This work was inspired by great many things, and I forgot most of their names so we would be rolling with it.

The focus would be mostly on shinobi world, missions and so on.

The story is bloody and sad and trauma inducing, you have been warned.

It is Semi OC-insert. Yuuki will remember his past life in confusing sort of dreams matter.

I do not own any other character except my OCs. Crossposted from Ao3, if you want to read any additional notes I have written, then you can check it there. I was too lazy to do it here.

If you find any mistakes, please tell me. I have tendency to skip words.

Criticism is always welcome. My nonexistent heart can take anything you flung at me. Be my guest.

Enjoy reading~

Chapter 1

People have a strange and almost sickening way of romanticizing death. A disturbing obsession.

The unknown. As much as it fascinated and enthralled people, it also scared them. For them, death was mysterious and captivating — no one knew what was going to happen after it. If there was 'after'.

As long as they did not know for certain — they could believe, whatever they wanted to. After their passing, they could be sent to their next great journey. Or rest in heaven, with their souls free of suffering, forever in bliss. Maybe, even become an immortal, entering an eternal cycle of life. There was no limit to human imagination.

If they could not avoid it, they might as well think of it as something positive, something beautiful. That was why people started romanticizing it, but-

Real death was not glorious or peaceful or beautiful — it was cruel, devastating, and repulsive most of the time. Revolting. Hideous. Ugly. It felt like bitter regrets and crushed dreams, tasted like salty tears and blood in the back of one's throat, smelled like decaying flesh and rot, sounded like hopeless prayers and hair-raising cries of despair.

Death was ugly.

Death was an inevitable part of life. It happened naturally to everyone — old and young, rich and poor, those who want to die and those who want to continue the living. Death did not discriminate. It was as merciless as it was fair.

People throughout the times, the countries, and cultures had different religions and beliefs, dissimilar opinions and moral principles. Essentially, humans as a group as a whole were never meant to agree on… anything. They were just too contrasting, too disparate, too humane. However, there was this one thing, that all people knew deep down in their hearts. This knowledge was etched on the forefronts of their minds and engraved in their very bones — there was no coming back from the dead.

Whatever happened in their next life, if it even existed, their life now has come to an end. The culmination of everything. The inevitable finale. The final destination.

There has never been a creature that could outwit death.

In movies, the drowning has always been depicted as something splashy and loud: an unfortunate person flailing his arms and legs around, hitting the surface of the water in a spectacular showy manner. People panicking and screaming on the shore. Someone playing a hero and jumping into the waters to rescue the victim.

Like many other things, the reality was different — it was more unsettling. More brutal and inhuman.

The drowning was quiet.

Chilly night. Dark waters. The moon in the sky looked peaceful. Sudden sharp pain in the calf. The man did not have time to scream, before he was chocking under the surface of the water. The cramp in his leg. His lungs burning. It hurt. Panic, fear, and more panic. His hair like a spilled ink floating upwards. His body losing strength.

The darkness swallowing him deeper into its deadly embrace.

As far as death goes — his was lonely and scary and pathetic. The moment he felt the cold creeping into his body, curling itself around his gradually slowing heartbeat, he knew… he knew he was going to die.

As all hope was lost — suddenly, there was a hand in front of him. He did not hesitate and clutched at it — with all the desperation of a dying man. The sharp intake of air, which the man sucked in as soon as he broke through the surface of the waters, felt like molten lava sliding all the way to the back of his throat.

What a painfully sweet relief it was.

The small fisher village on the borders of the Land of Fire and the Land of Lightning.

Another chilly night crept upon the house. The trees were constantly scratching at the outer walls of the shack. The howling wind, which sneaked its way into the room through various holes in the ceiling, imprisoned unfortunate souls with its cold hands. The touch, the embrace — so very gentle, so very sweet, so very fatal.

The child gasped awake, hands clutching at his throat. The fingernails scratching the fragile skin of the boy, only leaving a series of ugly red trails in their wake. With every desperate cough, it felt like he could force the water out of his chest, out of his lungs, out of his very being.

The boy knew — none of this was real. But the phantom pain in his lungs, and the coldness seeping into every morsel of his body made it difficult for him to distinguish between reality and the dream. Between the imaginary and the truth.

'It happened again.'

Once again, it was the middle of the night, and he was drenched in sweat, desperately gasping for the oxygen. And once again, it took him quite some time to realize — he was not where his nightmares had taken him, he was not in the merciless waters filled by despair anymore, he was not in danger.

Those nightmares were not as recurrent as they used to be, but they were still there, they still remained in his daily life, they still persisted with the desperation of Oedipus. He did not think, they would ever completely go away. It has been three months since that day, when he almost lost his life — when his uncle saved him. It has been three months since that day, and he still could not touch the waters without hyperventilating.

The child of the fisher village, who was afraid of the water, was the same as the child of the forest, scared of trees. It was utterly ridiculous.

Three children of varying ages and two teenagers were lying side by side on a single worn-out futon that was patched from multiple rags. "Dammit! Yuuki, shut it already!" — said the angry voice of an eight-year-old. The irritation of being woken again in the middle of the night seemed to get the better of the exasperated child.

The boy panted, disoriented, for a few seconds, before the scrawny girl twice his age came to his side. "Don't listen to Makabaka. You know yourself. The only time, when he isn't actin all grouchy and like prissy litl' sissy is when he is sleepin'…- Oh…He is grouchy, even when he's sleep'n..."

