Holy Tsunade, this is so long. All other stories are currently on hold, because this is so long. SO LONG.
Chapter threeeeee.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. Oh, and Tobirama's a sassy ass in my story, lol. Evil like an Uchiha, but not.
Note: I am surprised by my own patience with this story. Usually, Tobirama and Mariko would already have kissed and had a mushy love story, and had babies, and all that good stuff. Lol. Patience, Cav, patence...
Chapter 3: Departure and Arrival
.x.X.x.
Journey Log — Day 1
I never knew how many guards were posted outside Esmeralda's gates. Now I do. It's not a long trip to the coast, two days at most, and at least Dad let me ride Katrina there, but the next part is probably the hardest. I'll have to leave here there. Is there any chance I can suddenly break from this unit that's on all sides of me, and make a run for it? Unlikely, considering I have nowhere to run. Well, at least I thought about it, and reasoned with myself, right? We've already spent one night at Amethyst, and tonight is the last sleep in Hurricane.
Tomorrow, we arrive at the coast.
.x.X.x.
Jagged cliffs and crashing waves marked the southernmost point of Hurricane, and a bit further to the southwest, Ice Harbor.
The dangerous ledges and breakaway slabs of rock were unnerving, and no matter what happened, Mariko vowed she would never run towards their edges. Katrina was being fussy enough, ears pricking at the salt in the air and the unfamiliar sounds. Her trot was sound and even, despite the many stones that often caught themselves in her hooves.
"M'lady," drawled a scrawny squire, accompanied by a rather boisterous knight who was probably only Mariko's age. Locals. "We present to you," he said in his nasally voice, "the local delicacy — a light crème brûlée."
At first, Mariko had been wary of the knight's bundle — what if it was some horrid, reeking fish dish that they wanted to offer her? Mariko had grown up with a plethora of chefs at her command, to make her whatever the shinobi world offered, whatever her heart (or stomach) desired. She tried to be polite and open her taste buds to all foods, but she had her picky ways that stuck to her, sweet and slow to let go.
But a small dessert like this was simply delightful, and the smile that rose to Mariko's painted face thrilled the young knight and his squire. She thanked them, and they bowed courteously, before trotting back to their town. It wasn't quite a mystery that she was travelling to Ice Harbor; that, and her hair shone out like a rainbow horse in a herd of grays.
The ship docked at Ice Harbor regally flew a Fire Country flag. No, Mariko corrected herself. That was, actually, the Konoha symbol.
"What a ship," said one of her guards, beaming as he pulled at his overly tight collar. Even in the beginning of a hot summer, they were required to wear their soldier's uniforms, complete with black cuffs and necks. "See that grand flag? Konoha always manages to look magnificent without Kirigakure's snobbishness."
"Lady Princess." The captain of the ship greeted her with a friendly smile, and Mariko took to him immediately. He was an old fellow, wide at the shoulders with a newsboy's hat and homely, patched vest. Named Bard for his singing and his storytelling, the old captain was nothing special, but certainly a warm-hearted man. Then, upon seeing the scrabbly meal of chicken and vegetables that the crewmen were having, Mariko wished she'd saved some desserts for them.
"Captain Bard," she addressed. "A pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine, Lady Mariko."
The ship was sturdy and the winds at their backs; progress was quick, but at the same time, tortoiselike.
.x.X.x.
Journey Log – Day 5
It's our third day at sea, and I have to admit that I'm not overly fond of boats. Given that I've never been off the island – which I find quite depressing, now – it probably makes sense that I don't like boats. I've never really been on a big one, before, unless you count Thunder River's trolleys. But those things are tiny, and they don't sway as much as these do. I can hardly even write.
It takes a week and a half, approximately ten days, to reach the mainland. As far as I know, we're stopping at a smaller island to stock up on more supplies on the seventh day at sea. I'm not sure, though. I only know one thing for sure, though – I'm glad I'm not marrying a Kiri boatman.
.x.X.x.
The floor seemed to bulge out from under her, the sudden wave taking her by surprise. Mariko braced a hand on the wall. She had four lady servants accompanying her, one of which was an older woman, a nurse and Aunt Tari's childhood friend. She was a quite woman with a steady hand, a graying head of hair, and a name so difficult to pronounce that she urged people to just call her "Lemma".
Beside the young princess, Lemma held out a creased, calloused palm. She swaying and rocking of the vessel didn't seem to bother her, and her feet rhythmically followed the ocean's swing. Mariko took it gratefully, on the other side accompanied by a guard who didn't quite seem to take to boats either.
"Lady Princess," he said, his voice rather stuffed and uncomfortable. "The Captain invites you to see the sunrise tomorrow morning. He says the waters won't be as choppy as today; we're just passing through a spot with changing currents, and such."
"That sounds lovely," Mariko responded, nearly tripping over her own feet again. She was also grateful for the captain's hospitality, for he and his crew didn't seem to mind the subtle variations of culture, especially her face paint. While a few men dumbly gazed at her, a few awed, a few confused, and a few appalled, actually, the rest accepted her pale moon complexion and the accents of red and violet on her face.
"I've heard that in Konoha," the officer continued, "there is a mighty mountain on which one can carve faces. I won't believe it till I see it."
Hurricane had mountains, yes, but they were a snowy region to the north. And it was only a small patch of mountains, most of them small and forest-covered, with one or two high peaks. After that, another stretch of land, the land moistening to the sea once more, side of the island opposite Ice Harbor. With Esmeralda right smack dab in the middle, there was nearly every type of landscape in all directions.
"Well, I've also heard that they eat camels there, so I'm not sure what's true and what's not," added a meek lady servant, who often chatted merrily with her maid friends.
"Camels," snorted the soldier, amused.
"I'm serious!" she defended, a shy smile coming onto her face. "I've also heard that there's a man who can grow trees from his hands, and another who can materialize water from thin air!"
"That's ridiculous," laughed the soldier lightheartedly. "They would never starve or die of thirst – they could just grow some plants, and then poof! Water!"
"Exactly," giggled the girl.
Mariko watched this exchange with a curious sort of interest, and maybe, just maybe, a touch of envy. It was obvious the two were playing a flirtatious game, and suddenly, the blunette felt intrusive. She made her way to her rooms and dismissed them to their own activities, the details of which she probably needn't know of.
She opened her notebook then, and observed the name scratched on one of the pages. Her husband's name.
.x.X.x.
Journey Log – Day 10
Eighth day at sea, and I think I'm finally getting used to it. And then I'll pitifully stumble onto land and forget how to walk straight. That's just grand, because I've learned how to walk straight all my life. Remember that? Aunt Tari used to put books on my head, and remember, Momma, when you had me do a hundred curtsies until I got them perfect? That, and I remember being told that I was the worst one yet. Well, not told, more like I overheard. Well, just to let you (and Dad) know, all that princess and future bride training is useless on a boat. Just saying.
.x.X.x.
Mariko was a princess. That was obvious, of course. The fourth child to the throne, with the least chance of actually taking the throne. This meant she was a political tool, simply put, to be married off and seated as a pillar of an alliance. Katsurou, who was a male heir, had more of a say and more use in politics. He was more powerful, for he was both next in line, and a prince. Unless a girl was the first child, princes were the next-in-line kings – a big deal.
Sumiko was a prime example of the "shipped off daughter". And what did she do? She defied this name, of course, and became the "stowaway daughter". Hot Springs was a close border-coast country, and to stabilize economy – trade, tariff regulations and exceptions – their political alliances – to ally in the case of war, or help in the case of need – was a major necessity. Marriage, it seemed, was the best answer. At the time, there was a chortling old governor who held much power in the Hot Springs nation; he was second only to the daimyo. So, as a symbol of friendship, King Hiroto made a deal. He would send over his oldest daughter to be married.
It didn't work out quite as planned, but in the end, Hurricane got its alliance with Hot Springs anyway. They also had a good longstanding relation with the Frost Country, a smaller nation farther north of Hot Springs. With Katsurou as their power play in the Frost, about half the east coast nations were in alliance with Hurricane. After all, the threat to the far east ocean, Kirigakure, could always decide to conquer any of the smaller islands between them and the mainland.
They'd done plenty of that, already.
