Part 1: Nara
Chapter 2: Upon Reflection
Shikamaru hesitated. He found himself caught in a mental tug-of-war, meticulously weighing the risks against the potential rewards. The reckless notion of springing into action—of temporarily restraining the Uchiha and plunging his blade directly into those shiny, Sharingan eyes—began brewing violently in his mind like an impending storm. The young man was within the reach of his shadow techniques; in mere moments, it could all be over, and the world around him would remain blissfully unaware of the deed that had just transpired. Yet… if violence were indeed the answer, why had the universe conspired to deliver him to this precise point in space and time, inside a vessel who was at such a disadvantage for carrying out such a purpose? Surely, it would be more sensible to assume that Shikamaru had been granted a rare opportunity for a peaceful existence after the tragic end of his previous life—an average life for an average man with an average dream—and perhaps to honor that gift by not squandering it on a futile skirmish against fate.
Over the course of two decades, life had taught Shikamaru a fundamental truth: he, like many others, was little more than a background character in the grand tapestry of life—a mere spectator to the chaotic soap opera unfolding before him, a narrative dominated by the likes of Kaguya and her cursed descendants. His heart grew heavy with disdain for their legacy, for their relentless feuds spanned petty squabbles, bitter conflicts, and potential cataclysmic events that loomed ominously over the world. Weeks had slipped by since his arrival in this tranquil haven, and Shikamaru yearned with every fiber of his being to simply move on—to embrace a blissful, simple life in this verdant valley he had grown to love, surrounded by the kind-hearted people he considered family. In this trying time, he had resolved to find contentment. But then, the harbinger himself had made his entrance.
"Why should we trust you?" Shikamaru finally broke the silence, the question hanging heavy in the air after a pregnant pause. "You're a stranger wielding deadly weapons."
"Trust is a commodity I'm willing to trade as well," the Uchiha smirked, his presence as imposing as ever. "Don't worry, you have my word; I am here for nothing more than a temporary refuge." He gestured toward the gigantic carcass—an enormous, grotesque creature lying still, its life extinguished by Madara's swift and merciless actions. "Surely you can agree that such an act merits an exchange."
Behind him, Matsu and Yasu murmured amongst themselves, casting glances at the remains of the former threat lying disgracefully in the dirt. Meanwhile, Old Tome arched an inquisitive brow, her demeanor betraying her desire to understand but refraining from outright confrontation. The acrid smell of blood wafted through the clearing, an unwelcome intrusion against the fresh, vibrant aroma of the forest. Shikamaru's mind raced—a collective meeting of nerves boiled within him as he contemplated the best course of action to navigate this unwanted presence.
"The forest can be treacherous at night," Shikamaru affirmed, a reluctant acceptance creeping into his voice. "While your actions have indeed spared us, it's hard to overlook the nature of that weapon you wield." Shikamaru met Madara's intense gaze, weighing the truth underlined in those fierce eyes. "If we are to consider your proposal, we need to ensure our safety. That much is non-negotiable."
Madara nodded slowly, a glimmer of understanding flickering in his scarlet gaze before he deactivated his Sharingan, those piercing eyes becoming a dull black. "I assure you, I harbor no ill will." You'd be dead already if I wanted to, went unsaid. "You will have my protection while I take shelter with you. At the very least, until your men return."
"Very well, Uchiha-san," Shikamaru acquiesced. "Please, join us. We have roasted venison and cutlets by the fire. If you prefer something more delicate, we can also have poultry prepared." The invitation felt both generous and risky, hanging precariously on mere trust.
"No need for that. I'll manage with what you've laid out," Madara replied dismissively, there was a finality in his tone that left no room for argument.
"Feel free to inform me if you require anything else," Shikamaru said with a polite inclination of his head.
Madara nodded in acknowledgment and sheathed his katana before serving himself some of the meat and settling on the outskirts of the camp. He exhibited an unbothered demeanor, as if unaffected by the chill that swept through the night air, perhaps a testament to his clan's intrinsic affinity for fire.