"Am not!" — came the indignant response from the side. The girl started gently patting the small form of heavily breathing, panicked child, making soothing circles up and down his back, and not stopping until the boy beneath her palm has calmed down. "Better now?" That's why Haruka was his favorite sibling, so much nicer than stupid Makoto.

"Thank you," he did not answer the question. It came out like a croak. His throat hurt. The boy wanted to drink a cup of water, but this act would probably wake up every single person in their home — of course, if his coughs did not do that already. The boy slumped back on the old futon with a tired sigh. He knew — this night would be sleepless for him.

Yuuki Okihara was lying on his back in a daze, still preoccupied by the disturbing memories of his dream. When, suddenly, he noticed a new hole in the half-collapsed thatched roof. The opening was right in the leftmost corner of the room, just above his head. Fortunately for him, it did not rain that day.

Still, the weather left much to be desired.

The coldness of the surrounding air, which settled around him like a stiff icy blanket, made him shiver and curl into a small ball to preserve the heat within his tiny cocoon. The corner of the thin sheets, the only thing that he managed to get back from Makoto's deathly clutch, did nothing to keep him warm. In retaliation for the boy's previous comment, Yuuki put his ice-cold feet onto Makoto's warm legs. The kick to his sheen did not feel fair.

Their house was pitiful and humble, with mud clumps falling like raindrops, whenever the weather turned less than pleasant. The tiny abode was crowded with family members and always filled with that stuffy, fishy smell. The house consisted of one spacious room — four crude mud walls. This room was divided into two parts by an old cloth, that was constantly flying around from a draft. The kitchen, where children huddled together during the nights, and the bedroom, where the grownups and a newborn baby slept together.

The house lacked everything. It did not even have a single small window or a proper floor. Still, he liked it. After all, it was his home. The place, where his family has always lived. The only thing he has ever known.

But the voice inside his head made him confused. It told him — no human should ever live like that. However, everyone in their fisher village lived about the same – some slightly better, some a bit worse, but still, more or less all the same. The boy did not understand, why he would ever think that his current home was somehow bad or unsuitable.

What on earth was suitable then?

The members of his family were good people. His uncle and aunt, who treated him as their own flesh and blood, even though he was just their nephew. His grandma, who was strict but never unkind. His two older cousins, who were constantly busy working on the boat, but never forgotten to bring interesting looking shells to him. Grouchy Makabaka, who was mean with his words but never his actions. And even his newborn cousin, who constantly cried and could not talk yet, was cute, in an ugly toddler kind of way.

The members of his family were good people.

That was what he kept telling himself, as Haruka and him were grabbed in the middle of the night by a strange man. As the two of them were stuffed into the cart, which usually transported the cattle. Their mouths filled with cloth. Their arms and legs bound by the rope. Their hearts waiting for a swing of the guillotine.

That was what he kept telling himself, as Haruka screamed at the top of her lungs, that she would behave, that she would be a good girl, that she would work as hard as her elder brothers, and pl-please…- do not abandon her — while being carried away into darkness. As he saw that strange man manhandling her into the cart. As he saw the usual stupid and unreliable Makobaka trying to break free from the hold of his two elder brothers, who were grabbing him by his feet and arms.

That's what he kept telling himself, as he saw the stubborn set of his uncle's jaw, the guilty look in the eyes of his aunt, while she cradled her newborn closer to her chest. As he saw an immovable body of his grandmother, who did not, even for the last time, bid them farewell.

Yuuki did not yell, did not shout, did not make a fuss. He knew when to pick his battles. This one — was not one of them. If they could let go of their own daughter, then he, as their nephew, did not stand a chance. He bowed down to them deeply — to the point of kneeling on his knees on a dirty muddy ground, thanked them for all the care they had given to him, and willingly walked out of the door.

Looking last time behind his back, his family, who abandoned them, looked sad. They were crying.

His aunt was mouthing the prayer, the one Yuuki knew like the back of his hand.

'The end is one. Predestined. Let the candle of my heart burn till God blows it out. Once again. Until then, may my journey be peaceful under the warm currents of His embrace.'

His aunt changed the word 'my' on 'their', she was praying for their safety. The words to Gods were not to be spoken lightly. Yuuki did not know, whether he should feel touched or betrayed by this.

Five minutes later, Yuuki and Haruka were shedding silent tears as they hugged each other tightly in the wooden prison of the shaking cart.

The dark road led them into the unknown.

That day, the boy had a dream. In this dream he remembered some details, which previously went unnoticed. The red dots splattered across the skin of his uncle's hands. The chest of his grandmother did not rise and fall – her still…too still body. His aunt, whose eyes were filled with guilt as she looked at his older cousins, who were left with them, instead of Haruka and him. The increasing appearance of coughing people in the village. The mask and the gloves that the strange man wore.

Epidemic.

There was an epidemic in their village. He did not know how he knew it. The boy did not know what it meant, this long and complicated word, but deep down in his heart, he felt, he knew — it was nothing good.

'What would happen to his family and others in the village?'— he anxiously thought, the cold hand squeezing his heart.

'You should be worrying about yourself first.' —the voice in his head said in a tone void of any emotion. 'You might die faster than them.'

The icy clarity washed over him.

The boy held his breath.