There remained many other countries in the vicinity, but some were already deemed neutral, not a threat, or blood/natural alliances. The Tea Country was too far south for anyone besides Konoha or Suna to really deal with, and occasionally the Mist, but they were a peaceful country without many complaints. The Sea Country with its many islands and cities were also a quiet nation, politically, and even farther south. There was a good line of trade for the Sea Country's rare herbs and silks for Hurricane's gems, ores, and even horses.
Inland countries were very far away, and usually not negotiable due to distance and their own internal struggles. However, there was always some consideration – should Hurricane make alliances with, say, Iwagakure, as an example, then the possibility of war on both fronts of (another example) the Fire Country would be to their advantage. Yet, at the same time, it would split up forces, whereas an alliance with Kumogakure to the north would bring the forces of the Lightning Country, Hurricane, and all their allies all on one side.
Other islands, Nagi Island, O'uzu Island, the Wave Country.
These were places that didn't tend to interfere with greater nation problems. The Wave had enough trouble coming from Kirigakure, and unless they requested assistance, they were on their own.
Uzushiogakure was, naturally, in alliance with Hurricane through an old family branch. No one was sure whether it was by blood or by marriage, but the Whirlpool and the Hurricane had much in common, be it their symbol or their ideals. The two nations were like brother and sister to one another, and dealt any (rare) disputes peacefully.
That basically left the most central nation of them all:
The Fire Country.
With borders on at least nine different nations, and coastal fronts on the east ocean, the island circle's waters, and the southern sea, the Fire Country was possibly the most advantageous of them all. Konohagakure, the first established shinobi village, also received the most mission requests and highest revenue. Allied with the Sand – an alliance that would snap and twist through the ages, but pull through in the end – and neutral with the Rock, Konoha was in a good position. The marriage of the Hokage to Uzumaki Mito, Uzushiogakure's dearest granddaughter princess, was also a stabilizing factor to the east. They had many concerns, many of which had to do with smaller countries and Kirigakure, but by far, it seemed that Konoha was the most powerful.
And here was Mariko, literally being shipped out to them, like a product of trade. Hurricane loved Konoha rice and grains, for some of the plants grown on the mainland could not thrive on the island. They already had stable economy, so why a need for political alliance?
Mariko wondered this for the longest time.
Besides that, it seemed that her entire life thus far was readying herself for a political marriage. She was a princess, after all.
From the time she could walk, she was taught to walk straight. Should she drop a book from her head or take a gangly, unladylike step, she was sent back to the end of the corridor to start again.
From the time she could talk, she was trained to be polite and respectful, aware of her position, her situation, the amount of authority she had compared to her conversing partner, and everything a member of the royal family ever needed in a conversation. It was tiring, the amount of formality drilled into her head.
Curtsies, and how low one must curtsy. To her father, as low as possible. To a man of equal rank, but of a different nation, also as low as possible (though inner nationalism always sought one's own king). To a servant, never. But Mariko was always kind to them, for they were her "friends", the people that kept her from laying in her bed, depressed by this princess training, because they talked to her like she was normal (a thing that most would not have allowed).
Culture, history, lessons.
Having someone paint her face, or painting it herself. How pastels were made, where to get them.
And equestrianism. Soon after her first steps, she had been placed on a horse.
And as soon as her fingers gained some sort of dexterity – meaning she could hold things without dropping them and allowing the dog to eat them – she sat at a piano and learned to love practicing. In fact, between horseback riding and all the other things she had to do, the only practice she thoroughly and truly enjoyed was playing the piano. She didn't have to go very far, and it naturally came to her fingers. Instead of a nerve wracking, albeit enjoyable ride, the piano always, always soothed her.
"Bride training", she called it.
More culture. More history. Lessons after lessons after lessons.
"You must never speak out of turn."
"You must never be disrespectful or stain your country and your name."
"You must always walk like a lady. Pretend that if you don't, you will fall off a tightrope into a canyon."
"This paint does not just hide your face, it hides your intentions. Be aware of all around you, child."
Backwards, that sounded.
"Don't talk too quickly or too slowly, but elegantly and eloquently."
"There is a reason for this, child, and you will learn with time."
Eighteen years of it all, and Mariko wondered how many more it would take for her to really learn.
.x.X.x.
Journey Log — Day 12
It's morning, early morning, and I hadn't expected to be so hesitant. We arrive at around noon, our last hours at sea to be peaceful. However, if I could, I'd hide among the barrels of supplies, so that when the ship turns back to Hurricane, I'd be able to get off. There's quite a few grave mistakes with that plan — I see now that even if I had a plan, it would be horrendous — including the fact that the trip back would take over a week, it's pretty much impossible, and lastly, how in the world would I know where the ship heads next?
I dread the sea, but yet I dread the land. I have no familiar horse to take me home.
.x.X.x.
They'd dragged the princess, a blue-haired ball of frenzy. Lemma had forcefully taken her by the arm, then the waist, and then ordered a guard to haul her away, because Mariko had been reduced to sobs. Her fingers were entwined tightly into Katrina's dark mane, face into the horse's warm neck. The mare's soft, moist breath nuzzled her shoulders, then her collarbone, as the guard wrenched her away. Then, as the horse realized that the men were hurting her rider, and putting her on that monstrous contraption that sat on the great water, Katrina's ears laid back menacingly on her head, and it took six men to restrain her.
"Hold that horse!" snapped the local harbor manager. He had a whip in his hand, and at the sight of it, Katrina reared straight into the air, forelegs pawing furiously.
"Stop it! Don't!" cried Mariko. The words of a princess were final, and the desperation in her voice stopped all movement immediately. The man stuffed the whip into his boot hastily, kneeling and muttering a chain of apologies to the Second Princess. The guards, dumbfounded at the mess the horse had made — barrels and crates overturned, posts splintered by her powerful kicks — didn't bother to catch Mariko as she ran back over to Katrina.
"That horse is dangerous, m'lady," said the port manager.
"I've ridden her since I was nine years old," Mariko hissed after cooing softly to the shuddering mare. "You have no right to draw a whip on a royal horse. I'd rather her set free in the city then held under such a harsh hand."
The accusation was evident, and the man shrunk back, ashamed. At least he didn't have a temper. Mariko's own had flared, and she was now terrified of what she had just said and done, cradling the horse's head against her and rubbing the dark ears numbly.
"Lady Princess." Bard offered a calloused hand. "I apologize for lacking the accommodations needed for an equine traveler, but I can inform you that some of my men are staying here, and my take care of your friend."
"No, it's fine," Mariko said quickly, petting Katrina's black muzzle softly. "She will go straight back to Esmeralda with my remaining guard."
"I see. If there's anything at all, Lady Princess, I have a few men who are quite good hands when it comes to horses, for they come from a family of animal lovers."
"I'd rather you keep them, Captain Bard. Better to have more hands, and good ones at that, with you."
"You are kind, Lady," replied Captain Bard, tipping his old hat. He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin and patted his wide belly, before hobbling up the ramp to the boat.
"Lady Princess." Lemma's soft arm encompassed her, and led her away slowly. There was a heart-breaking whinny, a confused flicker of her ears, and Katrina was led away. "You'll see her again," Lemma assured her. "Perhaps, one day she may gain passage to the mainland as well."
"A river horse is never to leave Hurricane," Mariko reminded her, still in the midst of pathetic sobs unsuitable for a lady of royalty. Tears had run streaks in her white face, but they were only enough to make damp, gray lines that bled the purples and pinks under her eyes down her cheekbones.
Lemma said nothing, for she, like all the people of Hurricane, knew the verse well:
"May the stars crown you with emeralds,
and the sea wash upon a herd of sapphire horses.
May the river and its stars guide you to the heart of your destination.
Follow the path, encrusted with jewels,
A horseshoe of impossible light;
your sight is your creation.
The midst of a typhoon, the eye of a storm,
Let the river horses take you to all but the world,
The unreached mountain watches,
As your emerald heart unfurls.
When you reach the end of time,
And the Hurricane Wolf devours your soul,
Protect your heart and watch your feet,
For the moon sees sins at whole."
A river horse never leaves Hurricane.
.x.X.x.
Journey Log — Day 14
It'll take us four days to reach Konoha. We're on the second day of land travel, I'm a rickety, plain, but welcoming carriage. Sometimes I walk. But when I walk, I think of Katrina, and then it makes me too sad to watch the plain dun horses pulling the carts. So I sit in the carriage again, because the rhythm comforts me.
