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It’s late when they find you, just as young and twice as emaciated. You’re cold, wet, scared; a shivering little kitten among a world of lions scrounging around for a snack. The midst of the war is hot on your heels, running from a country with no regard for your own innocent life; how you find your way to the outskirts of Amegakure is one thing, but how you find yourself face-to-face with those you’ve heard rumored to be the head trio of the mercenary group Akatsuki is another question you think you rather not find the answer to.
It’s dark, it’s cold, and if this is how you go, then so be it.
“We can’t leave ‘em,” you hear one of the boys say, the taller one; a mess of fiery orange hair crowns him, but you can’t make out much more than that. The woman, shorter, with a kinder face and gentler eyes, kneels beside you and wipes some of the falling rain with her sleeve but your vision is still blurred.
“They’ll die if we do,” she agrees, and her voice is soft, calm, soothing. She strokes your hair a moment, flashes you a tiny smile, one that puts you to rest a little easier as she stands, faces her boys again. You feel your eyes slip shut. “We’ll have to take them back. We can decide what to do with them then.”
You frown, brows knotting in the center as, quickly, she begins fading away and you find yourself wrapped in something, something warm – paper? – and the haze gets to you and drags you under as you’re swallowed up by a cocoon of paper pieces, shielding you from the elements, insulating any natural heat that your body gives off.
When you awaken again, you’re warm and it’s dark and, somehow, you don’t feel any alarm.
The room is dark around you, little bits of rain-darkened light easing their way past the edges of the makeshift curtains hanging over the window. You’re not sure what time it is and even less what day, but you can faintly hear the murmuring of voices in the next room, hushed tones that indicate knowledge of your presence and care for your rest. You try listening in, frowning as you attempt to focus on their words, but they’re just barely too muffled, slightly too quiet for you to make anything out.
Slowly, you sit up, a hand to your head to try to steady yourself as you make an attempt to recall what happened while you were out, or at the very least, what happened just before. An attack, some rogue nin from what you think was Iwa asking – no, demanding your valuables. And then you laughed, because how could anyone expect you – hardly an adult, still technically a kid – to have any valuables? You didn’t look particularly well-kept, hair shaggy and too grown out, dirt caked on your face and under your fingernails and rips in your clothes.
So you laughed, and you thought it was a joke.
Maybe you should have known that Iwa nin don’t joke.
It’d all happened so fast that you’re still not entirely sure how it went down; all you know is that somewhere, somehow, you found yourself on the ground, bleeding out, looking to the mercy of three strangers who could easily have put you out of your misery, done you a kindness in their eyes by giving you the easy way out.
But they didn’t.
A soft knock against the door and it opens to reveal the same blue haired woman from before, holding a little plate of onigiri, some water, and a new change of bandages.
You can see her clearer now, no longer hazy from loss of blood and with the added benefit of seeing her without her robes. There’s no malice behind her eyes – some wariness, perhaps, but you can’t fault her for this and you know it. As far as she’s concerned, you could be anyone; a spy, a con artist, a killer. And you wonder if you hit your head because you can’t recall if you’re any of those things, either.
“You’re awake,” she says, surprise thinly veiled behind a little smile. The door eases shut behind her as she enters completely, kneels beside your futon and sets the tray down on the little side table.
You open your mouth to speak but no words come out and your throat is scratchy, resulting only in a cough and a surge of pain from your belly. Your arms wrap around yourself, bracing against your abdomen to ease the throb that comes from it. The woman offers you the cup of water and you take it after a moment, graciously; a small sip to wet your palate turns into a longer one, and before you realize it the cup is empty.
Your caretaker laughs, but there’s no humor behind her golden eyes. “Thirsty, too,” she comments, taking the cup from your hands and setting it aside. She folds her hands in her lap, a graceful motion. “I guess I’d be surprised if you weren’t. It’s been a few days.”
Your brows furrow, mouth falling open once again. Days? A few, no less. At least you know they’re not here to harm you, you suppose. They wouldn’t have kept you here, in their home, and taken care of you if they meant you harm.
You clear your mouth, wince at the feeling of the wound in your belly making itself known to you once again, and you try again.
“How long?”
