Author's Note:
This is my first fanfiction, so any reviews are welcome, but please be kind. This is a slow start, but I do plan for a fairly lengthy story, if there is interest. The Uzumaki Mask Shrine was not used very much in the original, so I wanted to try my hand at giving it more attention.
I don't own Naruto or any of the characters or story elements from that IP. Any OCs, as well as the original story idea is mine.
A warm breeze blew gently across the treetops of a vast forest, rustling the leaves as it explored each nook and cranny it could reach. The thick foliage prevented the wind from venturing too far below the canopy, but it sent small zephyrs questing wherever the branches thinned even slightly. One such adventure found a small clearing, slowly closing, wherein lay a once-beloved shrine. The old wooden structure was losing the war to remain insular form the surrounding forest, and already the evidence of its loses were seen in the broken roof tiles and sagging walls.
The small finger of wind played briefly with the long grasses that basked in the rare unobstructed view of the sun before it found the rough wood of the shrine wall broken by an empty window frame. Without hesitation, the wind darted through the opening into the cool darkness beyond. The dust and old leaves within the shrine rose to greet the wind, but it could not tarry. As the small stream of air sought to return to the greater river in the wide open sky, it paused only a moment to caress the many masks that adorned the place of honor in the shrine. The masks danced on their hangings, seemingly eager for attention so long denied. Soon, like the attendants who were now less than a memory, the wind faded and left. The masks returned to their quiet lassitude, the mimicry of life already stilled. Quiet settled back into the shrine as if determined to reclaim its territory after being driven out by the usurping breeze.
Skittish as a doe, the quiet once again fled at the sound of a distant thump. Close on its heels, two more thumps were followed by a slightly longer pause before a small object zipped into the clearing, its brief flight of freedom ended by the neglected, now abused, shrine wall. The masks stirred once again, perhaps more than the impact of the object should have allowed. The object, revealed to be a small knife with a wedge-shaped blade and a short, wrapped handle capped by a ring, was in obvious disrepair, and seemed not an odd companion to the dilapidated shrine. The knife's ingress was soon accompanied by muttered curses against its heritage and efficacy, and sounds of the underbrush being roughly inspected for its whereabouts.
Before long, a small boy stumbled into the clearing, sweeping through the tall grass in search of the wayward knife. He was unexpectedly a very good fit with the clearing. His blond hair shone like the sun peering curiously through the gap in the boughs, and his well-worn orange jacket and pants seemed just as gnawed by time as the ancient shrine. His eyes, blue and seemingly clear as the sky above, nonetheless carried a gleam of sadness and neglect, as if the once proud building before him was reflected by his soul.
As the boy searched the grass, the knife, dulled from long use and ill-care, slipped from its perch in the wall and fell to the earth with a dull thud. The boy, Uzumaki Naruto by name, looked up at the sound and gazed for the first time upon the old sanctuary. His eyes widened in curiosity as he straightened and approached the structure.
"What is this place?" he whispered, his normal exuberance damped by the solemn atmosphere surrounding the shrine.
His knife forgotten, Naruto stretched his hand out and felt the rough exterior, and he felt compelled to enter. He made his way to the front of the surprisingly large building. The entrance was at the top of a short flight of stairs, and the roof over the entrance was sagging to one side, the supports crumbling and broken. Above the entrance a large spiral symbol was emblazoned on the wood. The boy peered curiously at the symbol, which was the same as the ones embroidered on his jacket, white like the version on his shoulder instead of the red that was centered on his back.
The blond cautiously made his way up the steps, the boards creaking their protest of the sudden use. Inside, the darkness settled, more staunch than the quiet had been, only giving way to the shafts of sunlight that found their way through holes in the roof. Each step released clouds of dust into brief, meandering flight, and Naruto suppressed more than one sneeze when the dust met his nose. As the boy made his way farther into the building, his eyes began to adjust to the dim light. However, though his body traveled through the darkened foyer, his soul seemed on a different path, one never seen but half remembered.
Echoes of voices long faded seemed to stir to life again in the dusty darkness, and flashes of memory danced just on the edge of vision. Though the sounds and images were strange to Naruto, they seemed to fill him with a sense of peace and welcome such that he had never felt before, even as he was filled with a more poignant longing than he had ever experienced. The air was heavy, and charged with some unseen energy, like the sky just before a thunderstorm. He seemed to hear and almost remember a once great people, whose fame and legend grew larger and more grand with each generation. There was power here, soaked into the very bones of this place. Power left behind and almost forgotten. Power, but also wisdom, poised to emerge into the world once more.
More than once, Naruto hesitated, overwhelmed by the gravitas of the place, but his feet would not halt for long. Soon, he passed into another room, and found himself standing before a wall of intricate design, covered in a mural of dancing flames, and adorned with over a score of antique masks. The masks were all depictions of different animals or people, no two alike, but all seemed to gaze down at him in quiet speculation. Naruto felt those gazes in his very soul, as if he was being weighed and measured to the utmost particle, and he found his breath would not leave him. The feeling, though not quite comfortable, was fleeting, and he sighed in relief even as he thought he heard, or was it felt?, a faint whisper that filled the space around him.