Now I really wonder what I looked like to the people, crying over a horse. I must've looked terrible. Dad would have had a tantrum.
Dad. When did I start calling him "Dad"? Momma has always been Momma, Aunt Tari is the same as Auntie…
Did I ever call him Father? Why don't I call him Father, at all?
.x.X.x.
The Fire Country. Scenic, sure. Sparkling? No.
Mariko paused at the side of the path, marveling at the crisp green-yellow of the tall grasses, stalks that came as tall as her shoulder and higher. It was in no way as stunning as Hurricane; that was a given, seeing as the view outside of her window never ceased to stop amazing her. But the plains had an appeal of its own, homely stretches of yellow and green, turning to flame at sunset.
"I was wondering," said her maid beside her, accompanying her walk. "What sort of food is traditional to Konoha."
"I wonder that too," Mariko agreed, smiling softly. She moved along once the front guards sent her a few worried (maybe exasperated) glances. The padding of her feet along the gravel sent shivers up her spine. She could feel the granules through the thin slips that were her shoes, light blue ballet flats that were comfortable but impractical. She hadn't worn them while riding — there were riding boots for that — but upon arrival in Konoha, Lemma had shoved them in her face to vigorously that she was required to put them on.
"I've heard that dango—" the girl said the word with a funny pursing of her lips, as if the sound tasted foreign, "—is quite good. I'd like to try it."
"I would too," Mariko said, nodding. She glanced down at herself. Her shoes weren't the only items that failed to provide suitable travel wear. She still wore her paint, the light moon pastel that the maid beside her always put on dutifully and carefully. And she still had her Hurricane-style dress, tight at the waist, with fitted bodices, slim, silk sleeves, and the supposedly elegant single folds that fluttered down her legs. While this one was looser than most, it was still difficult to get around in.
"My Lady, it seems you are just agreeing with me on everything," the maid laughed lightly. She was trying to lighten the mood, seeing as Mariko was rather preoccupied. However, Mariko's current topic of thought was not what the maid would have assumed. The older girl supposed that Mariko was worried about her marriage; Mariko was actually worried about her travel clothes.
"I'm interested in Konoha's clothing," the blunette blurted all of a sudden. The maid's eyebrows shot up, and then nodded silently. "What type of clothing do they wear? What do shinobi wear? And what about kunoichi?"
"Perhaps we will come across a few," suggested the maid, encouraging the princess with a bright smile. This was the maid that had quite the flirtatious relationship with one of the soldiers up front, Mariko reminded herself. She was glad that her people were happy, at least.
As if on cue, the grasses rustled and Captain Bard held out a hand. The old man of the sea had informed them of his ninja status, despite his appearances, and it was his mission this time to escort them all the way to Konoha.
A group of shinobi leaped from the grasses and landed lightly in front of them. Mariko gasped, taking in their appearances. Three children, one adult. She recalled something Katsurou had told her about shinobi teams, with the young ones learning to become fully-fledged ninja with an adult mentor.
The adult was a stern-faced woman, with a slim face, high cheekbones, and a fair complexion. She was so fair, Mariko thought that she wouldn't have needed much face pastels to gain the same white that the Hurricane women did. In severe contrast to her ghostly skin, her hair was deep black and wrapped in a complicated topknot. She was the picture of tidiness and order, her armor polished and glinting in the sun.
The three children, however, were a different story. One was rather rotund and smiling, a bag of snacks in his hand, which he munched away at, rather content. He had the funniest hat, a black fabric fitted over his head, with a metal plate at the front bearing a ninja's village mark, but with two peculiar points, like cat ears. His ruddy cheeks reddened when one of his teammates told him to stop eating, but he didn't get angry. Instead, he cheerfully handed the snacks to that teammate and told him to take the last bite.
That teammate in particular, a dark-haired boy with a mischievous smirk and a smart mouth, it seemed, accepted with a surprised "thanks, man". He had short, somewhat shaggy hair, and sharp eyes. Despite the pinpointing attribute of his eyes, which seemed as if they focused particularly on every detail, he was rather laid back and relaxed.
The last younger shinobi was a quiet boy, also dark-haired. He absently rubbed an x-shaped scar on his chin, brushed a few strands of hair from his eyes, and glared. The glare was fierce, and it startled Mariko. He was hardly, what, ten or eleven years old? The glower that emanated from his features was far to austere for a child. He was cold and calculating, and seemingly the darkest one of the group.
"Toka-sama," greeted Bard, his familiar, friendly smile lighting up his face. "How are you and your team?"
"We are well," replied the woman with a small nod. Her stiffened stance had relaxed at the sight of them, but she obviously put on her guard upon seeing the unfamiliar soldiers. "You are on a mission yourself, I see. It's rare to see you away from Port City."
"Ah, Port City is my life and the sea is my love," agreed Bard, "but Hashirama-sama's missions are my being."
"Hashirama would laugh at such a statement," Toka said. "Perhaps to you, but not to me."
"Oh, but Toka-sama, he would laugh even harder if his own cousin told him that his missions were her essence!"
Toka laughed then, a soft expression sliding into place on her gaunt, solemn face. She seemed like a taciturn woman, but the comfort and familiarity that came upon recognition of an old friend fit just as well on her pale features.
Mostly, Mariko gathered that this woman was related to the Hokage. That must mean that she was also a Senju, right? The little blunette almost wanted to ask something, but the chubby boy interrupted.
"Toka-sensei, it's almost 10:30, we're going to miss the transfer point," he called. She turned and nodded, signaling for them to move on. She hardly spared a glance for Mariko, only eyed the guards, actually, before departing with a quick goodbye.
The Senju clan.
Toka.
Mariko continuously ran words through her mind, shoveled through her thoughts until they became useless heaps of jumbled information.
"My Lady, we have seen what a ninja looks like," the maid noted.
"You're right, we have," agreed Mariko. This time, she wasn't just idly following along — her own eyes had been opened.
.x.X.x.
Journey Log — Day 15
It's dark out, and it's hard to write, but this fire will suffice. Tomorrow is the last day of travel. I hate how I naturally begin counting down the days, as if I want to arrive. I don't want to arrive, Momma. I want to turn back and run as fast as I can. If I was allowed to become a kunoichi, I could run on water. At least, I've heard that ninjas can walk on water. I'm not too sure, it doesn't seem possible. Then again, according to Sila, shinobi can grow trees from their hands, make water out of nothing, and they eat camels, apparently.
.x.X.x.
Traveling was slow, and the fourth day the slowest. Bard seemed wary, for today, several teams passed. Mariko, from the carriage, witnessed the passing of several ninja, not all of them teams consisting of a teacher and three students. Four-man cells came by, members ranging from young adults her age to old men of Bard's years. A platoon of eight passed, all wearing bizarre animal masks, which reminded Mariko terribly of the one birthday gift she'd hung on a stable door. The horrendous, ugly, creepy red one that would serve as Katrina's guardian. At least was endearing, in a way, because it was a gift. Courtesy of the Hot Springs, of course.
Sometimes, lone ninja would pass by. Sometimes only two. One time, a kunoichi with a dog flew by, without hesitation. Often enough, they came upon other travelers using the same roads. A couple journeymen and traders from Hidden Grass, with an abundance of herbs and other foods. A few men and women from a land directly north of the Fire Country, an unnamed place as of yet, but with growing commerce and organization. Those people brought the most amusing little instruments, miniature wind ensembles that they performed on delightfully.
And then, three hours after the sun had reached its noon peak, the gates of Konoha. As if the land itself brandished huge pillars for weapons, allowing the travelers to behold the mighty entrance of the Hidden Leaf, the gates of Konoha loomed before them.
"Welcome to Konoha," said Bard proudly, slowing to walk beside her carriage window. "Princess Mariko, I hope you find it as beautiful as I do, and the people as lovely as your own."
Mariko wished she was bigger, stronger, taller. She hardly heard Bard's words, but nodded in response. She was too busy staring up at the walls of the village, grandly sprouting from the earth before her. If she had been even a few inches taller, she would not have been so dwarfed, perhaps. Her mind thought this, but her body didn't agree, for it kept straight and unwavering, without a slip or misstep as she exited the carriage. If her mind and body traded places, she would've fallen and started trembling at everything long ago, while her brain comprehended nothing but the task beforehand: untangling the rules of "Bride Training" that had been ingrained into her mind for so many years.
