Part 1: Nara
Chapter 4: Consideration
Plans, much like promises, are frequently made with the best of intentions. Unfortunately, even the most carefully laid plans can break down under duress.
The intention to embark at the break of dawn had regrettably slipped through their fingers like sand. The fire had wreaked havoc upon the camp, leaving one-third of their essential belongings in disarray. The aftermath required immediate attention: provisions needed to be salvaged, preserved, and carefully sealed; the byproducts of deer hunting had to be sorted and stored; essential gears must be meticulously accounted for; and the tents awaited dismantling. With Matsu distracted over her father's untimely death, Old Tome laboring diligently to repair the disfigured body for the funeral rites, and the men dispersed in pursuit of the scattered deer herd until every single animal was accounted for, Shikamaru and Yasu found themselves as the sole workers tending to the camp's many, many precarious needs.
The scant hours of sleep they had managed to snatch were written on their weary faces. It was almost miraculous that by morning the camp had not completely fallen apart. The decentralized arrangement of their living quarters and communal structures had spared the essential parts from complete ruin. Their sleeping tents, though smelling faintly of smoke, remained largely intact. Their precious stores of food and medicine, carefully segregated, had been spared the worst of the inferno. The vital production line where they efficiently processed the deer byproducts, the lifeblood of their trade, had also survived unscathed. The imperative to ensure profitability had never held such profound gravity. Their ability to sustain themselves, to rebuild, rested on the successful salvage and resumption of their vital work.
Old Tome, with a practiced hand, had managed to piece the old man's body back together after the fire's destruction. The sight was almost unsettling; the old man lay there, looking surprisingly whole despite the many stitches that adorned his body. Shikamaru observed the work with a mixture of admiration and unease. The familiarity in Old Tome's deft handling hinted at past experiences, perhaps borne from a history where the clansmen frequently fell victim to animal attacks, a fateful inevitability during their rotations. The old man's hair had been sheared away, his body cleansed, and dressed in a white cotton shroud that signified his passage from this world. Now, he lay folded into a wooden coffin, crafted meticulously by the twins from a cedar log. With the lid securely closed, his grieving children surrounded him, taking turns in holding vigil with flickering candles and fragrant incense, their soft chants for the ancestors rising into the damp morning air, their expressions solemn, even as dark cumulonimbus clouds lingered overhead, threatening further rain.
Draped in the somber folds of a black mofuku, the traditional garment of mourning, Shikamaru took on the task of preparing food and water for the wake. He served the few mourners present, the offerings intended as protective measures against the spirit of the deceased, guarding them from potential afflictions or misfortunes. Together, they partook in a final, communal meal, a poignant act that connected them to the deceased, a moment of sadness and quiet reflection.
As he moved closer to Matsu, her face pale and drawn, he gently poured her a cup of sake, "Here," he said gently, placing it in her hands. She stood vigil by the coffin, while her brothers, their faces grim, busied themselves with the arduous task of digging a pit for the old man's cremation, the damp earth clinging to their shovels.
Matsu received the offered cup with a flicker of gratitude in her shadowed eyes. A weak, fleeting smile gracing her lips. "Thank you, Shika-chan," she whispered, her voice raspy from chanting all night.
Shikamaru offered a small, dismissive wave of his hand, a gesture meant to deflect the formality. "It's a dreadful matter… parent's death." A result of his own doing, one that no soul shall ever uncover.
Matsu pressed her lips together, a visible effort to regain her composure. "Yet it's merely a part of life's endless cycle, isn't it?"
"Indeed," Shikamaru concurred. He appreciated her quiet strength, the resilience of her spirit shining through even in this moment of unbearable sadness.
A complex interplay of emotions flickered across the girl's features. Her lips, though bearing the downward tilt of resignation, held a subtle tremor. "You know…" she began again, her gaze drifting towards some unseen point in the distance, "I feel somewhat guilty, but there's a sliver of relief blooming within me." She sighed softly. "My father always envisioned me tethered to some influential city lord. Not just any lord, mind you, but a samurai shogunate, promising power and prestige for our family. I'm not optimistic about the life that awaits me in such a union. I'd likely fade into the background, becoming just another face among the third or fourth wives of an elderly man, a mere concubine existing at his whim." She attempted a light, airy laugh to mask the bitterness, but the sound caught in her throat, a pathetic little flutter. "I fear I lack the constitution to endure that kind of existence. Yasu often teases me, calling me a hopeless romantic."
