Garfield157
Active member
What would have happened, Kimimaro wonders, if life had gone differently? AU.
(Originally posted on Fanfiction.net, in my profile, under the name 'The Golden Fire-Lily'. If you want to read more, look me up.)
--
Kimimaro delicately wiped the ivory sculpture, caressing it lightly with the soft cloth. Afterwards, he ran his fingers across it, feeling its smoothness, meaning that he had to clean it again. (He always did that. An old habit of his.)
Stepping back, he regarded his small shop, a light feeling of content stirring within him. The late light was streaming in through the windows, filling the entire room with a beautiful golden glow that reflected off the polished wood. Kimimaro sniffed in once, watching the dust particles floating about in the shafts of light, and breathed in the wonderful scent of wood, and happiness. The place positively oozed vivacity. (It pleased Kimimaro that his customers often mentioned it, with or without meaning to.)
The Kaguya placed the cloth on the counter, and softly pressed the bell, once, twice. He paused, and listened to the light little tinkling that filled his ears. He smiled softly, and tinged it again.
Kimimaro pushed open the small swinging door, careful not to bang his knees, and then shut it behind him, regarding the counter with satisfaction. Clean. Tidy. He reached out and moved the donation box slightly, straightening it. One thing that Kimimaro couldn?t stand was things being wonky and misplaced. It vexed him. (He was always meticulously clean.)
He tapped it when he finished moving it, as if to ensure it wasn?t going to jump up and move itself again out of pure stubbornness. It was one of Kimimaro?s first pieces of art- a rather crude box with a hole in the top for money, though the Kaguya had carved various patterns and designs into the hard ivory over the years, creating a beautiful little luxury that pleased him whenever he looked at it (Not his best, but still good enough). More often than not it was full of loose change that many an appreciative consumer gave without hesitation.
After Kimimaro had again surveyed the room, he turned to go behind the shop and upstairs, to the small flat above him where he lived, but as always, he was caught by his reflection. The mirrors were up for a reason, each one sporting a different design of frame, shape, and size. Of course, each and every frame was made from ivory, as most everything else in the shop was.
Kimimaro looked at himself, his pale, white skin, his piercing, green eyes, and his pure, moonlight-coloured hair. Most of all, he looked at the two drops of red on his forehead, at the two red slashes under his eyes. The maro mayu. He considered them for a few moments, comparing them to the fuzzy memories he held of his brethren. He was nothing like them. He was nothing like the brutal, strong jawed, weather beaten men who had ignored him, feared him. (I am different, he told himself. I am- They are-)
He was a lily. They were thistles.
As his fingers absently reached up to stroke the blood-red marks, he wondered, as always, if he truly was a Kaguya. After all, he and his blood relations were utter opposites. Not only in appearance, but also disposition. Deep, booming laughs were nothing like light chuckles. Large, twisted smirks nothing like small, delicate smiles. Heavy, angry strides nothing like flowing, graceful steps.
(No, nothing, nothing like him at all.)
His hand dropped and he blinked at himself, his slender eyebrows rising. One arched higher than the other, and then Kimimaro turned away, and went through the door that separated his home from the rest of the world. The window at the top of the stairs only leaked in a small part of the quickly fading light, and Kimimaro stepped cautiously, careful not to trip. When he reached the apex of the stairs, he watched the setting sun for a brief moment, and then pulled down the blinds. His hand lingered there for a moment, and then he released the drawstring, arm falling back to his side slowly. Then, he turned, reaching out and unlocking his flat door. He slipped inside elegantly.
He breathed in. He could smell the Nikujaga he had set to cook a few hours ago- he knew that it was only meant to be boiled a few minutes, but after discovering that leaving it to simmer meant that the meat and vegetables were softened, and the flavours had more time to mix, he always ate it that way.
Again, as Kimimaro thought, he paused.
Nikujaga. Something the Kaguya had always fed him. Day after day, week after week- the tasteless, congealed stew slopped next to the cold, dry rice, both on a metal platter (Always the same, never changing). He?d grown weary of it, but there was no way he was going to voice his opinion. To have that dark face loom at him from the blinding light, to have that deep voice laugh at him- if he was lucky. If he had spoken, no doubt they would just ignore him, as they always did.
