children with her, if only she would come.
He'd told her again of his village, of the family he would introduce to her, how they would love her, how happy they would be. Of the house his clan owned, the duties that went with it, the responsibilities of a shinobi's wife. And with every word he spoke, she knew that such a life could never do for her.
He'd tried to convince her, to persuade her and she remembered the tears flowing down her cheeks as she said no, over and over until the sunlight burst over the mountains. Finally he'd bowed his head and accepted that she would not change her mind.
They'd made love one last time, bathed in the bittersweet gaze of the sunrise until finally the moment of departure arrived. The shinobi, he'd never revealed his name to anyone but her, had bowed to her father in gratitude for their care and promised any reward in his power to give. The Chief had shaken his head gruffly and gave him the blessing of the tribe, for they had all come to love him during the short time he had spent with them.
"A man does not choose the path he walks, only how proudly he walks it. Look forwards, not back and may happiness be your companion on the road fate has set your feet upon."
Looking back, she'd wondered if her father had guessed even then; certainly his words had bade her pause, but she'd shrugged off the doubt and simply concentrated on the grief that was screaming silently inside her. Her shinobi had sent her one last look, echoing her heartbreak and almost, almost she'd given in.
Only the Wanderer in her had held back and she'd stayed, silent, shaking but her mind made up. He'd known it and had bowed one last time before disappearing like a shadow into the fog and past. Kirara shook her head, casting off the memories and returning to the world of reality. She rolled out the futons, unpacked the tents and began to assemble them..
It didn't take long for Jiraiya to appear, jumping out from nowhere and despite being used to his almost frighteningly quicksilver stealth and agility, she couldn't help but start. It made him laugh, that wicked grin cracking his face in two and he glowed with the mischievous thrill. The red juice rimmed his eyes and spiked into two lines that descended barely two centimetres down his face. With every five years that passed he would gain the right, as any other member of the tribe, to add a centimetre to their length, until one day they would run from eye to chin, like his grumpy grandfather.
As always he was eager to help and though his untamed speed and strength made him perhaps a little clumsy, he made up for it with deft, precise fingers, the hands of an artist, Kirara would lovingly joke, if only to see the adorable look of indignation that would make her son's make fall open so comically.
"An ARTIST!", he would always say so scornfully, "POOH!"
"You know woman like artistic men," Kirara said teasingly. Jiraiya folded his arms and shook his shock of white hair smugly.
"OH no they don't!" he pronounced with an air of great satisfaction, "They like BIG men with lots of…euh, "he creased his brow in concentration, oblivious to his mother's expression that was rapidly becoming more and more dangerous.
"Oh that was it, STAMINA." he, pleased with himself for remembering the word.
"ICHIRO JIRAIYA! WHERE did you hear such things?"
Jiraiya's face was suddenly the picture of guilt and he hastily tried to the monumentous error he had just committed.
"At the laundry,…I mean ,at the river…but they were only doing the laundry, honest!"
"ICHIRO JIRAIYA!"
From his silent post some five meters away, Kirara heard her father crack a wheezy laugh. Instantly Jiraiya formed a counter-attack, pointing wildly at the old man's turned back and declaring
"Grandfather caught me, I wasn't there THAT LONG! AND…." he looked up at her slyly from under his long lashes.
"He thought it was funny!"
"FATHER!"
Jiraiya watched smugly as his mother rounded on the Tribal chief with a glare that could frighten off an army. Grandfather returned the poisonous look towards the little boy, now sitting quite angelically beside the campfire, a toothy grin flashing white in the growing darkness. He humped and huffed loudly and sat down on the futon opposite, grumbling into the bowl of stew Kirara pressed into his hand with a stern look. As soon as her back was turned, the old man's hand shot out startlingly quick and smacked his grandson over the head.
The little boy stuck out his tongue and pretended to sulk, but his excitement was too great to pout for long and within very few minutes the grin was gleaming broadly once more from ear to ear. As the evening died and night fell, all the little boy could talk about was the famous village. The walls, the houses, the shinobi, the newly built Academy and of course, his eyes shone as he said the word again and again with reverence. The most powerful Ninja in the Five Nations, they called him, wise and majestic, faster, stronger, cleverer than ANY other Ninja EVER!
The Hokage….
Well there it is, my prologue basically because the story hasn't really even got started yet. The Sannin haven't even MET each other yet, though most of the main character's have already been set into place. Next chapter the threesome will be brought together for the first time though not perhaps in the way you might expect ;) Anyway, please tell me what you think, even if its just to rant and rave about my horrible misuse of such excellent characters. Because it IS AU, I know and you may hate me for it. I hope not lol ^^
Luv y'all
Lili
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