It’s little more than a croak, but the words still make it out, which is progress in your eyes.
“Today is the third day,” she says, and she reaches for the new, clean bandages, glances at you before turning to you completely, once again. “We were starting to worry that you wouldn’t wake up by the time we relocate. You’ve got good timing.”
You frown and make to ask what she means, exactly; but before you can she lays the bandages out, preps them, and turns to you fully, gesturing to your abdomen.
“May I?”
Admittedly, you take a moment to understand what she means, but when it clicks, a tiny oh escapes you and you nod. Carefully, she lifts the bottom hem of your shirt, and you realize, belatedly, that this isn’t the shirt you’d originally been wearing.
Her motions are quick and deliberate, firm but with a gentleness to them that you’re almost surprised to experience for yourself. She’s no med-nin, that’s for sure; if she was, you imagine your wound would be healed, fully, properly. That means that neither of the men she was with are, either, and the realization makes you frown.
“Do you always treat wounds like this?” you ask, voice barely a whisper, but she’s close enough that she’s well within earshot.
She hums as she removes the old bandages from your abdomen, allowing you to see the damage for yourself for the first time. It’s a gnarly opening, rough-looking for sure. You don’t remember what the weapon looked like but judging by what you remember it feeling like and how it left you, it must not have been very sharp. Sharp weapons don’t leave wounds like this. She presses a warm, wet cloth to it, gently, careful not to exacerbate any further bleeding or cause any excess pain before she wipes you dry, spreads some herby-scented salve on you that stings as it seeps in.
“Yes,” she replies finally, tying off the new bandages and sitting back on her heels. She looks at you with a kind little smile, but one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Does it hurt?”
“Not bad,” you lie. It’s not bad as long as you’re still, really, but the salve leaves a dull ache that doesn’t feel comfortable. You’ve felt worse.
And then your stomach growls.
The woman buries a laugh behind a fist and offers you the plate of onigiri that she’d brought in, and you take a big bite graciously, savoring the salty flavor that clears your palate. They’re not filled, but you can’t complain; it’s been days, after all, since you’d last eaten, and even longer since you’d had a proper meal.
“Thank you,” you tell her after swallowing. “Um–”
“Konan!”
You’re interrupted by the door swinging open, slamming against the wall and nearly slamming shut again with the force. You nearly jump out of your skin, arms folding over your stomach again as you double over, the sudden movement not doing anything for your still very open wound. The newcomer, the orange haired boy you believe to be the same one the woman – Konan was with when you were found, ducks his head, gives a sheepish little smile.
“Shit, sorry.”
“Quiet,” Konan scolds, but you catch the tiny smile on her face, the gentle flush of her cheeks before she turns to him, and the action makes you supremely curious. You shift, grab another onigiri from the plate and take a little nibble.
“It’s fine, nobody’s asleep,” he says, gesturing to you with a lopsided little grin on his face as he does. “So. No harm, no foul.”
You can’t help but smile at their exchange as Konan lifts herself to her feet, steps towards the door and punches the boy lightly in the chest – not near hard enough to hurt, you can tell. A show of affection.
“Get some rest,” she tells you, turning to you once more before excusing herself and shutting the door in the boy’s face as she ferries him out, too.
How odd, you think, finishing your rice ball and reclining once more. How odd it must be to feel safe, comfortable enough to show someone such a level of both vulnerability, but also camaraderie. You don’t know them well yet, that’s for sure, but you can see something there, something that says, “I see you. I know you. I trust you.”
And it’s nice to see.
Refreshing, like a warm shower or a hot cup of tea after you’ve been out in the rain.
It’s something that you’re not sure when you saw it last, and that very well may be a result of your injury, but really, it’s a result of growing up in war-torn society, running from country to country, village to village with the hopes that you’ll find someplace to call home again. The hope that, maybe, you’ll find somewhere safe again, somewhere you can rest your head and get a full night’s deep sleep, not concerned with having to wake in the middle of the night to look over your shoulder, to flee to a safer location.
You think, idly, as you feel yourself drift back to sleep, that maybe this could be it.
You decide to stay with the group when they offer you a place among them.