"Well," Shikamaru drawled, leaning back slightly, his gaze fixed on her with an unexpected glint of understanding, "sometimes life is just a massive, steaming pile of horseshit—"
Matsu's bark of laughter pierced the air, sharp and surprised, cutting off his crude analogy mid-sentence. Her eyes widened in genuine shock, disrupting the somber mood for a fleeting moment. "Shika—" she gasped, amusement warring with disbelief on her face.
"Wait, wait, let me finish," Shikamaru interjected quickly, a grin spreading across his features as he observed her reaction. He held up a hand to forestall further interruption. "Life's a pile of horseshit, alright? But what do we, as reasonably intelligent beings, turn manure into? Compost, yes? A rich, fertile source of nourishment that fosters new life, helps things grow. There's oftentime a silver lining even within the most chaotic and frankly, disgusting, situations, including this metaphorical horseshit you find yourself in. It's important to cultivate that spark of optimism, to allow yourself to be a 'hopeless romantic,' especially because youth, this fleeting period of our lives, is such a precious and irreplaceable season. It's entirely fine to dream of something better, provided you tether those dreams to at least a modicum of common sense." His tone turned slightly more serious. "Just… try not to follow in my mother's footsteps, eloping with Sage only knows who. Love is all well and good, but childbirth is fraught with dangers, with very real and potentially devastating consequences if one isn't adequately prepared for it, both physically and emotionally."
Matsu listened intently, her initial surprise fading into a thoughtful expression. She chewed on her lower lip, her gaze fixed on the ground for a moment before meeting his. "I've heard whispers, rumors that circulate amongst the family," she ventured, her voice lower now, imbued with a hint of conspiratorial intrigue, "that she didn't actually run off with just any nameless drifter, some wandering rogue. Rumor has it, the man she ran away with is actually an heir, a scion of some influential clan, though perhaps one that doesn't align with our clan's neutral policy."
"Powerful clan or not, the fundamental reality remains unchanged: he's an irresponsible man. He even tried to drown me once—so says your father, with a dramatic sigh in my direction during every retelling," Shikamaru replied wryly.
Matsu scoffed slightly, a dismissive flick of her hand. "I wouldn't necessarily take his words at face value if I were you, Shika. My father… he thrived on playing intricate mind games, even with his own children. It was his twisted form of entertainment, I think, a way to maintain control. He once told me that if I couldn't manage to find a sufficiently 'good' match, someone who met his exacting standards, he would simply sell me off to that infamous pleasure district in the capital." She shook her head slowly, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips despite the discomfort evoked by the memory.
Shikamaru pressed his lips firmly together, his mind immediately racing with the unsettling implications of the old man's morbid jest. Was it truly a joke? A veiled threat? Or simply a display of his callous disregard for his daughter's well-being? Perhaps the old man, in his own warped way, had been entirely serious. Some thoughts, however, were better left unsaid, confined to his own internal ponderings.
"Ah, look at that," Matsu said, her attention abruptly shifting, her voice changing to a lighter tone as she pointed towards the horizon with a delicate hand. The tension that had tightened around them seemed to ease slightly with the change of subject. "The cremation pit seems to be prepared."
"Oh," Shikamaru murmured, following her gaze towards where the younger twin, a boy with an uncanny resemblance to the deceased, had indeed waved his hand in a silent signal. "We should probably wait for the rain to let up a bit more. Otherwise, the ritual won't be as thorough. His remains won't be purified fully, according to the traditional rites."
"True that," Matsu agreed, the gravity of the moment settling back around her like a shroud as she faced the inevitable finality of death and prepared to honor the old man for one last time, however complicated her relationship with the deceased might have been.
That afternoon, a palpable solemnity hung in the air as the family convened to witness the body consumed by flames during the cremation ceremony. The air was heavy with a blend of grief and reverence, a tangible testament to their loss, as they collectively watched the swirling tendrils of smoke ascend skyward, signifying the transition of their family member from the tangible realm of physical presence to the intangible expanse of the ethereal.
Once the flames had gradually subsided and the ashes cooled, Shikamaru watched as the old man's children engaged in a sacred ritual of kotsuage. The practice involved meticulous and careful sifting through the remaining vestiges of the deceased, searching for the bones among the fine ash. Armed with elegant, elongated chopsticks, crafted specifically from deer antler for this delicate endeavor, they approached the task with a combination of precision and deep respect. Each bone held precious memories and a connection to their father.