Welcome...Uzumaki...
Naruto stiffened, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, "W-who's th-th-there?"
After a few moments of silence, Naruto began to relax again, "Must have been my imagination," he murmured, "this place is kinda creepy."
Despite his nervousness, Naruto's natural curiosity won out, and he decided to explore the old shrine a bit more. As he wandered, everything he saw spoke of long years of neglect. The roof was more hole than whole, and thick layers of dust coated every surface. The walls sagged, the floors creaked and groaned, and the once bright hangings and decorations were tarnished and faded. As he gazed up at a particularly large portrait of a severe looking man with long white hair, squared off beard, and two curved handles poking up from behind his shoulders, he stepped back to get a better view. A small crack was his only warning before his foot broke through the weakened floorboards, and he stumbled backwards. He hit something solid, then was hit by several solid somethings in return. A cloud of dust billowed up, temporarily blinding him.
Naruto groaned and blinked his watering eyes to try to clear them. Eventually, he stood up and turned to see he had fallen into an old bookshelf, and much of the contents were now fallen to the floor where he had lain. Books and scrolls, all in surprisingly good condition, seemed to plead with him to be picked up and read once more.
Naruto bent down to sift through the heap half-heartedly. From the still clearly lettered titles he could see, most of the books were journals or records of some kind, many with dates going back dozens, even hundreds of years. Unfortunately, he was not interested in history. After all, what could be important about something that happened so long ago, especially when there was cool jutsu to master?
The wind sent another charge through the dilapidated building at just that moment, and the masks in the other room stirred on their hangings once more. One more book dropped from the shelf, straight onto Naruto's unsuspecting head.
"Ow! What the heck was that?!" Naruto rubbed furiously at his rising lump and glared down at the culprit. The book had fallen to the floor, innocently opened to some page near the center. Naruto was about to kick the insolent book into submission, but the picture on the page caught his eye in the fading light.
The page depicted a tall, willowy figure dressed in strange clothes, wearing a mask that looked similar to the ones he had left hanging behind. What Naruto found most interesting, though, was the blazing fireball issuing from the figure's mouth, engulfing several smaller figures in more menacing outfits and poses. Curious, Naruto picked up the book and looked for the title.
"Uzumaki Kichijōten of the Noh Masks, huh?" Naruto read. "Wait, Uzumaki?" He quickly thumbed through the book, looking for the picture of the figure again. He instead found a half portrait of whom he assumed to be Kichijōten. She was shown as a young woman, with extremely short red hair and piercing grey eyes in a fine-boned face. She was wearing some kind of loose, thin white shirt with slit sleeves, bound at the wrist, beneath a dark, tight-fitting vest. She was holding a mask with the snarling visage of a wolf or fox in her slender hand. Most importantly, Naruto could see the same spiral crest embroidered on her vest, over her heart, that was above the entrance he had passed through and on his jacket shoulder and back. He knelt down and began sifting through the books on the floor.
"Uzumaki Kando - My Life Among the Waves..."
"The Tales of the Storm Riders by Uzumaki Otomine..."
"A Treatise on Sealing of Great Beasts by Uzumaki Ashina..."
"Uzumaki Toyonari..."
"Uzumaki Mito..."
Uzumaki
Uzumaki
Uzumaki
Naruto could not believe what he was seeing. Every book and scroll was written by or about an Uzumaki. Could these people be his relatives? His ancestors? His...family? All his life, he had been told he was an orphan, and never had he heard about an Uzumaki family. From the size of the building and the amount of books and scrolls on this shelf alone, the Uzumaki were large enough to be a full clan, perhaps rivaling even the largest clans of Konoha for size and history. Naruto's eyes once again blurred with tears, though the dust had long since settled.
All the anger and harsh words he had endured from the villagers came to his mind once again. The great, gnawing loneliness that grew in his heart daily ached as he saw and felt their cold, empty glares. He could never understand why they hated him so much.
Heaving a great sniff, Naruto clutched several books to his chest. He finally knew. He had a family. He wasn't just some kid that nobody wanted to even exist. He came from somewhere. He imagined he could almost feel many arms encircling him in an embrace that spanned generations. The darkness was now filled with a warmth and peace he didn't notice before. Even though no one else was in the shrine, he didn't feel alone. Was this what having a real home felt like?
He had no idea how long he knelt on the dusty floor while his thoughts dwelt among the memories of his ancestors, but when he came back to himself, the sun had set, and the shrine was shrouded in full dark. Gathering up as many books as he could carry, Naruto slowly stood and made his way back towards the entrance on tingling legs.
He had no memory of the trip back to his apartment, his attention was completely focused inwards. Had he been more aware, he would have seen the strange looks from the few villagers still out and about. After all, the village prankster wasn't often seen with his arms laden with books and scrolls, especially so late at night. More than once, a man or woman started to take a step forward, intent on reprimanding the brat for stealing from the library. But each time, his vacant, trance-like stare gave them pause until he had already passed. Once he arrived, he absently kicked the door closed behind him, set his cargo on his rickety table, and sat down to read.