They’re a rowdy bunch, a group who doesn’t stop till they’ve had their fill of drinking or fucking or killing. They are, ultimately, here for a good time, a roofed hideout, and a meal, and frankly, you can’t find it in your heart to think that’s anything other than valid. To the average onlooker, they’re not your typical group who might take in a stray, who would trust someone with such deep emotion as to take them in, but you’re living proof that they’re exactly that. Outcasts, those fighting for a greater good, seeking peace in a time when there is none to be seen.
You’ve been with them only a short time but they’ve made sure that you feel at home.
Quiet as he is, Nagato had welcomed you with open arms, happy to have another mouth to feed and another pair of hands to gather supplies. Yahiko was louder about your acceptance, slinging an arm around your shoulder as he presented you with your own robe.
“We all gotta match,” he’d said, grinning from ear to ear.
And Konan had looked on with fondness, quite happy to see everybody getting along, enjoying the moments of quiet, of peace among the group.
The others, admittedly, you hadn’t gotten as close with, but every one of them made sure that you were well looked after, cared for, that your healing went as smoothly as it could have. Just like Konan had mentioned, nobody is a particularly skilled healer, only skating by on the bare minimum, but even so, having such a group of branded misfits – of fellow children who had to grow up too fast – to look after you makes you feel right at home. Children who, after the Second Great Shinobi War, found themselves scrambling for some semblance of normalcy, of familiarity. Children who dream of a peaceful future and who cherish these moments of closeness, of brotherhood. A taste of what could be.
Because in times of war, these moments of peace do not last long and are far and few in between.
You’re not there to see it happen.
Still in bed for most of your day, still very much in recovery – you have just enough energy to help the group move to a new hideout but your recovery takes a nosedive soon after. Konan believes it to be in response to the excess physical exertion; Nagato, a product of your past pushing too hard without letting yourself have a moment to rest coming back to bite you. Yahiko hardly notices anything out of the ordinary, but when he does, it’s more of an assumption of spending too long in the rain. As if that isn’t something that comes with the territory of operating out of Ame.
Back on the mend, you feel well enough to see the group off, but you know you wouldn’t be able to make the trek with them without making too many stops, slowing them down greatly. Your body is still weak and healing from your earlier wounds, achingly exhausted from days straight of helping the group move every one of their belongings to your new hideout, a little closer to the village but far enough out that it would be tough to simply stumble upon it.
Your days are spent largely cleaning, decluttering, and resting, and there’s a small part of you that cherishes this moment of downtime, this ability to keep to yourself, to be quiet, be self-indulgent with your wants and needs. You’re supposed to be on bedrest, sure; but home rest is good enough, you think, sitting on the step outside the front door of the little shack that you now call home, warm cup of tea in hand and a fresh bandage around your belly.
The rain’s soft pitter patter against the little covered doorstep is like music to your ears these days. Used to the brash, rowdy presence of your companions, it feels like a hollow silence, one that should be gentle, calm, soothing – but instead you feel like something’s lacking, and you find yourself wanting back the kinship, the brotherhood you find with your beloved group of misfits. The rain acts as a gentle reminder for you, one telling you that they will be back – have some patience, the rain tells you, for they will return home soon.
But Konan is the only one to return.
She carries Nagato and Yahiko back in a swathe of paper sheets, sheltered from the rain with little pieces of her soul, supporting them and carrying them back home, where they belong.
With Nagato finally settled into his bed and Yahiko’s body covered carefully until you know how to tend to him, Konan tells you about what happened and the battle that ensued, and you can see her trying her hardest to hold herself together. She describes how Hanzo had taken her, how Hanzo had told Nagato his demands, told him, “If you oppose me, the girl dies.” How Nagato had barely lifted the kunai from the ground before Yahiko threw himself onto the blade, and how years of rage came to a boiling point in that moment, destroying Hanzo’s men in a flurry.
Nagato’s legs are badly injured, and with little to no medical experience from anyone in the group, it’s unlikely that he’ll ever walk again, and if he does, it will likely be extremely painful. His body is emaciated from the chakra it took to pull off his attack, face gaunt and lifeless, and you hope, you pray that he retains his childhood demeanor, even in the face of this trauma.
Yahiko is another story.