As they diligently worked through the remnants, they engaged in a poignant exchange, passing the bones from one pair of chopsticks to another, symbolizing the continued bond between the living and the deceased, a moment of unity as they honored the life that had shaped their family. The entire process was characterized by a sense of methodical consideration; they commenced their search with the bones of the feet, gradually progressing upward along the skeletal structure, with particular care and reverence dedicated to selecting the head bones as the final pieces. This sequence was not arbitrary; it ensured that the old man would not be placed upside down, a consideration rooted in their beliefs about proper positioning in the afterlife.
Upon the successful gathering of all the discernable bones, they collectively placed them into the urn, creating a sacred vessel that would carry the essence of the deceased. Traditionally, the eldest son of the deceased assumed the important role during this mourning period. Away from home as they were, the elder twin was entrusted with the urn, holding onto it protectively and closely for a designated number of days. This act was not merely about keeping the ashes safe; it represented a profound responsibility and a deep bond that the son had with his father, ensuring that the spirit of the old man would be consistently honored and remembered within his family's consciousness.
Following this period of mourning, the family would reconvene to undertake the final act of burying the urn, placing it among the graves of their relatives and ancestors. This final resting place transcended the limitations of a mere physical location; it symbolized the comforting reunion of the old man with his forebears and the ongoing, unbroken continuity of their lineage. The act of burial marked a return to the clan—a way to honor those who had come before them and to strengthen the ties that bound the living to their heritage. Through these customs, the family found solace in the belief that their loved one would remain eternally connected to them, living on in memory and spirit within the embrace of their ancestors.
Devoid of tasks for the first time since his arduous arrival in this unfamiliar time, Shikamaru found himself with nothing to occupy his mind. The funeral rite had been completed the day before. The air hung heavy with the scent of incense and grief, mirroring the exhaustion etched onto every face around him. Both body and mind were fatigued, sapped by the recent conflict, leaving everyone with no genuine appetite for labor, no spark of initiative to reignite the usual routines.
Their planned departure, already tentative given the circumstances, had been further postponed. A council of sorts—more like a weary discussion huddled around dying embers—had concluded they couldn't simply strong-arm nature. Forcing the entire deer herd to move against their ingrained migratory instincts was a recipe for disaster. It was a frustrating but unavoidable delay, and for Shikamaru, it unexpectedly translated into an opportunity. With nothing pressing demanding his attention, a curious itch drew him outwards. He could finally, properly, explore the confines of this valley, beyond the immediate camp and its pressing concerns.
He recalled the age-old adage 'follow the water,' a truism that had never failed him. Water sources had always been the lifeblood of communities, the invisible thread connecting people to a specific place. It was a logical starting point. Instinct, honed by years of navigating complex terrain, also nudged him downwards. Traveling downhill was simply easier, a conservation of precious energy, a lesson learned through countless field exercises. Headwater streams, thin silver ribbons, cascaded down the formidable mountain slope looming behind their encampment. Over millennia, these relentless flows had carved deep into the earth, sculpting the distinctive V-shape of the valley they now inhabited.
The primary river stream, fed by these smaller tributaries, coursed through the valley floor with an energetic rush. Despite its speed, the water was remarkably clear and pure, unsullied by pollution. Their grass-finished herds and cattle thrived on the healthy vegetation sustained by this clean water, remaining relatively free from debilitating diseases. As Shikamaru ran along the riverbanks, the individual streams gradually converged, their combined force carving a wider path down the more gently sloping terrain. The valley floor began to broaden, opening up as the coalescing river, now a more substantial entity, began to trace a meandering course across the landscape. Finally, descending onto the nearly flat expanse of the valley floor and its surrounding floodplains, the mouth of the river emptied into a body of water that sparked a flicker of recognition—a vaguely familiar lake. Shikamaru's mind began to work, mentally sketching the topography, cross-referencing the present vista with the fragmented maps and knowledge he carried within him from the future.
Rounding a bend in the lakeshore path, Shikamaru stumbled upon a peculiar sight. There, at the water's edge, stood Uchiha Madara, engaged in the unremarkable act of skipping stones. It was less a delicate flick of the wrist and more a series of violent heaves, each stone hurled with a force that sent aggressive ripples across the water's surface.
He interpreted the unwanted sight as a sign that he'd overdone his quota of outdoor exertion for the day. It would have been wiser, perhaps, to simply succumb to the pervasive lethargy and napped the afternoon away. Alas, the ingrained discipline of a routine, even a newly formed one in this strange time, had taken root. His restless vessel, still thrumming with residual adrenaline, seemed to possess an excess of energy that needed expending. Besides, a selfish part of him would much rather be here, observing the landscape, than back at camp, navigating the troublesome task of feigning grief over the passing of the old man—a figure he'd only known for a brief, unpleasant period.