(He was useless. They would save their breath.)
Still. Even though his clans culinary skills had not exactly been top par, the food they gave him was enough. It provided him with the necessary nutrients and minerals. Carbohydrates, proteins, fibre. Etcetera.
Kimimaro shook his head sharply, sending the old memories skittering from his mind. (It didn?t do him good to think over them.)
Slowly and deliberately, he shut the door, and leant against it, the grain of the wood cool against his back, his yukata shirt pressing up his spine. Shutting his eyes, letting his head fall back. After so many years of being shoved in that dark, and barely spacious cell had made him claustrophobic. Even thinking about him made the breath hitch in his throat, and his hands start shaking.
But after a few short moments, his hands stilled, and he opened his eyes, breathing in deeply. He pushed himself off the door, and forced himself to chuckle, shaking his head. It was strange. When he was actually there, experiencing it, it was nothing- The loneliness, the constant, nagging hunger, and the darkness-
It was nothing.
Nothing compared to now, though. He had been through it all. Instead of setting his mind on enduring, he was reliving it. (His mind slipping over old wounds, wounds that he had buried under his art.)
The sudden sound of birds outside snapped Kimimaro out of his trance, and he turned his gaze to the window. Two sparrows fluttered past, their shadows thrown against the floor in the thin sliver of light that wavered for a few moments, and then disappeared. Kimimaro flicked on the light, and his mind turned back to the sparrows, absently planning his next art project.
He preoccupied himself with taking out a bowl and some chopsticks, letting his mind amble. He would angle the two birds, one above the other. While one was skimming the ground, the other would be swerving in mid air, tip of its wing brushing against its companion?s back (Beautiful). That way, the little sculpture should work?
?One thing you have to do is keep it balanced. No matter how beautiful a piece of art is, if it keeps falling over, then it?s a failed piece.?
Ah. Hisaki-san. The old man. Kimimaro had run to him after the night. (That night, the night Kimimaro had been let out into the light.)
After his clans destruction, he had been walking without thinking, setting one foot in front of the other, more out of a blind need to keep moving, rather than the fact Kimimaro was travelling somewhere (After all, where would he go?).
He had been stopped in his path by a gentle hand, and a low, gravely but soft voice.
?And where do you think you?re going, child??
And when Kimimaro had just looked up at him, blinking at the contact, the old man there had laughed, patting him on the head.
?Ah, well, who am I to question a young boy? No doubt you?re out searching for treasure, eh??
?Searching for treasure?? Kimimaro echoed, somewhat blankly.
?Yes, treasure. What kind do you like? Jewels, gold? When I was little, I always used to look for diamonds. I wanted to give them to my mother to make her happy.?
Kimimaro just looked at him, unsure of how to react. The old man laughed again, but he was taking in the boys tatty appearance. It didn?t escape his scrutiny that Kimimaro had a few blood stains on his skin, and clothes.
Well, blow me, Hisaki thought. To think that? wait. Those red marks on his face. They-
?Where have you come from, boy??
The smile had disappeared from Hisaki?s voice. He was frowning, but not angrily. More with? confusion. ?A Kaguya? What are you out wandering alone for? You?d better come with me.?
Kimimaro watched his sudden change of emotion, and he could feel bones start to crawl under his skin, ready if the man made any sudden moves. Hisaki watched him a few moments, and then turned.
?We can go back to my house. A little food and water will do you well. And when was the last time you bathed??
Kimimaro blinked.
A few hours later, after some intense scrubbing, large bowls of rice, and huge glasses of water, Hisaki had stood back, and scrutinised him. (Why did he look at the boy with such an intense gaze? What had Kimimaro done?)
?You?ll do. So, I still haven?t heard your name.?
?Kimimaro,? Kimimaro said, blinking and yawning. Hisaki nodded.
?Well, Kimimaro, I?m Hisaki. I guess you?re under my care now. And I say off to bed.?