A familiar face at the gates nearly brought tears to Mariko's eyes, because she was so relieved to see the kind, open face and the long red hair swirled up into twin buns. Nearly collapsing out of the carriage, and barely remembering to walk perfectly ladylike, Mariko rushed to Mito.
"Long time no see, Mariko," said Mito. The redhead wasn't the closest person to the Aokami, and she certainly didn't visit often, but as an Uzumaki, she was pretty much considered family by default. Mariko was so relieved, she wanted to hug the redhead, but the crowd that had paused to see what the commotion of ten guards and a team of ninja with a carriage at the front gate stopped her.
"Long time no see," echoed Mariko.
"Tell me, how has Mr. Hozuki been?" It was a joke, clearly, and the lightheartedness of it all made Mariko's heart light.
"Haven't heard from him since."
"Lovely," chortled Mito, smiling. Mariko marveled at the light that a simple smile brought to the Uzumaki's face, her natural beauty utterly stunning. "Now, dear," she continued, "Let me introduce you to Konoha. Look pretty and smile, okay?"
Look pretty and smile?
It sounded quite familiar to Mariko.
.x.X.x.
Konoha — Day 1
My first hours in the Village Hidden in the Leaves was a tour. A tour! I don't think anything could've made me happier, because I felt the whole time like I was a tourist or a visitor, not a person here to stay. Unfortunately, I am staying, and there isn't a thing I can do about it. It's nearly dinnertime, but I'm enjoying this large room they've given me. It's very comfortable, and I think Mito had a hand in arranging it, because it looks suspiciously similar in setup to my room and Sumiko's.
I haven't met my husband yet, by the way. I heard he was out at the moment.
Also, I am to experience Konoha food. I hope I like it. (Sumiko says I'm the pickiest girl on earth, but I beg to differ.)
Oh, and my guard was right: They do have a mountain you can carve faces on.
.x.X.x.
With one myth confirmed, Mariko had three (at least, three she knew of) more to go through. Did the citizens of the Leaf eat camel? At this, Mito guffawed in such an unladylike manner that Mariko's eyes widened to saucers.
"Excuse me," chuckled Mito, covering her mouth. The graceful lady at the autumn gala had magically transformed into a cheerful, casual human being. And that wasn't a bad change, because the stiffness of a royal court was devastating to anyone. "That was really funny," Mito added, "I don't think I've heard that one before. Who told you that?"
"One of my guards," Mariko explained sheepishly.
"Well, tell him, dear, that we don't eat camels." Mito flashed a wink at her, an expression that Mariko found oddly comforting. "You certainly won't see anything too strange at dinner tonight, hopefully."
"Hopefully?" Mariko smiled. Her alabaster pastels generally hid her facial expressions, even though they were mixed with aloe and lotion-like qualities to keep it from transforming into a cracking mask, making them quite supple, like a second skin. Still, the paleness and the coverage made it hard to discern what sort of face she was displaying, unless you watched her eyes and eyebrows closely. She had painted her lips a shade of red a few palettes lighter than what Sumiko would put on, in hopes that the shape of her mouth defined would add character and outline her expressions.
"Well, you never know," Mito said jokingly. So accustomed to the ways of eastern islands, Mariko's hidden smile didn't faze her at all. She knew, simply by gazing into the girl's emerald eyes, that the conversation was putting her at ease. Mito was glad, for she remembered her own frightening trip to the mainland for an unknown marriage. However, she had, in fact, fallen in love with the handsome, maybe slightly goofy, but strong First Hokage.
"What differences," ventured Mariko, "do you think are the most obvious between Konoha and some of the islands?"
"Differences?" Mito took a moment to ponder. "Well, for one, your paints."
That was obvious, and Mariko lifted a self-conscious hand to her cheek.
"I wouldn't worry about it though," Mito continued evenly. "If you'd like, you don't even have to wear it. Casual life doesn't call for it, right?"
"But dinners do," tipped Mariko.
"That's right, isn't it? Maybe that's why Sumiko scared off Mr. Hozuki, eh?" Mito smiled again, and it was so contagious that Mariko couldn't help but follow suit. "But Mariko," Mito continued. "Don't be afraid to be yourself."
Mito said those words, but in fact, they scared Mariko even more. She was being told to drop everything she had ever learned, how to be a princess and a bride. Without her perfect posture and her speech caramelized in formality, what did she have left? Was she supposed to become a slob? No, obviously not. What did "be yourself" mean? Who was she, really?
Who am I?
"Mariko?" Mito stopped in her tracks when the girl went oddly silent, expressionless.
"Sorry," mumbled the blunette, catching up to the Uzumaki with quick but elegantly straight strides.
"Dinner is soon," Mito said, glancing at the sky. They were just passing through a beautiful park beside a picturesque lake, a shining scene comparable to Hurricane's post-card worthy landscape. The sun was dipping to the edges of the line of water, reflecting in shimmering layers upon the small waves. Mito tossed a pebble, just for effect, and the ripples sent glimmers of sunlight outward.
"Konoha is beautiful," murmured Mariko. The hint of sadness, loneliness, and homesickness was not at all missed by Mito.
"I cannot tell you what to feel," the redhead said solemnly, "but I can tell you that if I am not unhappy here, you will not be unhappy either."
Mito herself was the basis of this claim, but she had no support or even a whim of whether or not Mariko would be happy. She could only wish well for the girl. After all, she didn't even know the face of her husband yet. Mito prayed that Tobirama would be kind to her, but that prayer was stretched thin.
Mariko was silent, and they spent the rest of their walk to the Senju complex in comfortable wordlessness.
What Mariko wasn't expecting, however, was the massive dining hall that the cozy little corner of Konoha had. It was filled, nearly all the seats, with excited Senju clan members and special guests.
"This isn't for me, is it?" Mariko asked warily. Mito gave the girl a sideways glance. It was, in part, for her arrival, but it also celebrated the anniversary of the first Hokage inauguration.
"Do you want it to be for you?" Mito put a hand on the girl's shoulder; a serious question. The helpless look — one that could only be seen in the girl's green gaze, for her face was stoic and pale as the moon — that Mariko gave the older woman made it clear enough. And, Mariko seemed to know that she would have to be the center of attention. Unexpectedly, this did not quite faze her; she'd been acting at such dinner parties for eighteen years, so she supposed a change of nation would not make a big difference. She did mind, however, the fact that she was making a commotion. She never wanted to make a commotion. The only aspect of her princess style that she could alter was her ability to make a scene; she was the quiet royalty, the small princess who didn't say much, and faded beneath the cover of her older siblings.
But Ryouichi wasn't here, and neither were Katsurou and Sumiko. She was on her own this time.
"I'll let you know, then," Mito said. "All these people are here mainly because today celebrates another year of the Hokage's inauguration. There are plenty of foreigners, so you'll fit right in. The people to the north are quite bizarre, I'll say. Don't be unnerved, because you're not the only foreign culture here."
Mito nodded at an elderly man, one of the chefs, before guiding Mariko to a table further up front.
"Only most of the Senju know who you are, really," Mito continued. "You won't have to do anything, rest assured. I'll introduce you to Hashirama, my husband. I'm sure you'll like him, he's the most warmhearted person I've ever met."
The Hokage was a busy man, but not busy enough to find his wife among the bustling crowd and slip through the people to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. The smile on Mito's face this time was completely different, thought Mariko, because the warmth that seemed to swell from the bottom up was made of a love that Mariko didn't know.
"And you must be Princess Mariko," Hashirama said then, his voice a grand, deep timbre. He wasn't pompous or regal, but welcoming, with arms spread like the limbs of a tree. He embraced her sincerely, to her surprise, and flashed the most heartfelt of smiles. With a sheet of silken brown hair, straight like a blanket that fell gracefully down his strong back and broad shoulders, Hashirama was handsome man with an slightly earnest, but gentle face.
"Hokage-sama, it's a pleasure to meet you," Mariko answered. The slight quirk in his brow was also unexpected, and then the following burst of laughter more than a big confusing.
"My dear, you don't have to use any titles with me," he chortled, placing a large hand on her small shoulders. "You can call me Mr. Tree for all I care, but Hashirama or Hashi is what I prefer, little sister."