Shikamaru had only taken a hesitant half step backward, hoping to melt back into the surrounding foliage unnoticed, when Madara's head snapped over his shoulder with unsettling suddenness. His dark eyes, sharp and piercing even from a distance, locked onto Shikamaru's. "You've ventured far from your herd, Nara," Madara called, his voice carrying easily across the water, a hint of something unreadable in its tone.
Said Nara simply offered a nonchalant shrug, abandoning his retreat and slowly walking closer, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "The atmosphere is rather somber at the moment."
"My condolences," the Uchiha replied, finally turning around fully to face him. He offered a curt nod towards Shikamaru's dark, unadorned clothing, a clear acknowledgement of the funeral attire that marked the recent loss.
Shikamaru responded with a bland smile, a polite gesture that held no genuine warmth. "Thank you."
Madara's brow arched at the perfunctory reply. "I assume you're not particularly close with the deceased then?"
Passing the Uchiha, Shikamaru crouched low by the water's edge. The shallow banks were edged with smooth stones and damp earth. He selected a flat pebble, its surface worn smooth by the relentless action of the water, and with a flick of his wrist, threw it. He watched with detached interest as it skipped across the water's surface, bouncing two, three, four times before finally losing momentum and sinking silently into the depths of the lake, sending out widening ripples that disturbed the placid surface. "A grandfather," Shikamaru clarified, his gaze fixed on the spot where the stone disappeared. "He's family, but it's not quite the same as losing one's parents or siblings."
A flicker of something akin to understanding crossed Madara's features. "I see... I was one of five myself." The statement was delivered without inflection, a simple recounting of a fact.
"You're the only one left now?" Shikamaru asked in turn.
Madara hummed, a low, resonant sound that held a weight of unspoken history. "Something like that." The ambiguity of the response hung in the air, a subtle evasion that didn't escape Shikamaru's notice.
Shikamaru blinked, betraying the sudden spike of alarm that shot through him. His mind raced, a whirlwind of stored information and carefully cataloged memories.
Konoha's Fūin no Sho or scroll of seals, coined as the forbidden scroll, was more than just a collection of jutsu; it was a historical record, a repository of secrets and warnings passed down through generations of Hokage. Shikamaru had, as a matter of course during his training, memorized it word by word, its contents etched into his mind like an unshakeable truth. It remained with his person until his death, held within the intricate seal carved into his flesh—a seal that would only release its secrets to his chosen successor, those deemed worthy and possessing the Hokage's own mark. Secrecy was paramount; the scroll contained not only the forbidden techniques of Konoha's ninja and its various clans but also the personal notes and observations left by its former leaders.
The entries penned by the Nidaime Hokage, Tobirama Senju, were particularly… detailed. Borderline obsessive, even, especially the sections concerning the Uchiha clan. Madara's descent into madness, his substantial and alarming increase in power following the death of his remaining brother at Tobirama's own hand, was documented in detail. There were also addendums regarding the formation of the Konoha Military Police Force, a strategic maneuver designed, on paper, to contain the Uchiha within the village, to provide them with responsibilities and foster greater integration, all while subtly minimizing the potential for another Madara to emerge and wreak havoc. A fine idea in theory, Shikamaru mused, but tragically flawed in its execution.
If his memories served him right, and they were usually impeccable, Madara should still have at least one sibling alive. Either the legendary Uchiha was deliberately lying, an unsettling prospect in itself, or… Shikamaru had somehow ended up in another timeline entirely. The latter possibility sent a wave of nausea through him. He did not want to entertain the headache that such a scenario entailed, the sheer number of variables and potential consequences threatening to overwhelm his usually organized mind.
"...that's awful," Shikamaru said after a long pause, tone carefully neutral, betraying none of the turmoil within.
"It's just life," Madara shrugged, the movement dismissive. He selected another stone, hefting it in his hand before sending it skimming across the water. "Having chakra allows the constant regeneration of soldiers, expediting the time needed to train the young to be useful weapons of war. Regrettably, not everyone can survive the cull."
"That's called child exploitation," Shikamaru refuted, his tone drier than Suna's sand dunes, "by adults who clearly should have known better. Chakra is a tool to improve life, not a means for accumulating gold and glory at the expense of children." He sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "Not to say that malleable children aren't effective pawns… But still, the sins of the fathers should not have been visited upon their children."