“It… was so fast,” she tells you, brows furrowed and eyes fixed on the table in front of you. You place a fresh cup of tea in front of her, but she doesn’t move to take it. “...Nagato will be okay, I think.”
She’s in shock and it’s plain as day.
“I hope so,” you tell her, reach a hand across the table to grab hers. As you give it a little squeeze, she looks at you again, forces a little smile to grace her lips, and takes a shaky little breath.
“I’m just glad you didn’t have to see any of it.”
And your heart sinks when you realize that Konan had to do this on her own.
You couldn’t be there to help drag Konan back to her feet, to help bring Yahiko’s limp, cooling body back to the hideout for a proper funeral. You weren’t there to help Nagato understand that this isn’t his fault, that there’s nothing he could have done differently; that this is Hanzo’s doing, not your companions. You weren’t there for your allies and your friends, your loved ones, the very ones who helped to carry your own limp body back from the brink of death without so much as accepting a thanks in return.
And the thought haunts you.
You never see her shed any tears, but the amount of times you catch her sobbing while she believes that she’s on her own is innumerable, and your heart breaks for her.
It’s a long time before anybody is able to function normally again.
A long time before you see Konan smile, a long time before Nagato joins you both for meals; a long time before you’re able to crack a joke here or there without feeling like you’re being disrespectful. There is still pain in everybody’s being, but you feel it getting a little easier, a little lighter with each passing day.
You can’t help but think that Nagato taking his revenge out on Hanzo, taking Ame back from him and starting its turnaround into something no longer touched by the horrors of civil war has something to do with it.
Many weeks, months full of recruitment, mercenary work, and more relocation. Months watching Nagato collect new bodies – vessels for him to explore the village from the confines of his hideout, far removed from the tower that Konan and his Paths reside.
Your little group of misfits is a proper organization now, one determined to bring peace to the world by any means necessary.
When you hear the flapping of her many little paper wings, you return to your lookout, greeting her with a small smile as she forms once more, graceful in the sunset behind her.
“Welcome home,” you tell her, an arm out to take her cloak. It’s barely damp, but she hands it to you anyway and you fold it over your arm, set it aside next to your own before you take your rightful spot at her side. “How is he?”
“The same.” You figure as much. Konan sits carefully on a chair positioned facing the window, large and open and staring over the village. It’s a Sunday and that means rain. “Is Yahiko…?”
You study her for a long moment, frowning gently as she does. Her general demeanor is typically very much this; quiet, somber, serious.
“Asleep, yes.” Though you’re not even sure that that’s the most accurate description. You’ve only seen the room once; at the top of the tallest of Ame’s towers lies what you can only refer to as the holding cell for Nagato’s paths, with one pod for each path. It’s a room that you don’t wish to enter more frequently than you have to, and thankfully, the unspoken rule of that room being reserved for the Six Paths of Pein with no visitors, save for the occasional time that Konan needs to perform any maintenance, remains well intact.
You see her shoulders relax and see her ever so slightly slump back in the chair that she rests in. One, two beats and she looks at you, tired eyes sparkling with something that you can’t fully make out.
“Come here,” she instructs. She doesn’t lift a finger to usher you over and she doesn’t need to; you’ll be at her side if she so much as thinks about calling you over.
You stand before her, hands at your sides as you lower your gaze to meet hers. She doesn’t move, face turned towards you with an expression so soft, so serene that you forget – for a moment – just how deadly she is. And you’re both thrilled and terrified when you remember, so you don’t move. You allow her this, this quiet moment of exploration, allow yourself to indulge in her attention, her affection, her watchful eyes that seem to swallow you up in their golden hue.
You don’t move, because you don’t want to break the illusion that this could very well be a dream.
This mental tug of war goes on too long, you think, though it’s barely been a few seconds before she reaches a hand out, rests it against your chest, and you’re reminded, thankfully, that this is real. Her eyes follow her fingers as they trail up, slowly, find their way to your throat. They trace along your trachea, the soft lines of your neck, along your jaw before she’s cupping your flushed cheek, brushing her thumb against your skin. She sits up a little, removes her hand from your face and rests both of her hands on your waist; her grip is firm but not harmful, commanding but gentle, affectionate and tender and warm though you expect the opposite.