Speechless, the little blunette stared up at the Hokage. He saw right into her eyes, dismissing the aloofness of her white pastels, and nodded. Squeezing her shoulder, then turning to Mito to tell her something quietly, he set off to deal with other dinner preparations.
"Little sister", he had called her. He accepted her wholly, no matter what hair color and bizarre paints she had, and though he'd only spoken for a few moments, his voice emanated kindness. It wasn't a thing that took observation — Hashirama had the power to make people feel his acceptance. His love, unrequited and completely free. It wasn't that he gave it to everyone, but Mariko had the feeling that when he wished someone to feel at ease, the power of his own emotions conquered one's own, holding it like a nest cradling a bird's eggs. An unknown, unrecognized jutsu, even.
"Mariko." Mito's voice jerked Mariko from her reverie, pulling her to her seat. The grand dining hall was arranged in a fashion so vastly different from the one at Emerald Palace, Mariko had to take a few seconds to absorb it all. Instead of the long, rectangular tables that formed a large ring around the room, as in Hurricane, there were small circular tables everywhere, hosting eight to a unit. In Hurricane, the royal family sat up front with King Hiroto at the center, and whoever else he deemed appropriate to be seated beside him. Then, royal advisors arranged rows of people to sit in tables, gradually getting farther away. In addition, Hurricane often hosted an organized buffet, which would be inside their ring of tables. Konoha, however, had energetic waiters and waitresses, plowing through the crowds and deftly avoiding spillage of whatever item they hoisted in the air.
Mariko sat beside Mito, and beside Mito was Hashirama (though his seat was currently unoccupied, due to his role in the festivities). After Hashirama, a younger girl with high-set cheekbones and a certain slope to her nose that reminded Mariko of the pale Senju woman they'd encountered on their journey to Konoha. Another Senju, she presumed. After the girl, a rather lost looking gentleman, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, distinctly not-Konoha. A foreigner.
Almost instantly, the idea of another foreigner at the table soothed Mariko. Upon further study, he had the studied look of a man from the Tea Country. Well, at least, Mariko imagined him to be from the Tea Country. She had only twice encountered a few ambassadors and representatives from the Tea Country, and they all looked like men and women who hauled their efforts over books by candlelight, all knowledge. She wasn't sure, of course.
After the freckled man, a boisterous boy of about ten or eleven. He sat in such a way that it seemed like he was guilty of something, like he as at the wrong table on purpose. There was, actually, a guest list on the center of the table, to designate the many people in the dining hall. Mariko couldn't guess who he was, so she just chanced a few glances at him.
"Hiruzen," Hashirama called across the table. The boy looked up, a mischievous grin flashing across his features before he managed to look somber, a skillfully practiced cover-up.
"Yes?" asked the boy, innocently. He had a wide smile and bright eyes, a tousled nest of brown hair and an air of excitement.
"You don't sit here," Hashirama put simply.
"I'm waiting for Tobirama-sensei," the boy explained.
"I know you are. I'll tell him you're looking for something," Hashirama answered.
"Aw, man. Rats."
"You can come visit later. Right now, we're trying to organize everyone." Hashirama had just taken a seat, allowing himself a quick breather, before shooing the boy away gently and rising once more to guide a few lost guests (most likely people who wanted an excuse to talk to the Hokage, or something of the like).
The boy bounced away, slinging an arm around a familiar face marred with an x-shaped scar on the chin. The dark-haired, dark-faced boy pushed the animated one named Hiruzen away, snapping something in an annoyed manner. Mariko watched after them, but they disappeared in the crowd.
Taking the place of the boy was the pale, sharp-faced woman. Her eyes took in the table briefly, and quietly greeted them all. She rested her gaze on Mariko for a split second longer, a glimmer of recognition slightly dawning in her features, and then she turned to Mito.
"Toka, how was your mission?" asked Mito.
"It went smoothly," answered the woman. "Kagami and Danzo, for once, got along for enough time to complete our transaction successfully."
"That's good. And how is Torifu?"
"Still scared of heights, but improving all the same."
The two women continued a relaxed conversation, Toka occasionally having to tuck a long slip of dark hair behind her ear, because it obscured her face. Then, in the midst of a conversation, another man took his seat beside Toka. He, too, was dark-haired, but it took on the color of a blue roan horse, so black that it was nearly blue. He ran a hand through his short, cropped navy hair, before joining in on the conversation.
Mariko observed each member of the table, and this man had the most interesting facial marks so far. He had two scars, which crossed on his forehead. A short mark that slanted from his hairline to his right eyebrow, and a longer scar that crossed the first one, ran down between his eyebrows, and dragged to the left corner, touching his jaw line.
"Hello," he suddenly said. "I'm Arata. You must be Mariko-hime, right?"
The unexpected greeting took her by surprise (as were many things that day), but Mariko handled it within a matter of seconds, smiling and holding out a hand. He shook it firmly, another interesting thing; a man in Hurricane would have knelt at her side and kissed her hand out of politeness. Mariko decided that she liked the firmness of a handshake, and smiled even wider.
It seemed that the man found delight in the small smile that was shown through her layers of pastels, and he began a friendly conversation with her. How was Konoha so far? What type of differences did she notice, and what did she like so far? Mariko found that he, too, was a horse lover, and had a fine pair of bay colts at the local barn he was training.
If this man was to be her husband, Mariko thought that she would be quite content. But then again, there was a single seat between her and Arata, so she doubted that he was the groom-to-be.
"Arata, you and your horse talk again," joked the young girl about Mariko's age across the table. She winked at Mariko. "Don't bore us with your horse jokes, all right?"
"I think the Lady would find them rather amusing," Arata defended. "At least I don't make terrible tree jokes, Etsuko."
The girl turned up her nose, snorting with laughter. The freckled man spared a nervous chuckle; he, like Mariko, didn't know what to make of things.
Etsuko, with her bright face and dark hair, rolled her eyes. The exchange between her and the horseman were familiar and familial; Mariko recognized the comfortable passing of eye rolls and giggles. They must be siblings, she thought.
"Enough," Toka cut in, though she was quite amused at the other two. "Where's that bumbling nugget head gone? He shouldn't be hard to spot in this crowd…"
Everyone besides Mariko and the freckle-faced man shrugged. It seemed that the two foreigners were left out of this, because they had no clue as to who Toka was referring to.
"He's made a practice out of hiding his white hair," Hashirama commented dryly. "He literally becomes a ghost."
Mariko would assume that this was the last missing member of the table, the one who belonged in the empty seat beside her. And, she thought dreadfully, this would be her future husband.
"He's obviously avoiding this," Etsuko said, an amused tilt to her head. Her eyes widened, and she immediately made a correction. "He doesn't like, um, crowds, after all."
Mito's face looked like she wanted to tell the younger girl that that was completely absurd, but she understood the gravity of the slip. Etsuko had just implied that Mariko's husband was avoiding the meeting. A glance at Mariko showed that the blunette had receded into her mask again, and her eyes, this time, gave away nothing.
"I should start, shouldn't I." It wasn't a question, and Hashirama rubbed his neck wearily. He groaned, and then comically pretended to make a dash for it. Mito grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back: a husband-wife comedy duo.
The Hokage made his way up a small platform at the front of the room, tapping a microphone which screeched horrendously.
"Now, how should I start this?" he asked, booming through the speakers once the harsh feedback faded. "Ah, I know."
The guests looked up at him.
"TOBIRAMA, WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE BROTHER?"
A smattering of laughter, and a group of younger guests shoved another guest out of his seat. The cloak of a transforming jutsu gave way with a puff of smoke, allowing all to see the hassled Senju that brushed himself off. He gave Hashirama a dry smirk, holding his arms up.
"Here, brother," he said as flatly as he could, marching straight up to Mariko's table without a moment's hesitation. The giggling of several girls, and the hoots and jeers of a few younger boys (namely the student section) urged him to sit down quickly, though his white hair was easily followed to the table.
"Our game of Where's Tobi didn't last long," sighed Hashirama, earning another round of chuckles. "In any case, welcome, one and all! Thank you for being present tonight—"
Hashirama's voice became a buzz, a background droning, because all Mariko saw now was the seething glower of a white-haired Senju, a tall man who slipped silently into his seat. The glare he continuously gave his older brother was only broken by an obvious kick under the table, Mito's eyes flashing dangerously. The white-haired man stared blankly at the tablecloth, which was deep red.