"What do you suggest then?" Madara challenged. "Crush the existing power structures? Abolish the influence of clan heads and their short-sighted, self-serving elders? Usher in some universal dictatorship, where freedom withers under forced unity? Or, perhaps," a cynical curl touched his lips, "deprive the world of chakra entirely, admittedly, the source of our conflicts, leaving us all as helpless infants?" Each question was a barbed dart coated in sarcasm, a deliberate provocation and a fragile barrier erected to conceal the complex layers of his own aspirations and the doubts that gnawed at their edges. However, beneath the surface bravado, a subtle watchfulness flickered, betraying a deeper curiosity despite his dismissive words.
"A world without war is a fallacy. Human nature is fundamentally flawed—driven by innate greed and a readiness for belligerence," Shikamaru countered, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to Madara's charged delivery. "Such a fact doesn't negate the possibility of significant improvement. We can strive to reduce the incidence of war. We can establish common, universally accepted rules defining basic human rights, a foundation of shared decency. The most practical approach lies in fostering self-reliant and prosperous communities. Because war is inherently costly, both in resources and lives, unnecessary conflicts become a liability to that very prosperity." He paused, emphasizing, "When survival is linked to cooperation, aggression becomes a less appealing option."
"So, stripped of its idealistic veneer, you propose a carefully managed peace?" Madara summarized. His eyes seemed to penetrate beyond Shikamaru's carefully chosen words, seeking to understand the underlying motivations and the true scope of his vision. Was it genuine hope, or simply a more sophisticated form of control?
Shikamaru threw another rock with a casual flick of his wrist, the small splash that followed echoing in the quiet air. He deliberately avoided meeting Madara's unwavering gaze, his focus instead on the ripples spreading across the water. "Yep," he replied, offering no grand pronouncements, just a simple, factual affirmation
"How boring," Madara stated flatly, a hint of disdain coloring his voice. "If such a simplistic solution could actually be achieved, don't you think someone with ambition, with vision, and the sheer will to enact it, would have managed it centuries ago?" His words insinuated that Shikamaru's suggestion was either born of a foolishly optimistic worldview completely divorced from reality, or, perhaps more insultingly, inherently insincere—a lazy attempt at a solution.
Shikamaru exhaled, a puff of air escaping his lips. "Because it's a monumentally tiring and utterly thankless endeavour, one would think," he retorted, eyes rolling with exasperation. "But I suppose, in your esteemed opinion, we should all just resign ourselves to this endless, self-perpetuating cycle of violence and gleefully await our inevitable demise?" His sarcasm was a pointed rebuttal to Madara's ingrained cynicism. He'd traversed these arguments countless times before, in subtle nuances and blatant disagreements, and the prospect of rehashing it yet again, particularly during his precious sliver of downtime, was deeply unappealing. He'd much rather contemplate the intricate patterns of the clouds, or better yet, napped, thank you very much.
Shikamaru straightened, the rough fabric of his borrowed clothes bunching awkwardly over his knees as he used them to wipe the dirt from his palms. A deep, satisfying yawn stretched his jaw wide, the muscles in his back protesting pleasantly after being hunched over for a while. He rotated his shoulders, feeling the faint clicks and pops that came with disuse.
"Well," he announced, his voice still carrying a hint of drowsiness, "I'll be off then. Got things to do." The interaction, brief as it was, had already begun to fray at the edges of his patience. His social battery, never particularly robust, was flickering towards empty. With the sun still blazing a trail across the midday sky, painting the landscape in vibrant hues, he figured he should capitalize on the remaining daylight and continue his reconnaissance of the territory.
"Where are you going anyway?" Madara's voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the relative silence. He stood a short distance away, a handful of smooth river stones clutched in his fist, his arm paused mid-throw.
Shikamaru scratched idly at his cheek, the gesture more habit than actual itch. "Not that it's any of your business," he said, injecting a touch of his usual lazy drawl, "but I'm exploring, if you truly must know." The explanation felt thin, even to his own ears. Exploring what, exactly? He wasn't entirely sure himself. Just… moving. Putting distance between himself and the nagging feeling of being out of place.
Madara's dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you even know the boundaries of other clans' territories?" he challenged, his tone laced with a mixture of disdain and something that might have been concern, though Shikamaru doubted it. "Are you not afraid of being hunted down? You're a woman, are you not?" The final question hung in the air, accusatory and almost spat out.