“Touch me,” she breathes, and you do.
Heart threatening to leap out of your chest, you reach out to her, take her chin in your fingers with the gentle touch one would use to hold something so fragile, something threatening to break at any moment. She allows this, allows you to move her, shape her as you need, watching with curious eyes, awaiting your every move.
You can barely hear her as she commands you, so soft and gentle with words as powerful and commanding as any leader should be.
“Kiss me.”
And your lips find hers, finally; a brief touch, so swift and so soft that you would miss it if you weren’t tangled up in it yourself.
It’s only a brief moment in time, a mere speck in the greater scheme of things, but a half second of time is better than no time at all. You’d wait years for her, bent at the knee; one word is all it takes for you to bend to her will, a shapeless putty in her hands and one that you would not, could not complain about being if you tried.
And in that moment, you swear yourself to Konan, and by extension, you swear yourself to the new God of Amegakure.
It hurts.
It looks like him, sounds like him; but Konan knows that it is not him, and it will never be. He’s dead, and she knows this; she saw it happen, saw him run into Nagato’s kunai with no hesitation. Held him as he took his last breaths once Hanzo’s hold on her had been released. She knows this. She was there. She saw it happen, was a witness to the very thing she never would have expected – exactly what she wouldn’t dream of in a thousand years.
He did it to save her. One life exchanged for another.
But it still hurts.
Nagato allows her and his Deva path their moments of solitude, brief periods of peace where she can look at him, imagine the life that they could have had. And these moments are nice, it’s true; but they don’t last. His hands are cold upon hers, stark contrast against the warmth that she radiates; the warmth that Yahiko once radiated, too. Her fingers, slender and graceful, trace the lines of his face, the planes of ice-cold, rain-dampened skin, the chakra rods that pierce his flesh a reminder of that day nearly twenty years ago.
He was so, so young.
They all were.
And, really, so were you. But this isn’t about you, and a part of you feels selfish for even thinking that.
This is about Konan, about Nagato, about Yahiko. This is about their love, their journey, their loss; their undying devotion for one another and their shared goal of peace, and how that goal could have been crushed so easily had it been any other trio. It started as Nagato’s dream – Konan’s unwavering support held the dream up, Yahiko’s tenacity kept it going. But with him gone, his life taken, his body nothing more than a shell of what once was, it’s up to Konan and Nagato to keep the fuel going, to keep the fire lit despite their wet, rainy surroundings.
But in this moment, she pushes it to the back of her mind, allows herself the chance to be ignorant, to forget his fate, his gruesome end. And she indulges as you stand guard, not allowing the outside to interfere with her fairytale.
She deserves this.
And you avert your gaze, allow them the privacy that they deserve, because while it hurts you to see her with someone else, it hurts you more to see her suffer.
Konan’s relationship with the other paths isn’t the same as her relationship with the Deva Path – with Yahiko. The others are strangers, vessels for Nagato to move about the village as he pleases, to serve as Amegakure’s sworn protector, its leader, its only fighting chance. Cogs in the machine of Nagato’s plan for greatness, for bringing peace to the village, and eventually, the world.
They were people once, sure, but now they only perform the tasks that Nagato tells them to, fights the battles that Nagato requires them to. And that’s just fine. After all, you’re slowly turning over a similar leaf, sword in hand for Konan herself. You’re not skilled by any means, and your only experience with a blade is what you’ve had to learn fending for yourself, but that’s fine. Anything you can do to prove to her your undying loyalty.
So when Yahiko’s body must retire, chakra exhausted, you are the first person that Konan turns to. The closest person that she has, one who has seen her at her lowest and her highest – her loyal attendant, her guard dog, bent at the knee for her and everything that she holds dear.
“A goddess,” you whisper, hands resting gently on the small of her waist, the gentle sloping of her hips. Your hands are cool against her warmth, your lips at the hollow of her throat – her expression is somber as she turns her face toward the sky. She doesn’t reply to this, but she lets you do as you please, and she returns the favor graciously.
She doesn’t call you any pet names for a long time, but she rarely calls anybody by anything but their name. She’s not one for clear shows of affection, never one for affection for the eyes of others. The things that she calls hers are for her eyes only, and it becomes quickly evident to you that you have become one of these things, kept away in the tower that she calls her home.