Hisaki was an artist. A sculptor, to be precise. After discovering Kimimaro?s Kekkei Genkai, rather than be repulsed, he was incredibly chuffed. Kimimaro learnt to carve, and his first attempts where merely simple etches on small, finger size pieces of bone. All in all, they were rather clumsy, but in a cute (Hisaki?s words, not his. Would he ever use the word cute? He doubted it) kind of way.
Kimimaro loved Hisaki because of it. After anything he did, even if he did it wrong, Hisaki would still smile and ruffle his hair. When Kimimaro started to call him Hisaki-sama, he had laughed.
?Sama? Well, that?s the first time someone?s ever called me that. No need to, Kimimaro. Just plain Hisaki is fine by me. But if you really feel the need to add an honorific, Hisaki-san is more than enough.?
Hisaki was always taking care of him. Cooking well-balanced meals, teaching him to read and write (A blessing beyond any comparison- Kimimaro had never been taught before), and other things he?d need to live a well rounded life. Hisaki also showed him how to grow plants- flowers and herbs and spices.
Like the apple tree that was planted outside, in the front garden. It was an old tree, Hisaki said- That enough was obvious, as it was gnarled and bent over with age. Still, it always gave them an abundant amount of apples, a beautiful deep red colour.
?Here,? Hisaki said, passing one to Kimimaro. ?It?s the same colour as your maro mayu. They look lovely, don?t they??
My marks or the apples? Kimimaro wondered, but then he turned his attention to the fruit, regarding it warily before biting into it.
?Wait- I haven?t cut it yet!?
Kimimaro chewed, and Hisaki sighed, but then chuckled. ?There?s just one drawback with having natural apples- there?s always a chance of things in them. It seems that you were lucky this time, but it always pays to be careful. Shop-bought fruit, though- well. I?d rather bite into a maggot than eat the rubbish they spray onto them.?
Kimimaro nodded. ?Shall we bring some in and check if they have insects in them, Hisaki-san??
Hisaki smiled. ?That would be a good idea. I was planning on making apple pie tonight. A rare delight??
And that was that. After Kimimaro had lived with him a few years, Hisaki said that they?d better go to the city.
?The city??
?Well, not a city, I admit. Just a town. My nephew owns a shop there, and he?s planning on selling it. He said he?d give it to me, if I wanted- for free! And I thought that a solitary life in the middle of nowhere isn?t exactly the best life for a growing boy, so I accepted.?
?What about here??
?Ah. Well. I can keep this old place as a holiday house. What do you think about that??
That shop? Kimimaro owned it now. The house? He had the house knocked down when Hisaki died. (Too many memories.) As a tribute to the old man, he created a huge carving- on the wreckage of the house, he made a phoenix. A beautiful firebird, rising from the ashes.
He?d left it there. The demolishers had been rather surprised when he said that he wanted the house?s remains to stay, to be untouched. Of course, though, they complied with his wishes (As long as he paid them, they couldn?t care less).
Kimimaro had spent hours? days- on that one sculpture. He wanted it to fully pay credit to Hisaki- his kindness, his love. It was Kimimaro?s best. There was no doubt about that. But, no one would ever see it. As Hisaki had said, the house was in the middle of nowhere. So no one would stumble across it- and if they did, Kimimaro just hoped they wouldn?t try to move it.
Hisaki had died of old age. He had slipped away quietly- Kimimaro didn?t know how peacefully (quiet doesn?t always mean peaceful), but he hoped that wherever Hisaki-san was now, that he was happy. (He hoped, though, more than anything else, that Hisaki still looked out for him. Was that selfish of him? Kimimaro liked to think not.)
Kimimaro put some rice into his bowl, and then afterwards, as he was ladling Nikujaga onto it, he paused.
What would have happened, he wondered, if on that night, I had chosen left instead of right? Where would I have gone? Where would I be now? Would I have met Hisaki?
What would he have found?
Who would I have met?
(Who would he be? Who would have he become?)
But then the Kaguya shook his head, and went to sit down. There was no point in pondering.