With a subtle gesture, Shikamaru ushered Matsu and Yasu back to their shared tent near the campfire. Yasu squeezed his hand in gratitude before she pulled Matsu along, their mutterings echoing softly in the distance. It was only a moment before Old Tome huddled herself into his side, her expression a mix of curiosity and command. "What was that back there?" Tome hissed, her composure visibly fraying.
"I'm not sure what you mean, grandmother. It is what it is," Shikamaru shrugged, deflecting her inquiry.
"How could you learn our clan's shadow technique? Who could have taught you?" Tome pressed, her voice a low, urgent whisper.
His late father' face flickered across Shikamaru's mind, but he pushed the thought aside. "I truly don't know what to say," he muttered back, "shadows have always seemed to align with my will, though I hardly utilize them as my range is quite limited."
As the vague answer flowed, Shikamaru contemplated spinning an elaborate web of lies, but thought better of it. It was better to let Tome draw her own logical conclusions. Like the rest of their kin, Tome was not one to indulge in fanciful thinking; she was grounded in the practicalities of clan life and the structures that defined it. For her, envisioning a connection between her granddaughter and the ghost of a distant descendant was not simply unlikely—it was an abstraction, a flight of fancy that she would hardly entertain.
Tome sighed in exasperation. "Do you even realize how monumental this is? It's always been said that our clan only produces sons. But you… you! This could change everything for the women in our clan!"
It was a widely accepted belief within the Nara clan that their lineage primarily produced male heirs, largely due to the relatively straightforward manifestation of Yin Release in the male members of the family. This notion, while traditional, was not without merit; indeed, sons had dominated the clan's demographics, persisting through the generations all the way to Shikamaru's own time. However, as one stepped further away from the immediate lineage of the main branch of the family, a different pattern emerged, where the presence of strong and robust daughters teeming with Yang energy became the more common occurrence. This contrast was particularly intriguing, especially considering that Yin Release was often regarded as possessing a more feminine essence, exuding qualities typically associated with stillness, introspection, and gentle contemplation—traits that had become emblematic of the Nara men's identities—but such was the idiosyncrasies of their clan's epigenetic.
Tome soon turned contemplative as she mumbled to herself, reflecting on the implications of this newfound information. "Hmm, but are you the hidden variation or simply the exception? Perhaps my daughter has the right idea for your name, after all." A sudden glint of determination ignited in her eyes. "Hmmm, I need to think. We'll have to arrange for you to be examined by our clan's healers to be sure—could be a deviation in your chakra pathway. Hmm, I need to write this down." And with that, Old Tome disappeared into the depths of her own tent, a lantern in hand, her voice trailing off into an excited whisper.
With the woman out of sight, out of mind, Shikamaru forcefully shook off the lingering fatigue that clung to him like a heavy cloak. He donned his leather work gloves—a high quality item he had found amongst his vessel's few belongings; something the Nara would have specially constructed to deal with various materials and substances, each encounter requiring a certain level of preparation and caution—before slowly approaching the imposing carcass of the beast which lay not far from where Madara had situated himself.
As he stepped closer, he finally could take a proper look of the enormous creature, grotesque in its form yet undeniably fascinating. The beast's external features were strikingly unusual; while it resembled a wolf in its general shape, its elongated snout gave it an almost alien appearance. Added to that were spiky protrusions of fur that jutted from its neck down to the tip of its tail, reminiscent of a hedgehog's quills. It was clear that this was no ordinary creature. The claws, exceptionally peculiar and sharp, glinted ominously in the pale moonlight, each tip gleaming as if freshly polished. As Shikamaru observed the claw, a viscous, acidic-smelling fluid began to drip steadily from its sharp edges, pooling ominously onto the clear glass jar he had quickly shoved under it.
"Do you want to take any trophy cut?" Shikamaru called over his shoulder, turning to face the Uchiha. Shikamaru found Madara observing him with an expression that bordered on inscrutable, dark eyes glimmering with a blend of interest. "Never mind me," Madara called out, "continue with your inspection."
