The koi swim in the pond, in circles, like a custom, like they are cultural things. The water is lymph and silver, almost unmoving. Sunlight skates across the surface, like a caress of light. The morning is dewy, bright. The air is pleasantly cold, wet.
Standing on the little red bridge, he watches the way the fish swim. The way they sleek through the water without disturbing it, like spirits. In circles, they swim. Around one another, the two of them, while a third lurks near the bottom, with the dark-green weeds, like thick braids of hair, reaching upwards.
With his special, moon-like eyes he can see the insides of them. Their small chakra networks, like a webbing of blue fire, constricting, flexing, fluctuating, maneuvering as the muscles of the fish contract, expand, as their gills open, close, as their pearl-black eyes stare out, into the water, into the clear blue water, like watchers, like seers. Koi.
Arms in his sleeves, hands hidden, fingers clasped together. The muscle of his body, the weapon of his body, resting, at ease. His last battle was two weeks ago, in a field near the country's border. He had been traveling with a diplomat, an elderly man who wore a black, caterpillar mustache and an equally black beret. Their convoy, their carriage, was attacked by ninja of the Rain. Shinobi with steel gray eyes, with lithe muscular movements, trained by war, by civil war, by -
But Hiashi was faster, quicker, more nimble. Despite his age, despite the gray flecks in his long dark hair. He kept his expression solid, like a chiseled thing, like a face made of stone, while his torso stayed centered, at a ninety degree angle, with his knees bent, his feet sliding across the soil in concentric arcs, while his arms moved like windmills, his palms facing the enemy, like a sign of peace, but as he cocked his wrist, his elbow, and shot - gales of wind burst from his palms, slamming into the Rain-nin, snapping their necks, tossing them backwards, rag-dolling into the air, in smooth upwards arcs, and as they hit the ground, their bodies unmoving, their limbs tossed in odd angles, the dust settled, the violence simmered, but there was no blood. Only bruising, only ruptured organs, foam-ridden mouths, blank white eyes. As always, he left one alive, the youngest. A small, Genin boy. A kid with long black eyelashes and early teenage stubble. Hyuuga are the strongest clan in the Leaf, Hiashi intoned, a sureness in his voice, a wooden self-respect. The child fled, as they all do. Into the forest, down into the canyon, carrying with him news of their squad's bloodless defeat. Hiashi watched him, watched the boy leaping branch to branch, free-falling into the depth of the canyon, racing down the middle of the valley, crossing the border into the rainy place, where the rain falls always like a sheet, like a veil, like drapery. Then, the boy was gone, disappeared back into the safety of his own nation. The diplomat, the mustached beret man, laughed and laughed, in relief, that shaky afraid laughter. That night, at their destination, he and Hiashi shared cups of green tea, and sat together in that silence of men.
But, the koi. It means love. Koi. To name a fish after love. Or to name love after a fish. To entwine them, make them one. And those legends, about the moon, the koi, the sea, the Hyuuga and their special white pupiless eyes. It's all one thing, one myth, tied together like a chakra network, like a mesh of stories. When his wife died, he named the daughter after her. Hana became Hanabi. Little Hana. Little flower. His favorite daughter. The one who would never leave his side. Who would inherit his martial art, his worldview, his position in the clan. That night, the night Hana died, he purchased a Koi from a fish-monger, on the way home, in fact, from the hospital. The hospital. Despite all their achievements. All their machines and jutsus and big thick books, all their stethoscopes, their white uniforms, their clipboards and rooms assignments and gloves - despite all that -
But it hurts, sometimes. In a soft faraway place. In the inside of him, too. In that deepest place. That place in you, that is so deep, so deep inside your heart that the things you feel there - pain - feel distant almost. So internal it becomes removed. And so you live through life, you live life like water falling through a sieve. It happens around you, life, the living thing, this thing we all have for some reason, this wild fragile thing, this thing made of bloodlines and relationships and the absence of death. We live this way, in this glass-like way, in this - and then they die, then they - our daughters, Hana - they become shinobi, they become soldiers, they becomes a blur of fangs and claws - and in this noisy, angry world they tear and they slash and they learn how to kill. They must. They have to. We are animals, Hiashi knows this well. We are brutal, violent creatures. Despite the Hyuuga, despite their bloodless fighting style, despite their silences, their austerity, their wealth and codes of honor, despite all that Hiashi knows - we are vicious slaughtering animals. Shinobi are merely good at it, at the violence. Shinobi are merely trained, specializing in the violence.
Yet, we named a fish after love, or love after a fish. And we have daughters who hate us, who fear us, who do not understand that silence comes from pain, that battle comes from fear, that - and what will she lose, his eldest? Without him, now. He gave her up, to that woman with the red-black eyes. What will she lose, there, on the battlefields, with the commoners, with the ordinary ninja? Will she die, too? Well, she was never his, anyway. Hana named her that. Hinata. Hana named her that. Yes, that's right. He doesn't owe her anything, except strength, except inheritance. He hates her, sometimes. Is it awful to hate your own, weak child? Only sometimes, in random moments, in seemingly random moments, does he feel that burning hate feeling towards her, towards his precious special daughter. It's a thing of fear, he knows that. Anger comes from fear. Fear is unhealthy in large doses. Like medicine, fear becomes anger only if you overdose. Is it wrong, though, to hate her like that? Maybe, yes. It must be wrong, it has to be wrong. Yet, there it is. Hatred, love. Mixing, combining, becoming a -
But that child used to love rhubarb, he recalls, in a sudden moment. She used to pull it from the garden, and chew the raw rhubarb, and her face would scrunch up at the sour, and she would laugh and laugh. That's when the love hits him, like a weight, like a painful thing, like violence. Slamming him, shaking him, he almost falls. He catches his breath, he stares hard into the surface of the pond. To be immutable, to be one thing, one solid person, infallible within his stolid mind - yes, that would be nice. But, she liked rhubarb, back then. Not anymore. She only likes sweet things, now. She used to like rhubarb. She used to chew it, from the garden. Maybe Ko remembers, too. Maybe Tokuma remembers. Father doesn't. Father is blind, senile. Hinata, all wit and blue fire, as a child. Before the bullying started, probably. Before she inherited her small cruelty. Before Hizashi died. The kidnapping, the cursed seal, the sacrifice. He recalls lying on the floor, in the main room, his right cheek stinging from his brother's fist. Their father standing, watching. The Hokage, too, smoking from his pipe. The others, the branch family heads, watching him with derision and pride. Yes, the shame he felt then. Yes. Give it to me, shame. Please. Tell me what I should do, shame. Let me wallow. Let me float in your water. The joy of shame, it is real. Oh, Father, Hana, Hizashi - what is happening, now? The world is changing, contorting. So are our children. They are rabbits in a storm, in a landslide, trying to stay afoot. Oh God, but we name fish after love, we name fish after love, we name - and we named our daughters, we named them, these children we made, we so audaciously tenaciously naively named them, and now -
Trembling, he opens his eyes. The sunlight is hard and white. A bell rings, somewhere. Breakfast, yes. That's right. That's right. He breathes, he exhales, he leaves the garden, walks with purpose towards the washroom.