(What?s done is done. And nothing changes that.)
(Originally posted on Fanfiction.net, in my profile, under the name 'The Golden Fire-Lily'. If you want to read more, look me up.)
--
Kimimaro delicately wiped the ivory sculpture, caressing it lightly with the soft cloth. Afterwards, he ran his fingers across it, feeling its smoothness, meaning that he had to clean it again. (He always did that. An old habit of his.)
Stepping back, he regarded his small shop, a light feeling of content stirring within him. The late light was streaming in through the windows, filling the entire room with a beautiful golden glow that reflected off the polished wood. Kimimaro sniffed in once, watching the dust particles floating about in the shafts of light, and breathed in the wonderful scent of wood, and happiness. The place positively oozed vivacity. (It pleased Kimimaro that his customers often mentioned it, with or without meaning to.)
The Kaguya placed the cloth on the counter, and softly pressed the bell, once, twice. He paused, and listened to the light little tinkling that filled his ears. He smiled softly, and tinged it again.
Kimimaro pushed open the small swinging door, careful not to bang his knees, and then shut it behind him, regarding the counter with satisfaction. Clean. Tidy. He reached out and moved the donation box slightly, straightening it. One thing that Kimimaro couldn?t stand was things being wonky and misplaced. It vexed him. (He was always meticulously clean.)
He tapped it when he finished moving it, as if to ensure it wasn?t going to jump up and move itself again out of pure stubbornness. It was one of Kimimaro?s first pieces of art- a rather crude box with a hole in the top for money, though the Kaguya had carved various patterns and designs into the hard ivory over the years, creating a beautiful little luxury that pleased him whenever he looked at it (Not his best, but still good enough). More often than not it was full of loose change that many an appreciative consumer gave without hesitation.
After Kimimaro had again surveyed the room, he turned to go behind the shop and upstairs, to the small flat above him where he lived, but as always, he was caught by his reflection. The mirrors were up for a reason, each one sporting a different design of frame, shape, and size. Of course, each and every frame was made from ivory, as most everything else in the shop was.
Kimimaro looked at himself, his pale, white skin, his piercing, green eyes, and his pure, moonlight-coloured hair. Most of all, he looked at the two drops of red on his forehead, at the two red slashes under his eyes. The maro mayu. He considered them for a few moments, comparing them to the fuzzy memories he held of his brethren. He was nothing like them. He was nothing like the brutal, strong jawed, weather beaten men who had ignored him, feared him. (I am different, he told himself. I am- They are-)
He was a lily. They were thistles.
As his fingers absently reached up to stroke the blood-red marks, he wondered, as always, if he truly was a Kaguya. After all, he and his blood relations were utter opposites. Not only in appearance, but also disposition. Deep, booming laughs were nothing like light chuckles. Large, twisted smirks nothing like small, delicate smiles. Heavy, angry strides nothing like flowing, graceful steps.
(No, nothing, nothing like him at all.)
His hand dropped and he blinked at himself, his slender eyebrows rising. One arched higher than the other, and then Kimimaro turned away, and went through the door that separated his home from the rest of the world. The window at the top of the stairs only leaked in a small part of the quickly fading light, and Kimimaro stepped cautiously, careful not to trip. When he reached the apex of the stairs, he watched the setting sun for a brief moment, and then pulled down the blinds. His hand lingered there for a moment, and then he released the drawstring, arm falling back to his side slowly. Then, he turned, reaching out and unlocking his flat door. He slipped inside elegantly.
He breathed in. He could smell the Nikujaga he had set to cook a few hours ago- he knew that it was only meant to be boiled a few minutes, but after discovering that leaving it to simmer meant that the meat and vegetables were softened, and the flavours had more time to mix, he always ate it that way.
Again, as Kimimaro thought, he paused.
Nikujaga. Something the Kaguya had always fed him. Day after day, week after week- the tasteless, congealed stew slopped next to the cold, dry rice, both on a metal platter (Always the same, never changing). He?d grown weary of it, but there was no way he was going to voice his opinion. To have that dark face loom at him from the blinding light, to have that deep voice laugh at him- if he was lucky. If he had spoken, no doubt they would just ignore him, as they always did.