Shikamaru nodded, a silent acknowledgment before refocusing on his task.
Utilizing the ethereal light reflected by the moon, Shikamaru divided his shadow into tendrils that crawled onto the creature's formidable jaws. With a deft maneuver, the shadows pried the beast's jaws apart with a quiet but undeniable force. In a practiced motion, Shikamaru began the meticulous process of extracting the beast's incisors, movements precise as he carefully cut into the surrounding tissue of its incisor grooves. Digging slightly, he located its venom gland, a treasure hidden within the creature's anatomy, and promptly stored it inside a small jar designed for such specimens.
Moving on from the jaw, he delicately skinned the beast's eyelids, taking special care not to damage the precious blue-colored eyes within. Its eyes glistened like polished gems, possessing a special layer of reflective cells behind their retinas which reflected light back along the same path it had arrived from, essentially reflecting the light passing through the retina back into the beast' eyes. It was worth researching to see if he could recreate its retroreflector effect, which would enable him to amplify smaller light sources during his night time excursion.
Pleased with his useful findings, Shikamaru carefully manipulated his shadow into hovering the carcass slightly above ground before dragging it into the composting pit. Sweats bead down his cold back due the sheer mass of the beast and the chakra drain of maintaining his shadow under the dim light. Mentally calculating his remaining timeline in the valley, Shikamaru promptly made a long incision from the carcass's neck to its belly to expedite the beast's decomposition, before rolling it around on the thick co-composting material until no part of a carcass was exposed, else predators and vultures became attracted to visit the camp.
Satisfied with a job well done, Shikamaru let out a long, drawn-out yawn, feeling the fatigue settle comfortably into his bones. Despite the satisfaction of completing his task—albeit an arduous one—he was acutely aware that restful sleep would elude him as long as Uchiha Madara remained within his vicinity. Steeling himself against the creeping dread, Shikamaru stretched his tired body, seeking relief in the lovely twilight that surrounded him.
With a wistful gaze, he lifted his eyes toward the starry heavens, marveling at the celestial expanse above. Each tiny point of light twinkling against the dark canvas was a poignant reminder of the loved ones he had lost. He couldn't shake the haunting thought that they had somehow ascended from their earthly vessels, transforming into ethereal beings, becoming one with the universe. Each star seemed to glow softly, a reassuring beacon watching over him, whispering words of solace and remembrance. But with every glimmering light came the ache in his heart, a deep sorrow that washed over him like a familiar wave—a reminder of how utterly alone he was now in a world that felt increasingly hostile and indifferent.
Turning around, Shikamaru felt his pulse quicken, and his heart dropped into his stomach when he found Madara's gaze still trained piercingly onto him, the Uchiha's dark eyes glinting in the moonlight with a predatory intensity.
Approaching the seated young man, the reluctant conversation unfolded, breaking the silence that prevailed. Shikamaru asked, feigning casual interest, "How's the food?"
Madara responded coolly, "It's warm. Thank you."
Shikamaru nodded, tucking his fingers discreetly behind his back, a gesture as much to hide his nervousness as to maintain some semblance of calm. "That's good," he replied simply.
Madara narrowed his gaze, then gestured for Shikamaru to sit beside him on the grass, a silent command cloaked in congeniality, as if he were offering a friendly invitation rather than an order. "Come closer."
With careful deliberation, Shikamaru leisurely lowered himself onto the ground, not wanting to appear intimidated by a brat half his age—not yet ascended into the violent, god-like shinobi the man would become.
"Have you and your kin always been in this valley?" Madara inquired, curiosity evident in his tone.
"Uhuh. We've been around for quite some time. Might change depending on Mother Nature's blessing," Shikamaru answered vaguely.
"Truly? I was sure that I would have remembered someone like you," Madara mused, his tone teasing but underscored with seriousness.