He didn't even look once at Mariko.
When Hashirama sat back down, the glare resurfaced, and Hashirama noted his.
"Don't say anything," he said quickly when his younger brother began to argue, "You're the one who publicly humiliated yourself."
"That's usually your role," Tobirama hissed. He folded his arms crossly and curtly ordered from the waiter who stopped by to take their orders.
"Tobi, if I could reach you, I'd smack the bag of your head to Iwa," Toka snarled a few seats down. It was obvious that she and the Hokage had little tolerance for the white-haired Senju's behavior.
"Go for it," Tobirama muttered, stabbing a single chopstick into his rice. This earned a few more glares, one of them added by Mito this time. It seemed as if the redhead's threatening stare mollified him more than those of his relatives, seeing as he glanced down warily.
The food, Mariko noted, was good. No camel in sight. Her guards were seated at their own table, chatting it up with her serving ladies, and having a grand time of it all. They were always alert, for Hurricane guards — and any worker of the capital's palace — were trained to have quick, calculated reactions and immediate responses. None of them were shinobi, save maybe one of the soldiers, but all were adept at close combat and other maneuvers.
"Mariko," Mito called, quite loudly despite sitting right next to her. "How's the food?"
"It's excellent," replied the pale-faced girl mildly, a little startled by the loudness of voice.
"Tobirama," Mito said even louder, "really likes this dish right here."
She gestured widely to a vegetable-based rice, which was quite flavorful despite its bland appearance. Literally called something along the lines of "vegetable rice", Mariko rather liked it.
"And," Mito added, emphasizing the one word too much, "he would like to introduce himself to you."
The menace in the sentence was clear now, and if the white-headed man didn't turn now, Mariko was actually convinced that Mito would take someone's head off. At least, the burning in her eyes indicated that she would blow up soon. If Mito blew up in any fashion similar to Sumiko, then Mariko would hit the floor and duck for cover. Then again, she'd also heard that Uzumaki tempers were far hotter than any Aokami's could ever be, so the ignition of that flame should send anyone aware of that fact running for a bomb shelter.
"I sure like food, Mito," growled Tobirama. "And, as stated, my name is Tobirama, the brother of that dunce of a Hokage over there."
"Tobirama!" shouted Mito, flaming now. She was rather put off by the fact that Tobirama would string together so many insulting things at once, for he was usually a quiet man with a few sharp remarks. "Behave yourself!"
"I am a grown man, Mito," the white-haired Senju replied tiredly. "I believe I can take care of myself just fine."
"That wasn't what I said."
Tobirama waved it off.
"On second thought, I don't like food so much. Hash, save a bowl of rice for me. I'm leaving."
Hashirama was silent. Then:
"Sit."
Tobirama's face was a mixture of incredulousness and rage.
"Excuse me?"
The combined glares of all Senju clan members present at the table, including Mito, was frightening. When Tobirama didn't budge, Arata stood, and though he wasn't quite as tall as Tobirama, he set a hard hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him down unsympathetically.
"I would like to introduce to you," Arata said through gritted teeth, "two new guests to Konohagakure."
Skillfully ignoring the contempt that the white-haired man was aiming at him, Arata gestured a welcoming hand towards the freckled man and Mariko.
"One is my lovely little sister's future fiancé, Kell from the Tea Country, and the other is the most pleasant woman I've met thus far tonight, your fiancée, Aokami Mariko." Arata was met with an approving, short nod from Mito, while Tobirama glowered.
At the moment, all Mariko could think of was that her earlier guesses had been right; Sir Kell across the table was indeed, from the Tea Country. Also, the fact that Etsuko and Arata were siblings didn't come as quite a surprise, and after all, they shared quite a few facial similarities. She began to wonder their relationship with Toka, who had the same pronounced cheekbones and slim, straight jaw.
"Arata, I don't need you to tell me anything," snarled Tobirama under his breath, just loud enough for those directly beside him to hear. That meant, of course, that Mariko heard every threat he whispered to the poor, scarred Senju a seat over.
"Stop being a dick," spat Arata, eyes searching Tobirama's face. "Your future wife is right beside you, don't you wonder what she's thinking? Bad first impression, don't you think?"
At this, Tobirama must've thought up a million replies, but he kept them locked. He wasn't sulking, really, but instead, more exasperated. He looked more tired than angry now, as he leaned back in his chair. Despite the slight alteration of mood, he didn't drop his curt pretense when he turned to her. In any case, had he turned to her with a Hashirama-like smile, she would've been startled anyway. She was a rabbit, jumping at every noise and every little thing that blew across her path.
"I apologize for my sour mood today, Princess," Tobirama told her flatly, sounding not at all like he meant a word, "but circumstances have it that the Hokage and I…are in the middle of a dispute."
"That's unfortunate to hear," Mariko answered softly, unsure of whether her voice was trembling and she sounded weak, or she was shivering all over, causing all sounds to vibrate. "I hope it ends soon, and you work out a solution."
"You and I both." His eyes grazed her face, then, and it seemed oddly as if he didn't know where to look. It suddenly occurred to Mariko that perhaps it as the face pastels he wasn't used to, and was trying to read her expression but failing. It was like looking at a blank piece of paper — the eyes have no point to focus on. Rather dismayed by his lack of interest and the lost look he gave her, barely meeting her eyes, Mariko turned back to her food.
Her slightly demoralized picking at the food did not go unnoticed by Hashirama, ever sensitive to details.
"Tobirama," he said briskly. "You and I will have a talk after this."
"Will we really, brother?" came the annoyed reply. The brunet glared harshly at his younger brother, whose red albino eyes seethed.
"We will. And we will all continue to have pleasant conversations for this celebration," Hashirama answered flatly. After that, he ceased all communications with his brother, who shot angry glares from time to time back at him. Then, in an effort for conversation, Mariko tried again.
"Um," she blurted, then realized that she'd made a mistake. Princess vocabulary didn't have stutters or filler words. She quickly continued, "Out of curiosity, what is your relationship to Toka-san and Arata-san?"
"They're my cousins," Tobirama answered shortly. "Toka and Arata are cousins, and Arata is Etsuko's older brother."
That last part, she'd gathered. Also, the way he glanced at her, then pointedly looked away, implied that he wasn't in the mood for conversation. She dropped it. But then, how was she supposed to meet her new husband? Silence? Nodding? Nothing at all?
Confusion.
I want to go home.
Overhearing conversations seemed to be a penchant for Mariko, because no matter where she went, she happened to run into arguments that she perhaps should not have heard.
After dinner, when most people were up and going for desserts, Tobirama had slunk away, shoulders hunched coldly. Hashirama sat quietly, eating a slice of lemon meringue that looked stunning, in the midst of a lively exchange about different herbs and teas with Kell.
When all was over, Mito softly asked if she'd like to go anywhere, to which Mariko politely declined. From here on, it was quite easy to find the main house and slip to her bedroom. So, planning to take a hot shower and flop comfortably on her bed without the pastels and the tight updo her hair had been pulled into, Mariko left.
As fate would have it, she heard rising voices, and froze to the spot. She was hardly a turn away from the main house, and in the front yard, two familiar voices were throwing harsh words back and forth. One white-haired Senju faced off with his older brother.
"I am disappointed," spat Hashirama, his voice uncharacteristically full of rage. The words were thrown out vehemently, boiling.
"In what?" replied Tobirama, folding his arms in a defensive stance. Mariko could see them around the corner, from where she cowered by a tall brick wall, and the motion was so Katsurou-like that she wanted to curl up. It was almost as if her older brother was there, having a dispute with the First Hokage. However, the voice, the hateful stare, the moon-white hair, all of it was nothing like Katsurou. If Katsurou argued, it was for a good cause, for his family's sake — for her sake.
"Your fiancée, was sitting beside you, and you acted like she wasn't there! You rudely addressed me in front of all those people and—"
"Is this about you now? About your appearance, oh mighty Hokage-sama? Tell me, Hashi, has this become all about you?"
"Tobirama! I will not tolerate this behavior from you, and—"
"And what?" demanded Tobirama. When Hashirama opened his mouth again, Tobirama snapped, "Silence!" loudly. It was almost shocking, the disrespect one could show to an elder sibling. "You know nothing," hissed Tobirama. "I never wanted to get married in the first place. You betrayed my trust, Hashirama, you married me off like some tool."