(He was useless. They would save their breath.)
Still. Even though his clans culinary skills had not exactly been top par, the food they gave him was enough. It provided him with the necessary nutrients and minerals. Carbohydrates, proteins, fibre. Etcetera.
Kimimaro shook his head sharply, sending the old memories skittering from his mind. (It didn?t do him good to think over them.)
Slowly and deliberately, he shut the door, and leant against it, the grain of the wood cool against his back, his yukata shirt pressing up his spine. Shutting his eyes, letting his head fall back. After so many years of being shoved in that dark, and barely spacious cell had made him claustrophobic. Even thinking about him made the breath hitch in his throat, and his hands start shaking.
But after a few short moments, his hands stilled, and he opened his eyes, breathing in deeply. He pushed himself off the door, and forced himself to chuckle, shaking his head. It was strange. When he was actually there, experiencing it, it was nothing- The loneliness, the constant, nagging hunger, and the darkness-
It was nothing.
Nothing compared to now, though. He had been through it all. Instead of setting his mind on enduring, he was reliving it. (His mind slipping over old wounds, wounds that he had buried under his art.)
The sudden sound of birds outside snapped Kimimaro out of his trance, and he turned his gaze to the window. Two sparrows fluttered past, their shadows thrown against the floor in the thin sliver of light that wavered for a few moments, and then disappeared. Kimimaro flicked on the light, and his mind turned back to the sparrows, absently planning his next art project.
He preoccupied himself with taking out a bowl and some chopsticks, letting his mind amble. He would angle the two birds, one above the other. While one was skimming the ground, the other would be swerving in mid air, tip of its wing brushing against its companion?s back (Beautiful). That way, the little sculpture should work?
?One thing you have to do is keep it balanced. No matter how beautiful a piece of art is, if it keeps falling over, then it?s a failed piece.?
Ah. Hisaki-san. The old man. Kimimaro had run to him after the night. (That night, the night Kimimaro had been let out into the light.)
After his clans destruction, he had been walking without thinking, setting one foot in front of the other, more out of a blind need to keep moving, rather than the fact Kimimaro was travelling somewhere (After all, where would he go?).
He had been stopped in his path by a gentle hand, and a low, gravely but soft voice.
?And where do you think you?re going, child??
And when Kimimaro had just looked up at him, blinking at the contact, the old man there had laughed, patting him on the head.
?Ah, well, who am I to question a young boy? No doubt you?re out searching for treasure, eh??
?Searching for treasure?? Kimimaro echoed, somewhat blankly.
?Yes, treasure. What kind do you like? Jewels, gold? When I was little, I always used to look for diamonds. I wanted to give them to my mother to make her happy.?
Kimimaro just looked at him, unsure of how to react. The old man laughed again, but he was taking in the boys tatty appearance. It didn?t escape his scrutiny that Kimimaro had a few blood stains on his skin, and clothes.
Well, blow me, Hisaki thought. To think that? wait. Those red marks on his face. They-
?Where have you come from, boy??
The smile had disappeared from Hisaki?s voice. He was frowning, but not angrily. More with? confusion. ?A Kaguya? What are you out wandering alone for? You?d better come with me.?
Kimimaro watched his sudden change of emotion, and he could feel bones start to crawl under his skin, ready if the man made any sudden moves. Hisaki watched him a few moments, and then turned.
?We can go back to my house. A little food and water will do you well. And when was the last time you bathed??
Kimimaro blinked.
A few hours later, after some intense scrubbing, large bowls of rice, and huge glasses of water, Hisaki had stood back, and scrutinised him. (Why did he look at the boy with such an intense gaze? What had Kimimaro done?)
?You?ll do. So, I still haven?t heard your name.?
?Kimimaro,? Kimimaro said, blinking and yawning. Hisaki nodded.
?Well, Kimimaro, I?m Hisaki. I guess you?re under my care now. And I say off to bed.?