"Eh, that's simply the nature of memory; it can be deceiving," Shikamaru replied lightly, not wanting to delve deeper into matters he'd rather keep distant.
Madara hummed thoughtfully, his attention drifting upward to the moon, as if seeking answers on its reflective surface. "Not for an Uchiha," he remarked pointedly.
Shikamaru shrugged, his mind wandering inwardly as he mulled over what could have compelled Madara to patrol the valley or whether he had a mission tied to this area. The thought lingered ominously, toggling between the stark possibility of an impending skirmish and the necessity to prepare a measure of protection for the deer who roamed nearby.
"What does it feel like? Being a shinobi?" Shikamaru prodded, genuinely curious. The way of life before the formation of Konoha felt like a distant, archaic notion, foreign and unknown to him. While he was distinctly aware of the rich history of his own clan and its closest allies, the intricacies of other clans during this period were kept deliberately obscure.
"Being a shinobi? Well, it's like being a whore," Madara said, his candor crass, "but instead of trading in pleasures, we're trading in bloodshed. A shitty job—arguably decent pay; but what's the meaning of gold in the face of so many losses of life and innocence? It's been so long…" he murmured, his voice trailing off into a bewildered reflection. "I've forgotten just how wretched it is."
Madara's words struck home for Shikamaru, who intimately understood the fallacy that pervaded their lives as shinobi. As warriors, they often found themselves bereft of an agenda, mere instruments of violence devoid of any substantive meaning. From its inception, Konoha's ninja academy system, drenched in the ideologies of the Will of Fire propagated by its bureaucratic overlord, Senju Tobirama, had conditioned younger generations to bind themselves to lofty ideals of patriotism—a tactic Shikamaru had wielded himself as Hokage to bolster the military strength of Konoha in the aftermath of the catastrophic Fourth Great Ninja War. This sense of national purpose, while arguably a propaganda tool, served an undeniable function—it draped a veil of honor over the harsh realities of their profession, bestowing a semblance of higher calling upon the lives they led.
Shikamaru couldn't help but consider the possibility that he had been trapped in this personalized purgatory, stuck inside a body that was not his own, performing chores he had previously deemed beyond him from dawn till dusk as some divine form of karma, perhaps, in his cycle of saṃsāra, for ensnaring children to fight for their dying village. Yet, such musings drifted away into the void of night, irrelevant as they were in this moment of contemplation.
In stark contrast, shinobi of the warring-states era were, in essence, nothing more than mercenaries, existing in a world steeped in chaos. They spilled their own blood, demanded to fight battles that held no stakes for them personally, then they died defending territories and crowns that did not belong to them. At first, it seemed justifiable, a necessary means of survival to provide for their families. Yet as time marched on, the insatiable cycle of violence revealed its true form—giving rise to blood feuds and hatred born of petty grievances. As Shikamaru pondered over the pernicious legacy that such a life distributed, he recognized the bitter irony: mothers and fathers unwittingly ensnared their own children in the same bloodied traditions, pushing them toward an existence devoid of questioning, mindlessly adhering to patterns of violence that had become entrenched in their culture.
It was a foolish way of life—a senseless existence—a path that bore no meaning, lacking any real cause or rationale amid the endless pain and harrowing loss.
"A shitty way to live, indeed," Shikamaru muttered in agreement. After a moment of profound silence, he added, "I'm glad that herding is all I've ever known." He jested, but in all honesty, a poignant acknowledgment of life's simple, uncomplicated joys in stark contrast to the violent tapestry of shinobi existence.
"You should. Because once you become a shinobi, there's no turning back," Madara replied, emphasizing the relentless nature of their world. "It's an unbreakable circle of violence. Even if you vow to forsake your way of living, who's to say that those and their kin you have previously slighted will be willing to do the same?"
Shikamaru hummed and considered Madara's words. "Is that why you're in this valley then? To return the slight committed against you?"