To be honest, Shikamaru actively cultivated a state of oblivious detachment regarding the current state of his physical form. Bathing was a brisk, utilitarian affair, his attention focused solely on cleanliness, his eyes deliberately avoiding the stark differences from his previous self. Other private moments were dealt with swiftly and efficiently. He could effectively ignore the absent appendages, the softer curves, as long as his body remained a functional vessel capable of thought and action. He intellectually acknowledged the increased vulnerability that came with this unexpected change, recognizing it with the same clinical detachment one might observe the scientific principle of gravity. He resisted the urge to dwell on the specifics of being a woman, the societal expectations and limitations it implied. And the chaotic, spiraling thoughts about his uncertain identity—a foreign consciousness inhabiting the body of his own ancestor—were promptly shoved into the deepest recesses of his mind, locked away behind layers of willful ignorance.
"I'll manage," Shikamaru stated flatly, offering a dismissive shrug that he hoped conveyed more confidence than he actually felt.
Madara huffed, a sound of exasperation that vibrated in the air. He tossed the pebbles aside, the small stones clattering against the larger rocks. Without another word, he broke into a jog, his movements surprisingly agile. "Tch, I'll show you around," he declared over his shoulder, his voice carrying back on the gentle breeze. "You'll end up dead if left to your own devices. Try to keep up." There was a strange tension in his posture, a mix of bravado and something else, something almost… helpful?
"Nobody asked you to," Shikamaru called out after him, a wry smile playing on his lips despite himself. He watched the boy's retreating back for a moment, a flicker of amusement warming his otherwise detached demeanor.
"Shut up," Madara retorted, without breaking his stride. "I'm just being courteous." The word sounded foreign on his tongue, almost like he was mocking himself for saying it.
"Is this your way of making friends?" Shikamaru teased, his voice carrying easily across the short distance. "I must say that it's a rather strange attempt."
Madara punctuated his annoyance with a crude hand gesture, his back still facing Shikamaru. A genuine, unrestrained laugh finally bubbled up from Shikamaru's chest, the sound surprisingly light and unfamiliar in his own ears. He shook his head, a small smile lingering on his face. Perhaps this unexpected detour wouldn't be entirely unpleasant after all.
To call his current situation 'unpleasant' was a gross understatement. His struggle was almost comical, if it wasn't so agonizingly real. Shikamaru, trapped in the body of a young girl, was forced to keep pace with the Madara Uchiha. Madara, already a formidable warrior even before the cusp of adulthood, moved with such effortless grace. For Shikamaru, piloting this unfamiliar vessel—stronger than the average girl her age, certainly, but woefully untrained—was sheer torture. Her stamina was a pitiful joke compared to his former self, her lung capacity a fraction of what he was used to, each ragged breath a testament to his current predicament.
Again, the stark, brutal difference between his former, finely tuned adult body and this youthful, undeveloped one hit him with the force of a runaway train. Every twitch of Madara's lithe form, every agile leap, was a painful reminder of his own limitations. He trailed behind the damned Uchiha, forced to navigate a ludicrously roundabout uphill trek. Jagged rocks jutted out from the cliff face, demanding precise jumps and careful footing that his clumsy, unaccustomed limbs struggled to achieve. His muscles screamed in protest, a burning agony that spread through his thighs and calves. He desperately pumped chakra into his limbs, a meager attempt to bolster his speed and the height of his jumps, but it was like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a thimble. Madara, naturally, seemed to glide across the treacherous terrain, the picture of effortless athleticism. Every time Shikamaru stumbled, his foot slipping on loose gravel or his jump falling short, a snicker escaped the Uchiha's lips. His pathetic struggle was Madara's personal entertainment, a source of smug amusement that deepened Shikamaru's simmering resentment. Curiosity killed the cat indeed, Shikamaru thought bitterly, the memory of his impulsive decision to follow the brat now a sharp sting of regret.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of arduous climbing, they reached the top of the mountain. Supposedly, this vantage point offered a panoramic view of the surrounding land, a strategic place that Madara deemed to be suitable for showing. For Shikamaru, the view was secondary to the overwhelming relief of stopping. He was breathing in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a shaky release. Beads of sweat plastered strands of hair to his forehead and trickled down his back, soaking the fabric of his clothes. With a groan of exhaustion, he collapsed onto his back, the rough ground a surprisingly welcome sensation against his aching muscles. The sunlight, now way past its harsh midday peak, cast a gentle warmth on his face as he lay there, focusing on managing his breath, willing his pounding heart to slow its frantic rhythm.
Just as a semblance of calm began to settle, a shadow fell over his face, plunging him back into the reality of his tormentor's presence. The clouds above were obscured by the looming figure of Madara, and then, his stupid, smug face came into view, framed by unruly black hair. "Well, aren't you pathetic," Madara drawled, dark eyes gleaming with mocking satisfaction.
