A/N: There will be a lot of AU elements in this story. I've watched most of the original Naruto, but only finished the first couple of arcs of Shippuuden, (just after the Kazekage rescue). So a lot of canon lore about the nations, chakra, and other worldbuilding will not be included, as I haven't seen it yet.

The pilgrim knelt by the creek, his brown travelling-cloak pooling on the grass behind him. He paused and looked up, as if listening for a change in the wind's music. Then he bowed his head, dipped his hands into the waters, and lifted them before him. Water nestled in the contours of his upturned palms, slid through his fingers like beads of glass.

The pilgrim murmured to himself:

"Every harmful action I have done
With my body, speech and mind,
Overwhelmed by anger, attachment and confusion,
All these I lay bare before you."

He slowly climbed to his feet, and then spoke in a loud voice: "Greetings, honourable Bhikkuns." The wind seized his words and scattered them in the emptiness of the open field. Only the burbling creek, and the trees dancing at the edge of the forest, seemed to hear and acknowledge him.

Then two monks appeared behind the pilgrim, as suddenly and silently as ghosts. They glanced at each other, apparently taken aback at being detected.

"I wonder," said the pilgrim slowly, "if there are as many hell-worlds as the priests say there are…"

One of the monks cleared his throat. "You have Hell on your mind, boy? Perhaps you'll see it for yourself, soon enough."

"I think," continued the pilgrim, in dreamy tones, as if musing on what flowers to pick for an arrangement, "that I should not mind Hell. In fact, I should be comforted by it."

A second, unreadable look passed between the monks. The first monk spoke again. "And why is that?"

The pilgrim turned at last, his hood falling away from his head. The bronze rays of the sunset lent an otherworldly glow to his delicate features. His face was youthful, open, completely without deceit. The brow was pale as fresh snow, unblemished by age or evil habits.

Those who examined the face closely might have noticed marks of hardship in childhood: a slight hollowness to the cheeks, a tightness to the skin. Most of all, the cheerful eyes, if gazed into for too long, betrayed an emptiness known only to those who have seen death early in their years. But in truth, few men had studied this face up close and remained in the world to speak of it.

The pilgrim said, "Because there is only one kind of suffering that cannot be endured. That is not to be needed, or wanted, by anyone. Living in the heavenly worlds without Zabuza-sama would be unbearable to me. And being reborn in worlds of hellfire would be sweet, if I were sent there at his word. I could live in any number of hells, for any number of centuries, if I knew that Zabuza-sama still had use for me, and that I must return to his side."

The first monk said, "You are an odd creature. A hired killer who speaks of loyalty enduring beyond death. You are like a whore who preaches the merits of chastity."

The shorter monk, who had been silent, now spoke. "Brother Taka! He mentioned that fiend Zabuza of Hidden Mist! I must return to warn the Venerable Abbot."

"No, Maitri," said his brother. "The Demon of the Hidden Mist does not suffer incompetence in his underlings. This child would not have revealed his employer's name unless he was confident of killing us both. We couldn't conceal ourselves from him, and we know nothing of his skills. We should stand together to face him."

Maitri swallowed, and nodded. His companion, the monk called Taka, addressed the pilgrim again: "Small wonder that you should dream of Hell, boy, when you keep the company of demons."

The pilgrim smiled. "Please do not misunderstand my master. Those who name him 'demon' do so out of ignorance - except for those who perceive the true meaning of that word. As you are holy men, skilled in seeing with the eye of dharma, I need not explain the falsity of external appearances. In truth, I revere my master as an embodiment of compassion."

"Compassion!" burst out Maitri. "Zabuza is a butcher! A soulless killer, a traitor and an oathbreaker even among the Hidden Mist shinobi! He has left a trail of corpses across the Five Great Nations!"

The pilgrim said, "Holy Bhikkun, I expected more insight from a great soul like yourself. You understand better than anyone the chain of causation that gives rise to worldly phenomena. The turning of the Wheel of Time causes the deaths of all beings. The proximal cause - disease, famine, the hand of a shinobi - this is but one link in the chain. My master is no more a butcher than is Yama Raja, the Lord of Death. All living beings must strive to fulfil their purpose. And as for my purpose… "

Movement shivered through the pilgrim's body, like ripples on a pond's surface. The brown travelling-cloak slipped from his shoulders and fell to the grass. His every gesture was graceful as a dancer's. Even the birds and the running waters hushed themselves, like theatre-goers watching a great character take his place on the stage.