Madara chuckled softly, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes. "No… I'm simply reminiscing. It's a rather historic site." His eyes sparkled with memories that danced just beyond Shikamaru's reach, entangling him in an embrace of nostalgia.
"Truly?" Shikamaru asked, his brows knitting together in confusion. He looked around, seeking some form of answer in the contours of the landscape that lay before him. The vibrant valley was unfamiliar to him who had come from the future. Beautiful though it was, the enigmatic expanse offered no clues to its historical significance. Shikamaru prided himself on knowing the terrain of the Land of Fire like the back of his hand, yet an unsettling uncertainty gnawed at him. Borders could shift over time, influenced by the caprices of war, and centuries of conflict could reshape the land beyond recognition. The Land of Fire a hundred years in the future would not be the same place that it was in the present; the relentless cycles of destruction and rebirth bore witness to that truth.
"Live well then," Madara intoned, growing tired of his inane questions. "Perhaps you'll live long enough to figure it out and see." There was something cryptic woven into his words—a promise, perhaps, or a stark warning, dangerously buried just beneath the surface, like an ominous storm lurking on the horizon.
A niggling feeling coursed through Shikamaru's mind, unshakable yet vague, an insistent itch at the back of his consciousness that refused to be ignored. What was it that Madara knew? What hidden truth was masked within that cunning smile? Why did it conjure sentiments of doubt deep in the recesses of his thoughts? Seeping through their conversation were insights, wisps of knowledge and understanding, that Madara tauntingly dangled just out of his reach, like a delicate illustration sketched halfway in the dark. For now, however, he set the contemplation aside, like a scroll long since studied—rolling it up and tucking it away within the recesses of his mind, though its weight still lingered heavily upon him. Troublesome, Shikamaru mused, just another thing he needed to explore. He could almost feel the uncertainties bleeding tantalizingly into the edges of his thoughts, beckoning him toward deeper inquiry, urging him to delve into the miasma of unanswered questions swirling within. Each moment of inaction risked his doubts becoming a torrent of fears and paranoia, threatening to drown the clarity he so desperately sought.
Thinking quickly, Shikamaru blurted out, "Want to go catch some fireflies?" The suggestion burst forth seemingly out of the blue, a spontaneous spark igniting in the silent chasm where tension had resided—an impulsive maneuver to shift the mood, to veer away from the weighty conversation that had settled like a heavy fog around them.
"Why? Trying to get rid of the little old me?" Madara mocked, dripping with feigned hurt that was almost comical. It softened the edges of their exchange, managing to coax a reluctant smile from the corner of Shikamaru's mouth despite the seriousness that persisted in the air between them.
"Come on," Shikamaru replied, a slight shrug of his shoulders betraying the nervous energy thrumming in his chest. "We both know that you're not really looking for shelter from us." His words held a gentle prod, an intention hidden just beneath the surface, deliberately creating excuses to prolong their interaction, to keep Madara engaged in the moment. There was something Shikamaru suspected, an insidious notion that teased at the corners of his mind, one that agonized him far more than he was willing to admit. But he needed further proof, more concrete evidence to substantiate the growing theory that whispered insistently in his thoughts.
Madara's lips curled slightly at the corners, a devilish smirk crossing his face as he assessed Shikamaru's proposal. "Ah, what the hell. I've got nothing but time," he conceded, the challenge in his voice adding a sprinkle of mischief that made the evening shimmer with a sense of adventure.
The flickering lights of fireflies beckoned gently, illuminated specks of gold and ivory punctuating the encroaching darkness like tiny stars descended from the heavens. Soft barbs echoed through the air, painted with the sounds of crickets serenading the moon and the distant call of an owl punctuating the stillness, a fleeting truce with the weight of unspoken truths hung suspended like fog among the trees, lingering heavily even as the sky deepened into twilight. As they wandered off into the encroaching night, a thousand thoughts still danced in Shikamaru's mind, but in that moment, beneath the canopy of darkness and pinpricks of starlight, he felt a strange sense of hope—however fleeting it might be.