Shikamaru, too tired and frankly too annoyed to engage in a verbal retort, simply closed his eyes. A sudden cool breeze stirred the hair at his temples, a soft, feathery touch. The sensation was surprisingly calming, a gentle nudge towards the inviting embrace of sleep.
Unfortunately, not a moment later, a set of gloved fingers came poking rudely at his forehead. The intrusion was deliberate, meant to irritate. "Oy, up you go, Nara," Madara commanded, his tone impatient. He punctuated his demand with another sharp poke.
With a sigh, Shikamaru reluctantly pushed himself upright, his senses slowly recalibrating. He twisted his body in a fluid movement, knees bent, until he settled into a comfortable seated position.
His annoyance vanished the instant his gaze met the landscape before him. The sight stole the air from his lungs, rendering him momentarily speechless. It was a panorama he knew intimately, imprinted on his mind like the back of his hand, a scene he could conjure in his sleep—and yet, in this raw, untamed state, it possessed an alien beauty that struck him anew. He perched on the precipice of what would one day be the Hokage Rock, a rugged, unworked version of the iconic landmark. This was the mountain before it had been subjected to the legendary strength of Senju Hashirama, before the First Hokage had carved away a massive section of the rock face to create the flat plane upon which the faces of the Kage would be etched.
Looking down, the familiar cityscape of his time was utterly absent. Instead of the towering buildings that scraped the sky, the bustling districts teeming with life, there stretched an endless expanse of forest. Giant, ancient trees stood shoulder to shoulder, their canopies a sea of verdant green, rising in an untamed, chaotic symphony towards the heavens. No human hand had pruned their branches, no paved roads dissected their roots. Civilization had yet to leave its indelible mark. Despite the unfamiliarity, a pang of something like recognition hit him. He could mentally overlay the map of his own era onto this primal landscape. He could visualize the approximate location of his family home, imagining the gentle slope leading down to what would become the sprawling Nara forest, even in its wilder, more expansive state. It was a stark contrast to the Konoha he knew, the Konoha he had fought for, but undeniably, undeniably beautiful in its raw, untainted form.
Before he consciously registered it, a wave of emotion washed over him. Unbidden, hot tears welled in his eyes and traced paths down his cheeks, leaving damp trails on his weathered skin. This was his home, the land that bore him, yet a version of it he hadn't witnessed in what felt like an eternity. Years. Years of brutal conflict on the front lines, years since the devastating destruction that had ripped through Konoha like a rampaging beast. His mind flickered with fragmented memories of a future that was no more. He remembered strategic meetings, late nights pouring over maps, even audacious thoughts about expanding Konoha's territory further still, envisioning a new district, a vibrant city perched atop the highland, a bold step towards another industrial revolution, fueled by innovation and progress.
God, only months before… he had been meticulously planning a proposal, the perfect words, the right moment, the quiet joy of starting a family. But then the endless, soul-crushing war had erupted, a relentless tide pulling everything under, dragging on for what felt like centuries. And then… he died. A blunt, brutal fact. And somehow, inexplicably, ended up in this godforsaken, yet breathtaking, past. The rest, as the cliché went, was history—a history now irrevocably altered, a future stolen. A sharp, constricting pain gripped his chest, a physical manifestation of the grief and the crushing weight of what could have been, what should have been.
The presence of warmth radiating beside him jolted Shikamaru back to the tangible reality of his present. He inhaled deeply, drawing in long, shuddering breaths, a conscious effort to anchor himself, to reign in the maelstrom of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing the tears to stop, the memories to recede. For once, Madara didn't seem inclined to ridicule Shikamaru for his moment of vulnerability. A small, unexpected flicker of something that might almost be considered understanding.
"Those vast spans of lands," Madara's voice, devoid of its usual mocking edge, broke the silence. He gestured with a sweeping hand towards the endless forest, "and they all supposed to belong to the Daimyō? Hah, spare me," He muttered, a hint of genuine frustration lined his tone. "I can only imagine how many people could be fed, how many lives sustained, just from this forest alone."
Shikamaru leaned forward, watching the setting sun paint the sky in hues of fiery orange and soft lavender. "I'll conquer them all," he stated, the phrase carrying a conviction that surprised even him. For most of his life, he'd aimlessly drifted, content with life's simple pleasures, possessing neither a burning goal nor a driving ambition. But this was his home. His. He gestured vaguely towards the horizon, encompassing a vast expanse in his mind's eye. "From the river bordering the Land of Rice Paddies, its waters winding through fields of rice stalks, to the turbulent sea of the Land of Whirlpools, where the very currents twist and churn."