“It’s to keep you safe,” she explains over your dinner that night. “You’re not a shinobi, are you?”
You shake your head and you see the corners of her lips turn up, but just barely. To be fair, you can’t remember whether you are or not; but you don’t feel the pulsing in your veins of chakra the way that Konan explains it, don’t feel any sort of special power or any of the tingling in your fingertips that you hear Ame jounin talk about on the street.
You’re just you.
Nothing special.
“Precisely,” she continues, sliding her empty bowl towards you. You take it, bring it to the sink with yours and rinse them out. You hear her stand as you wait for the water to warm up to wash them, but her hands at your waist and her presence behind you is still a surprise. “I can’t have anything breaking my toy but me.”
Your breath catches in your throat as you shut the water to the sink off, and you feel Konan’s lips at the back of your neck, pressing chaste little kisses along the top of your spine. You swallow but don’t move otherwise, bracing your hands against the edge of the counter.
Her toy.
You stand here for a long moment, basking in her attention and her intimacy before turning to her, arms snaking around her shoulders. You hold her close and she doesn’t pull away, hands still resting against your hips.
“Let me protect you, my lady.”
And though your voice is soft, a faint whisper, it’s almost a demand, surprising yourself and her both. Taken aback as she is, her smile widens by a hair, and she leans in to lock your lips with hers. You melt against her, hold on her tightening like she’s going to dissipate at any moment.
“Fine,” she whispers against your lips, playful as she nips at your lower one. “But promise me that you won’t let yourself get too badly hurt when you realize swords aren’t playthings.”
It doesn’t sink in immediately, but when it does, you rest your forehead against hers, close your eyes, allow yourself to relax against her hold. She’s warm, a contrast to the chilly, damp, dreary outside of the village you now call your home.
“No promises,” you say, and she knows that you mean thank you.
Your teacher is a man you’ve only met briefly, large and imposing and one with a love for the thrill of battle. His background is one that he doesn’t waste breath on explaining to you; Konan informs you later that he is, without a doubt, one of the best swordsmen in the land, and he proves this within moments.
It’s a while before you get the hang of the blade, but you’re a force to be reckoned with when you do.
“You’re wrong,” she whispers in the dead of night, rain falling outside the open window as you tangle in each other’s limbs, basking in moonlight.
You frown, turning your face to meet hers as she looks away, and you press a gentle kiss to the edge of her jaw.
“About?”
She doesn’t look at you as you study her face, half-lidded eyes trained on the ceiling and mouth falling open as she relaxes her head back. Her face is bare both of makeup and expression, stoic as you kiss her along the inside of her wrist, unmoving as your lips graze a spot that used to, a long time ago, garner giggles, laughter, mirth. Some reaction, any reaction; one that you long for.
“I’m no goddess,” she tells you. She closes her eyes, lets her head fall back against the too-thin pillow as her legs curl around yours.
“Maybe not,” you reply, and finally she meets your gaze, lifts her hand to your cheek, lets her lips turn up gently as you press a tender little kiss to the inside of her palm. Your eyes never waver, locked with her golden stare that makes your core twist and turn in all the best ways. “More of an angel.”
She laughs, a gentle sound from her chest that you feel before you hear.
“An angel,” she repeats, questioning tone hidden behind her quiet voice. “You’ve been spending too long on the ground, love.”
You crack a smile, lick the inside of her palm before she pulls her hand away.
“They don’t know the half of it,” you reply, and you brush a piece of hair from her face, bury your nose in the crook of her neck. Your tone is soft as you continue; words meant for Konan’s ear only. “Benevolent, peace-seeking. Messengers of God.” Slowly, your hand traces the planes of her back, toned from years of survival. “Winged emissaries sent by the Gods to act on their behalf, protectors and guides.”
Konan sighs gently through her nose, tilts her face to the sky; she stays silent, lets her eyes slip shut, lets your fingers explore the gentle curve of her hip, the soft musculature of her back.
“An intermediary, the go-between for both people and the Gods.” You nibble at her ear, gently, letting your breath wash over her bare neck. “Said to bring good fortune to all who meet one face to face.”