"Not a tool, Tobirama, I—"
"Then explain this! Explain why there's a silent, ghost of a woman living in our house, who doesn't show emotion, and speaks like a robot?! You expect me to live with that?!"
"You overreact, Tobi."
"I overreact? You chose your wife! Shouldn't I get to choose mine?"
"You haven't thrown such a big tantrum since you were twelve, Tobi."
"Don't get off topic," the albino snarled, stalking up to his older brother and clenching the loose collar in his fist. "You set me up, and you know what? It's the worst set up this damned shinobi world has ever seen."
"You were going to live out your life alone, growing more and more depressed, and eventually creating something that would be your end." Hashirama stared calmly at his younger brother, whose eyes flickered, red pools of hatred. So red, Hashirama painfully thought of the Uchiha, whose love was so strong that it turned into darkness. He wasn't about to let his younger brother fall to a similar fate, forever lost in a dream world, a limbo of despair. Even if he wasn't an Uchiha, he was still susceptible to hatred.
"Now you're getting ahead of yourself," scoffed Tobirama. "You're talking nonsense now, Hashi. Maybe you're the one going insane."
"I'm not. I have Mito to ground me," Hashirama countered calmly. At this, Tobirama's face contorted into an expression of rage. He grabbed Hashirama's shirt with both hands, now, and fiercely shoved his brother against the wall. The impact was so hard, Mariko felt a deep thud from the other side. She bit her lip and slowly sat down, breath held for the longest time. She'd retreated from her peeking position at the edge of the courtyard gate, but now, she tucked herself farther into the shadows, trembling.
"Do you suppose that by sticking a random woman by my side, I'll be grounded? If you want me to see her, then that's the last thing I'll do." There was a sound of rustling, and Mariko assumed the Tobirama had let of Hashirama's collar, for the following footsteps led farther and farther away, as did his voice. "You can send her home."
"I won't."
"Fine, be cruel. Be cruel to both of us."
"You're the one being cruel. You treat her like an object."
"Who's the one treating who like an object?" demanded Tobirama. "Get your head on straight, Hashirama!"
Then, the slam of a door, and silence. An angel passed, it seemed, because the silence was at once light on the hears and heavy on the heart.
Even through the wall, Mariko could feel Hashirama's tiredness. His firm resolve to not move a muscle, even when Tobirama apprehended him. If the younger Senju had struck him, he would not have retaliated. Such was his love for his brother. Mariko could also feel a soft, comforting wave emanating from the Hokage, a quiet, almost consoling emotion. It ran over her nerves and calmed her, her beating heart slowing. It was just like before, when he'd embraced her; she could clearly feel his intentions, his thoughts translating his smile into a sincere welcome.
It occurred to her that it actually was a skill, something that he controlled and sent out. The power of feelings. Could emotions be transmitted through chakra?
She didn't stop to ponder this, because if her hunch was right, then he knew she was behind the wall. He'd known the entire time. However, there was no movement on the other side, even when a branch cracked under her foot. Waiting to see what would happen, Mariko froze. She felt Hashirama shift, then heard him sigh. He seemed undecided. Then, he seemed guilty, apologetic. She realized that he was apologizing to her, a silent message, before he shuffled into the house.
.x.X.x.
Dear Momma,
I've decided to stop counting the days. Each one seems so long.
Have you ever overheard something you should've have? I'll admit to you now, Momma, that I've heard lots of things that should've been kept safe from my ears. Including stuff you talk about with Katsurou, Sumi, and Ryo. Sometimes with Dad. Today, I overheard that I've overstayed my welcome — pitiful, right? I've been here all of…not one day.
.x.X.x.
Six years old and nimble, a silent silhouette padding down the hallways, small enough to hide in corners and disappear behind drapes, Mariko crept. She was up, at the wee hours of two in the morning, simply because Katsurou had never come to bed. She knew, because when she had nightmares, she went to him first. He told her funny stories to put her back to sleep, and then either let her stay in his room or hoisted her back to her own. Ryouichi would read her a book, even if was boring, and she definitely preferred Katsurou's stories. Sumiko tended to tell her to replay her horrors, as if to dissect them and analyze them, so she was the last one Mariko looked for.
Her mother wasn't in her room, either.
So Mariko set off in search for both of them.
Upon passing the palace kitchens, there was a clattering up ahead. Mariko decided to investigate, and the source turned out to be three figures, stances defensive, voices coming through as loud, angry whispers.
One was a tall, lanky boy of about twelve: Katsurou.
Another was a slim brunette: her mother.
Finally, a tall, elegant man who looked ten years less than his true age, with stunning blue hair that failed to gray with time: King Hiroto, her father.
"I will not permit you to learn any more ninjutsu," the king said firmly. He wasn't quite angry, but he was upset. There was a scroll laid on the counter, something scribbled in paint that looked like the characters for Aokami, but Mariko couldn't tell from her distance.
"I will learn, whether you permit it or not," retorted Katsurou. He crossed his arms and made himself as large as possible, shoulders squaring.
"Katsurou, there are risks to ninjutsu," Manami commented quietly. It seemed she was the angriest, but she didn't show it.
"I'm not going to run to the mainland and go on missions, Mother," Katsurou replied. "I won't get killed fighting some rogue nin, don't worry. I just want to learn."
"You will not," repeated King Hiroto, this time his tone taking on a threatening note.
"Didn't you study ninjutsu, Father?" asked Katsurou incredulously. "Why can't I?"
"There are risks, Katsurou. For us," the king added quietly. Then: "I will not permit any more learning."
"But I know so much already!" complained Mariko's sapphire-topped brother, throwing his hands up. "I learned the Summoning Jutsu last month, I even made a contract!"
At this, both parents' heads whipped towards him, eyes wide.
"You what?" both demanded, advancing on him. The pressure of their stares was so intense, Katsurou shrunk slightly, intimidated. What was wrong with the Summoning Jutsu? Mariko wondered the same thing, from her corner.
"I learned the Summoning Jutsu," he repeated quietly.
"Who did you make a contract with?" King Hiroto asked curtly. He grabbed the scroll on the counter and unraveled it. It was one of his own scrolls, Mariko knew, because she recognized the old blue paper and gold lining from the shelves by his desk. Shelves she only browsed when her mother brought her to the king's office, because she certainly wouldn't go alone; she was a nuisance, most times.
Hiroto made a face and hissed something quietly, eyes running down the scroll's length. He looked up, a fierce glare on Katsurou.
"I contracted w-with a wolf," Katsurou answered as coherently as he could. It wasn't everyday that one heard the Second Prince stutter — he was usually as calm and smug as a young man could get. With his height, tall for his age, Katsurou was usually a strong pillar. However, at the moment, he looked like a shaky, thin maple that would topple at the slightest of wind.
"A wolf, Katsurou," echoed their mother. "Flip it all, child, do you know what you've done?"
"Don't, Manami." Hiroto cast his wife a warning glance, and she shut her mouth. The blue-haired king's expression softened as he reached over to tuck a strand of plain, mousey hair behind her ear. "It's not something to know, not anymore."
"What? What's wrong?" asked Katsurou, slightly panicked. Had he done something wrong? His face was worried.
"Nothing is wrong," King Hiroto stated, "except for the fact that you've learned ninjutsu. Promise me you'll never practice more, and never summon another animal. Especially not a wolf."
"Why not a wolf?"
"Swear to it, boy. No more ninjutsu." Hiroto was tired, and his eyes let the boy know. However, confused and wanting an answer, Katsurou grew frustrated, and refused to comply.
"No."
Both the king and queen looked up suddenly, at the boy's hardening voice.
"Come again?" said Hiroto.
"I will keep practicing ninjutsu, even if you kick me off the island and disown me! I see nothing wrong with learning it," Katsurou stated, as boorishly as he could, voice deepening for the moment. Before her eyes, Mariko saw an uncouth young gentleman, willing to defy his parents reins and break away.
"Katsurou." Voice hard, Hiroto walked up to his son, whose height nearly paralleled his own. "Listen."