Madara tilted his head, assessing Shikamaru's outrageous claim. "Big dreams for a little girl," he replied, a familiar sardonic edge to his voice.
Shikamaru met Madara's gaze head on. "I have nothing but dreams. No lands, no titles, no inheritance. What else is there? Might as well make them a reality," he added, a touch of playful defiance in his tone. The idea, daring and outlandish as it was, held a certain appeal.
A chuckle escaped Madara's lips, his expression shifting to something more contemplative. "How quaint…" he mocked. The air around them seemed to grow colder, or perhaps it was merely due to the shift in his demeanor. "This place actually gives me chills," he confessed, voice losing some of its usual sharpness.
Shikamaru shifted his weight, leaning against his knees, dark eyes trained on the Uchiha. He noticed the faint tremor in Madara's hands, the subtle clench of his jaw. "How come?" he inquired, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.
Madara's gaze drifted away, unfocused, as if lost in a memory. "Recently I've been having this recurring dream," he began, his voice a low murmur, "about being stabbed in the heart." He paused, the silence punctuated only by their breathing. "I was on a rocky formation just like this. The moon shone so brightly before me, almost blindingly so." A ghost of a frown touched his lips. "And my chest… burnt like something awful," he recounted, his hand instinctively moving to his sternum, a phantom ache evident in his touch. "Even now," he added, his voice barely a whisper, "I still have lingering pain. A dull throb that reminds me…" he trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the thought.
Shikamaru repressed a shiver that threatened to run down his spine. The imagery Madara painted was stark and unsettling. That eve of the Fourth Shinobi War, the clash of armies, the desperation and loss, flashed through his mind like a series of distorted snapshots. The memory was still raw even now, the emotions fresh, as if he were still sixteen, a boy grappling with the horrors of war and the impossible choices it demanded. Once more, he reconsidered the possibility of Madara being a fellow traveler, someone with a similar unfortunate circumstance as him. His behaviour and thoughts didn't quite align with what he remembered, but then again…
"It's considered bad karma," Shikamaru said, breaking the heavy silence, blurting a random adage passed down through generations of his clan to swiftly change the topic, "to see flashes of death, especially one of your own. I highly advise you to pray," he added, knowing the Uchiha's likely reaction.
Madara's gaze snapped back to Shikamaru, his expression a mixture of annoyance and deep-seated dreariness. "What's the point?" he scoffed, his voice regaining some of its former bite. "Is there even a deity in this godforsaken land? What kind of benevolent being would stand idly by while the world drowns in blood and suffering?" He turned his head, gazing onto the fiery orb of the setting sun, his silhouette stark against the vibrant colors.
Shikamaru considered Madara's words. He'd always associated the Uchiha with a certain reverence, what with their powerful techniques often invoking the names of several Shinto Gods. The irony wasn't lost on him. The Nara clan, on the other hand, held little stock in divine intervention. They venerated their ancestors, those who had walked the same paths and faced similar struggles. And if he were to entertain the notion of a higher power, it seemed inherently foolish, a naive fantasy, to believe that any God would ever truly be merciful in a world as cruel as theirs.
"I don't know," Shikamaru admitted honestly, shrugging slightly. He offered a pragmatic, albeit unconventional, suggestion. "Just become your own God, then?" The idea was blasphemous and terribly absurd, yet it seemed to strike a chord with the young man before him.
A slow smile spread across Madara's face, a hint of his signature arrogance returning. "Huh… God of Shinobi has a nice ring to it," he mused, the words spoken with a newfound spark of interest.
Shikamaru shook his head, a wide, genuine smile breaking out on his face. "Figures you'll be a megalomaniac," he retorted, the mock disappointment evident in his eyes. The tension in the air had eased, replaced by a strangely comfortable camaraderie.
"Shut it, Nara," Madara grumbled, though the edge in his voice was softened by the amusement in his eyes.
Shikamaru helplessly laughed, the sound echoing softly in the deepening shadows of the twilight. The ever-present anxieties, the chilling echoes of recurring nightmares that haunted sleeps, and the ingrained cynicism of a veteran who had witnessed the grim realities of the shinobi world, all seemed to soften for a brief, precious interval, giving way to something lighter, something unexpected. In their place, a shared glance, a subtle nod, a profound understanding bloomed in the fading light. It was a connection forged in unspoken truths, a moment of quiet resonance that spoke volumes more than any lengthy explanation could.