Finally, she pulls away, looks you in the eye again with something akin to mirth painted on her features.
“Enough.”
She places a finger against your lips, traces the bottom one slowly, carefully before her hand moves back, cups the side of your neck, and pulls you in. She kisses you, holds your face in her hands, and doesn’t let you go.
It’s a kiss as divine as she is.
You’re instructed to stay with Nagato during the assault on Konoha, keep a watch on him and help fend off any potential attackers who may have found their way to his hideout. Though it’s doubtful that anybody would find their way here, still, you follow your orders to a T, remain vigilant in Nagato’s company, and keep a watchful eye on the surrounding area.
Konan finally returns to the cave in a flurry of origami butterflies, worry in her eyes as she reconstructs herself and stands strong before her God.
“Nagato, you can’t.” She’s barely fully formed as she speaks, a few small strips of paper still lingering in the air. You look on with curious eyes and a furrowed brow, but neither pay any attention to you.
“It’s been done, Konan,” Nagato tells her, and his usually soft voice is strong, powerful; you open your mouth to interject but Konan beats you to the punch.
“You leveled the whole village.”
Her usually controlled mask is broken, replaced by true colors in a state of panic. You know she doesn’t worry for the Leaf; they’ve done nothing but harm to her and to her loved ones, and you know that they would continue down the same path if left to their own devices.
Her worry is solely and wholeheartedly for Nagato.
His health is shaky at best from the incident years ago that cost him his ability to walk on his own, the ability to exist without the need of assistance from his walker. He has been ultimately locked away for twenty years, seeing the world through the eyes of six others, hearing only tales from Konan or from yourself. It takes a lot of chakra to control his Paths, a lot of chakra that Nagato’s lucky to have through his heritage but sometimes, you know, it’s not quite enough. And where he’s in the heat of battle, controlling all six of his Paths at once, throwing jutsu after jutsu at the enemy?
You stand by silently as she chastises Nagato for his careless use of his jutsu, for his headstrong ways of gaining the high ground. You watch on as her normally very mellow exterior is chipped away in large chunks, tossed aside in favor of care and devotion for her friend, going too hard too quickly for something that he wants so badly .
You see her heart break over and over again and it kills you inside that she has to go about it like this. But there’s nothing that you can do but observe, a silent mediator.
Carefully, quietly, you step over and you take Konan’s hand, giving it a little squeeze to try and keep her distracted; she glances at you, squeezes your hand back. You know you can’t do much good to help mediate the situation; you know Nagato well, but not the way that Konan does. You can only act as support here, remind Konan of exactly what she needs to hear.
It’s going to be okay, you tell her silently, a message in a soft smile for her eyes only.
In the end, Konoha wins, but you know Nagato doesn’t see this as a loss for his side.
Nagato’s dream has always been of peace. A shared dream with the two he holds the most dear, the two friends that he’s cherished since his parents were killed during the war.
When Yahiko died, Nagato took it upon himself to shoulder his dream, make that dream a reality. Nagato took Yahiko’s visage, turned it into the face of what he was, and still is, fighting for; for peace, for freedom, for his friends and family gone too soon.
You listen, silently, to Naruto’s tales of their shared master’s teachings, to his words filled with heart and soul and passion. You listen to his story of Uzumaki Naruto, the novel character; his heroic endeavors and his valiant efforts, his vow to break the cycle of war and conflict so prevalent in your world. You listen to Nagato level with him, put his faith in him, and understand him.
Believe him.
Naruto’s promises to bring peace to the shinobi world, and because Nagato believes him, you have to, too.
And in the end, you listen to Nagato give his life in exchange for that of this village that has only done him harm, and you’re not sure if you want to cry or scream or both, but you hold it in.
You need to be strong.
They're laid to rest among a bed of origami roses, carefully handcrafted with love and grief.
Silence deafens as Yahiko and Nagato’s bodies are laid to rest, positioned ever-so among their floral shrine. You watch on, eyes trained on Konan’s still form as she whispers her final goodbyes, reminiscing about what once was. You’re well aware how close they all were, orphans banded together by tragedy, constant war and a longing for peace. These children grew together, laughed together, cried together. Survived together.