"I won't." And with that, Katsurou ran. He shot out the kitchen door, slamming the door behind him, and sprinted down the hall. His long, lanky legs carried him far and fast, easily a colt leaping for freedom. Mariko never thought he was a gazelle — her mother was a gazelle, Sumiko was a gazelle, dancing agilely with precision and speed. But Katsurou was a horse, by blood and by heart, frolicking freely, his decision to break free transforming him into a wild mustang.
Katsurou failed to see his baby sister huddled under a small table, a decorative one hosting a vase of simple flowers that rattled when he rushed past. She remained under the table, breath held.
"Hiro," said Manami, her voice breaking. It almost scared Mariko, to hear her mother's voice so pitifully weak. A thump let her know that the queen had slumped dejectedly into a chair. Mariko peeked round the corner, and watched the following exchange.
"Shh, it's all right," hummed Hiroto. Mariko's eyes widened; she'd never seen a shred of love or empathy from her father, yet here it was, bluntly shown before her. There was a reason why Manami married him, after all.
"We need to tell him," Manami sniffled, crying now into her husband's shirt. He stroked her hair softly, allowing her to tuck her forehead against him. "We need to let him know the dangers. You know how it goes, this island and that wolf."
"I know. But Manami, he's already made a contract."
"You're telling me it's too late."
"Maybe not. He has yet to choose, you know."
Who was "he"? Mariko listened carefully, curious now, but unable to deduce the meaning of the conversation.
"He'll choose soon, Hiro, and it's going to be one of us. What if he takes Sumiko? No, what if he takes Mariko?" The queen was reduced to tears now, clutching the king's hands fiercely, almost protectively. "He's going to take everything."
"No, he only takes one."
"That doesn't make it any better. You should know, he took from you, after all." Manami looked up at her husband, eyes wandering, lost.
"I know."
"And he doesn't make it easy, Hiro. He didn't pick your father, because you were never close to him."
"No, he didn't."
"Don't just agree with me, Hiro. Listen to what I'm saying. He took your mother for a reason. He didn't even go for your sister." Manami took a deep, shuddering breath. King Hiroto had gone silent. There was a brief moment where no words passed, only the soft shush of a husband comforting his wife, one hand holding her to him, the other caressing her cheek. Every motion was foreign to their six-year-old daughter, hiding unbeknownst to them beyond the doorway.
"That doesn't mean he'll take you," Hiroto said softly.
"I know, but even if he does, what will the kids do? No, he'll take whoever is most precious to Katsurou. Does that mean Mariko? Emeralds above, Hiroto, he's going to take Mariko!" Manami stood suddenly, hyperventilating. The king caught her arm and sat her back down slowly.
"No. He won't."
"I'd rather he take me than her," Manami cried.
"There shall be no more talk of this, Manami."
"Hiro, do something," she said, beginning to sob. He cradled her to his chest, murmuring sweet, comforting nothings into her ear, until the shaking of her shoulders faded, and her sobs turned to whimpers, then to silence.
By then, Mariko had already slipped back to her room, silent as a shinobi, her nightmare forgotten.
.x.X.x.
Dear Momma,
One week down. Does this mean I get to go home sooner? Oh wait, the wedding's at the end of the month. Just kidding.
.x.X.x.
Tobirama had talked to her a few more times, but each time was as brusque and uncivil as the first time. She passed Hashirama each morning, who greeted her with a cheerfully "Good morning, my dear!" but the feelings he gave off were once more apologetic. Mariko began to wonder if she was just ultra-sensitive to the moods of others, but began to doubt it when a wave of emotion that felt oddly like a mischievous wink came over her as she watched Tobirama bite into his breakfast.
"Why is this salty?" he immediately demanded. There was laughter, accompanied by a snort, from Hashirama, who wiggled his eyebrows at Mariko. Mariko, unsure of what to do, offered a smile. No one could quite tell she was smiling — each day saw the dutiful adherence to a painted appearance — but the twinkle in her eyes reassured him.
Mito chuckled and slapped the albino on the back. He glared.
"You are such a pessimist," she scolded. He rolled his eyes. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"You know, I expected you to be the funny little brother, and you know what happened?" Mito poked Hashirama's shoulder. "This one turns out to be the idiot."
"Wow, you actually agree with me," Tobirama deadpanned.
"No, he's my idiot, I love him, and he's quite smart, really."
Tobirama rolled his eyes again, because that made little to no sense. Mariko smiled beneath her mask, before gracefully shoving a tasty biscuit into her mouth, still ladylike all the way.
When Tobirama left, Mariko dared to open her mouth.
"Is it possible for chakra to transmit emotion?" she said bluntly.
"No, but it's possible to send messages, like mental communication," Mito replied.
"But not feelings?"
"Sensing feelings is a skill that is based on chakra receptors," Mito informed her calmly, sounding very professional. "We have seals that can alter even the flow of mental thoughts, if need be."
It all sounded complicated, but still intriguing. Still, Mariko wanted to know how it was that Hashirama was telling her these random little bits of information her or there. When his gaze shifted to Tobirama's plate and the flutter of emotion crossed her, she'd known that something was up. However, whether or not he'd sent such an emotion or not, she was still debating. That night in the courtyard, it could've very well been his own guilt for himself, something not directed at her at all.
"Perhaps," Hashirama said, "you have been sensing emotions? It is not unlike sensing different chakras. If you can sense feelings, it is most likely you are picking up on fluctuations in chakra waves. It takes a lot of perception however, to do so. Unless you're naturally a genius."
A kind smile. Mariko was confused again. She couldn't tell whether she was picking up on his kindness, his warmth, or he was sending her a subtle cue informing her that he knew that she knew that he was giving messages. That train of thought jumbled her thoughts and made little sense, so she dropped it and tried a different subject.
"Do you think I could see Arata-san's horses?" she inquired, sweetly and politely. Sweetness had always been a helping hand in her case, for she was small and had a candy smile (even through her pastels, of course).
"Mariko, you don't have to ask, just go!" Mito exclaimed.
"I don't know where it is," she admitted.
"Fire, my dear, it's right in the complex! I'll show you the way." After cleaning up the dishes, Hashirama set off on what he deemed his new quest — the stables.
The sweet smell of hay and the familiar horsey noises was an immediate comfort, smoothing Mariko's frayed nerves and relaxing her all over. She wondered why she hadn't come here earlier, the week before. Then again, she'd been learning every single place on Konoha's map, courtesy of Etsuko, who was an overly excited tour guide.
"Mariko-hime!" called Arata, rather pleased to see her. "Come here, I was just about to take out one of my horses."
"Your two colts, right?" asked Hashirama. He strode up to one of them, and the chestnut nuzzled him, ears pricked. Animals seemed to like the Hokage; Mariko found this to be an excellent quality.
"Always glad to see you, Hashirama." Arata smiled and continued about how well his friend's filly was taking to halter, and how his own colts were learning to trot circles under saddle, though not under rider quite yet. Hashirama took his leave, needing to attend to other business, leaving the two horse people to chat away.
"He's got a lovely stride," Mariko said, taking delight in the way the first colt strode out evenly. He still had lanky shoulders and a straight, skinny neck, but he showed promise. The second horse, a similarly built colt, was a slightly more reddish shade of chestnut, and had a wide blaze down his nose. He liked to play more, and refused to trot in a nice circle around Arata. Instead, he came nosing for treats constantly.
"This one's got a lovely stride too, but he's always distracted," admitted Arata, laughing when the animal snuffled his pockets. "I've got no treats, silly!"
The dark-haired Senju laughed, pushing away the horse's nose gently. Mariko was completely and utterly happy, watching her new friend and fellow horse lover. She was comfortable, leaning on the fence then, watching him play tag with the mischievous colt, who had snatched his gloves from a coat pocket, and was flinging them about from his teeth.
Then, across the way, a pair of eyes, red and disgusted. Mariko didn't see him, but she felt his glare. When she looked up to meet those garnet eyes, she shrunk back. She wasn't quite sure why he was there, or why he happened to see her. All she knew was that after his argument with his brother, his opinion of her had become one of revulsion. As if he wondered why she was still here, in his home, living with them.
Tobirama spared her, quickly disappearing.
So. Long. Phew! Thoughts, comments, other things?
How am I doing?
Is it boring? I really hope it's okay... Why is the Naruto world so hard to write?
Characters, I mean. I get really impatient with conversations, lol. Must think about them harder.