The monks sprang apart and took fighting stances.

Taka said, "It was our intention to take you alive. The Venerable Abbot is a merciful man. He has allowed enemy agents to walk away after parting with their secrets."

"I know of the Lord Abbot's mercy," said the pilgrim. "It has saved many lives, but it has cost him his own. We cannot escape the fruits of our actions…"

Maitri launched himself at the pilgrim. One moment the monk was standing stock-still, the next he had appeared on top of his quarry, his fist flying towards that incongruously pretty face. The pilgrim leaned backwards, a reed bowing before the wind. As he leaned, his spine curved like a bow in an archer's hand, drawn so taut that the back of his head almost touched the ground.

Even as the monk's fist flew harmlessly by, the pilgrim was already moving, spiralling away like a banking swallow. He righted himself, and as his sleeve fanned out, silver pinpricks of light glinted in the sun's waning rays. The senbon needles flew like drops of spray, and winked out as they buried themselves in the monk's body, faster than the naked eye could follow. The only sign they had struck their mark was the sudden crash of Brother Maitri's body slamming into the ground.

All this happened so swiftly that Brother Taka barely had time to register what transpired. In the fraction of a second it took Taka to reassess the situation, the pilgrim had taken his own fighting stance, very different from that of the monks'. He stood facing Taka with his right hand drawn across his body, the sleeve held almost coyly near his face, like a noble lady inviting her partner to dance.

"Is he dead?" Taka asked at last.

"No," replied the pilgrim. "I struck the pressure points for paralysis and coma. His non-essential metabolic functions will halt for three sunsets. If I succeed in my mission I will return and revive him. If I die, the chances are that he will too, unless your monks are very fortunate, and locate him speedily. The Lord Abbot could undo my work, but even he would require time."

Brother Taka had disciplined his mind and body for years, but he could not stop a muffled gasp of surprise escaping his lips.

"You induced the sunidra… the Kindly Sleep… from that distance, at that speed, while evading his attack? How is such accuracy possible?"

The pilgrim bowed his head ever so slightly, a gesture of modesty. "You spoke truly. Zabuza-sama does not tolerate incompetence in his subordinates."

Brother Taka slumped, the fighting spirit draining out of his body. "I cannot best you," he said. "Do with me as you will."

"I thank you for your compassion, Bhikkun. To inflict needless pain on a holy man would have stained my soul further. Your cooperation is a gracious act." Four points of silver appeared in the pilgrim's hand, like thorns on the branches of a winter bough.

"I have one request," said Brother Taka. "Before you strike me, I beg you to allow me to pray for our Lord Abbot's welfare."

The pilgrim tilted his head to one side. "In that case, Blessed Father, I have a request of my own."

"What could I possibly offer you?"

"I humbly beseech you to pray for my welfare as well."

Brother Taka spluttered, "You dare ask me to pray for success in your mission? I cannot do so! And indeed, given your skills, you require no aid from Heaven! Truly Lord Zabuza and his legion of devils must be with you, for you to possess such black arts."

The pilgrim bowed again. "I do not ask you to pray for my success. I ask for only one thing. Whether I fail, or especially if I succeed, I wish you to ask whatever powers that be… for mercy. Mercy for a condemned soul. Surely that is not an evil thing to ask of a bhikkun."

For a time, the silvery tones of the creek and the rustlings of the trees were joined by a third voice: Brother Taka's, uplifted in solemn mantras and benedictions. When the appropriate prayers for intercession had been spoken, for the benefit of the Lord Abbot and then for the assassin, the monk bowed his head and waited to enter the halfway state between sleep and death.

With four well-placed needle-strikes, Haku granted Brother Taka that sweet sleep, known as the Shinobi's kindness. Then Haku made a seal with his hand, and mist rose from the waters of the creek, gathering around the assassin and the two unconscious monks. Moments later the mist blew away, and the field stood empty, with no sign that the trio had ever been.