And they have been ripped from her, one by one.
You approach her, slowly; “Lady Angel,” you say, hesitating before placing a hand gently on her shoulder. She doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge you, but you feel her muscles relax, just slightly. You frown, fingers holding her shoulder firmly, and try again. “Konan.”
Finally, her eyes find you, filled with grief and want and sorrow.
And it hurts.
To see someone you’ve pledged yourself to, to watch each stage of grief so plainly in her face, hurts. And maybe, maybe you’re far too hopeful, maybe you can’t make it better. But you can try. You can offer her a shoulder, a loving embrace; another person to shoulder her sorrow. You were close with these boys – these men, but you know that Konan’s history with them goes far deeper, and the agony of losing them is ripping her apart from the inside.
“My love.”
And she throws her arms around you and collapses against your form, crying silent tears as she washes herself of the grief that’s torn at her since the beginning.
They started as three, a powerful trio who could take on the world.
Quickly, one was taken from them; a death too soon, his friend’s hand forced by their shared enemy. A life taken of his own will, keeping Nagato’s conscience clean. A sacrifice for Konan’s life, for Nagato’s wellbeing, for the good of Amegakure. And Nagato, with deep care for his friend and one of his greatest allies, took Yahiko’s face and made him the very image of their shared dream. And he continued keeping Yahiko’s memory alive, down to his final moments.
And the other life taken for the greater good, one life exchanged for that of an entire village. The promise of change, of reformation on the horizon keeping his head clear as he cast his Rinne Tensei. One kind, thoughtful life, given for a village that would not give a damn about the life given so that it could flourish once again.
Two sweet, selfless boys, lost to the plains of the Pure Lands, in exchange for something greater.
There’s only one left now in this physical realm, but you promise Konan that you will keep their spirits alive.
They will not have sacrificed their lives for nothing.
Uzumaki Naruto had vowed, all those years ago, to help bring Amegakure back to its feet, but it becomes clear very quickly that his words were hollow, an empty promise made to help ease the strain on Konoha. Whether actively his fault or not, Nagato’s dying wish was for Naruto to help restore the village that was once great, and Naruto failed.
So you take it upon yourself.
Amegakure has lost its God, but the people don’t need to know that. They still have their Lady Angel, and they have her guard dog, her love sworn protector, and between the two of you, anybody that stands in the way of returning the village to glory will face your blade. You swear this on Yahiko and Nagato’s shrine, on their lives, cut short far too soon; you swear this on every life given in the battle with Konoha, in the wars, in the needless suffering of everybody who had to see the horrors of Ame’s history.
You swear this on your life, and you swear it on your vow to Konan to keep her boys’ dreams alive.
The years of heartbreak, of anguish, of solitude following the deaths of those she held dearest would be enough to break anybody. She is strong, level-headed with a kind face and even kinder soul – one left untainted despite being brought up in a war-torn country with nothing but a couple of children her own age, a stranger from a foreign country teaching them to the best of his ability, and a straggler knocking on death’s door, desperate to feel useful once again. She is ruthless and beautiful, wicked on the battlefield and gentle in her day-to-day, an admirable sort who would go out of her way for those others might deem below her, not worth her time.
She is, first and foremost, here to help the people of Amegakure get back on their feet, rise up to the glory that Ame has never gotten to feel.
But after that?
After that, you can’t help but wonder where she will go, what she’ll do. You imagine, assume that she will remain in Amegakure, keeping a watchful eye over her people, countless lives that must be protected at all costs. People who do not deserve to see the anguish that war brings, nor the sorrow that comes with needless loss. These are good people, and do not deserve to suffer the way that you both have.
With you by her side, her guard dog, her silent protector as named by the people of Ame, you know that she is unstoppable, completely capable of anything and everything. Her sharp wit and serious demeanor are off putting to most, magnetic and charming to you, who knows her softer side, who sees who she is behind closed doors. Her caring, gentle side, the one that she saves for the children and the elders, and those who require a softer hand rather than the harsher sentence of God. The one that she allows you to see, too, because she knows the importance you hold in each other’s lives.
She is your queen, your goddess, your lady angel. And what are you?
Nothing.
But you are hers.