Hisaki was an artist. A sculptor, to be precise. After discovering Kimimaro?s Kekkei Genkai, rather than be repulsed, he was incredibly chuffed. Kimimaro learnt to carve, and his first attempts where merely simple etches on small, finger size pieces of bone. All in all, they were rather clumsy, but in a cute (Hisaki?s words, not his. Would he ever use the word cute? He doubted it) kind of way.
Kimimaro loved Hisaki because of it. After anything he did, even if he did it wrong, Hisaki would still smile and ruffle his hair. When Kimimaro started to call him Hisaki-sama, he had laughed.
?Sama? Well, that?s the first time someone?s ever called me that. No need to, Kimimaro. Just plain Hisaki is fine by me. But if you really feel the need to add an honorific, Hisaki-san is more than enough.?
Hisaki was always taking care of him. Cooking well-balanced meals, teaching him to read and write (A blessing beyond any comparison- Kimimaro had never been taught before), and other things he?d need to live a well rounded life. Hisaki also showed him how to grow plants- flowers and herbs and spices.
Like the apple tree that was planted outside, in the front garden. It was an old tree, Hisaki said- That enough was obvious, as it was gnarled and bent over with age. Still, it always gave them an abundant amount of apples, a beautiful deep red colour.
?Here,? Hisaki said, passing one to Kimimaro. ?It?s the same colour as your maro mayu. They look lovely, don?t they??
My marks or the apples? Kimimaro wondered, but then he turned his attention to the fruit, regarding it warily before biting into it.
?Wait- I haven?t cut it yet!?
Kimimaro chewed, and Hisaki sighed, but then chuckled. ?There?s just one drawback with having natural apples- there?s always a chance of things in them. It seems that you were lucky this time, but it always pays to be careful. Shop-bought fruit, though- well. I?d rather bite into a maggot than eat the rubbish they spray onto them.?
Kimimaro nodded. ?Shall we bring some in and check if they have insects in them, Hisaki-san??
Hisaki smiled. ?That would be a good idea. I was planning on making apple pie tonight. A rare delight??
And that was that. After Kimimaro had lived with him a few years, Hisaki said that they?d better go to the city.
?The city??
?Well, not a city, I admit. Just a town. My nephew owns a shop there, and he?s planning on selling it. He said he?d give it to me, if I wanted- for free! And I thought that a solitary life in the middle of nowhere isn?t exactly the best life for a growing boy, so I accepted.?
?What about here??
?Ah. Well. I can keep this old place as a holiday house. What do you think about that??
That shop? Kimimaro owned it now. The house? He had the house knocked down when Hisaki died. (Too many memories.) As a tribute to the old man, he created a huge carving- on the wreckage of the house, he made a phoenix. A beautiful firebird, rising from the ashes.
He?d left it there. The demolishers had been rather surprised when he said that he wanted the house?s remains to stay, to be untouched. Of course, though, they complied with his wishes (As long as he paid them, they couldn?t care less).
Kimimaro had spent hours? days- on that one sculpture. He wanted it to fully pay credit to Hisaki- his kindness, his love. It was Kimimaro?s best. There was no doubt about that. But, no one would ever see it. As Hisaki had said, the house was in the middle of nowhere. So no one would stumble across it- and if they did, Kimimaro just hoped they wouldn?t try to move it.
Hisaki had died of old age. He had slipped away quietly- Kimimaro didn?t know how peacefully (quiet doesn?t always mean peaceful), but he hoped that wherever Hisaki-san was now, that he was happy. (He hoped, though, more than anything else, that Hisaki still looked out for him. Was that selfish of him? Kimimaro liked to think not.)
Kimimaro put some rice into his bowl, and then afterwards, as he was ladling Nikujaga onto it, he paused.
What would have happened, he wondered, if on that night, I had chosen left instead of right? Where would I have gone? Where would I be now? Would I have met Hisaki?
What would he have found?
Who would I have met?
(Who would he be? Who would have he become?)
But then the Kaguya shook his head, and went to sit down. There was no point in pondering.
(What?s done is done. And nothing changes that.)
