Tate Iwamaru - The Shield of Stone
Posted: Thu Oct 31, 2019 9:24 pm
Never, in a million years, would Iwamaru have been ready for something like this.
Pressing his flak jacket to himself, Iwamaru was dressed in the brown-red formal uniform of the village, examining himself in the mirror. It was strange. He'd felt like he'd never find an appropriate time or place to wear the formal uniform he'd been given along with the flack jacket, but as he meditated on how he should arrange his appearance for the misery business he would now attend to, it seemed the only appropriate thing to wear for his fallen brother and sister. It was, by far, the easiest decision he would have to make today, and that alone had taken hours for Iwamaru to reach it. He could only imagine the other more damning choices he would have to make today.
Walking out of Jousai headquarters, he noticed a distinct chill in the air descending into the valley, a fitting stereotype to set the backdrop for the terrible burden he carried on his shoulders. Walking slowly down the road, he carried a small wooden box, fitted with crimson velvet and a glass panel, sealing the headband inside. Such was customary to memorialize the memory of those who had fallen in battle, a military epitaph notwithstanding. This was often all that could be brought back. Much like the two young genin he'd found, the horrors of war were often so violent and unforgiving in its touch that to try and recover the remains of those left on the fields of battle was less of a courtesy and more of a cruelty to those left behind.
Iwamaru's stomach twisted, realizing yet another horrid question he would have to answer. Both the weather and the frigid nature of the news he bore touched even his bones. His insides revolted against the very nature of what he had to do. This was wrong. No parent should ever have to bury their child. No... These parents would not even be able to put their progeny to rest. The desiccated remains of the children would be forever lost to them, entombed in a mix of mutant silk, acid, and unfeeling stone. They were the first, but Iwamaru had the distinct realization that these would not be the last headbands he would have to carry to families. Though he suspected sadness and loss on his journey as a shinobi, the tender-hearted young man had only ever readied himself to face his own loss. He'd never anticipated that the road to his future would be speckled with the tears of others. It was an utterly sobering realization, one that still rocked him to his core.
He was so steeped in his own thoughts that by the time he thought to look up and check his bearings, he was already on the road to the first victim's house. Even now, he recalled the name from the dossiers he'd read in the office with Tatsuo: Chen Saisaishi, age 13, son to Chen Hwong-Ren, a well-off merchant. Much to his shame, Iwamaru fervently hoped that this man would be much like the opulence he lived in: self-centered, proud, ignorant. Perhaps it would make divulging the message he carried that much easier. Yet, as he finally approached the front door and knocked, his spirits sank, even as he squared his shoulders and stood at attention. In his heart, he knew that it wouldn't be so simple. Nothing involving death was simple.
The door opened to a man whose features were lined with worry and distress, tall, lithe in form wearing simple robes, and short black hair atop his head. It was clear that the boy had been gone for more than just a short time. His eyes widened and nostrils flared as he immediately caught sight of Iwamaru in his uniform. His eyes searched for hope, something, anything that told him his son was okay. Iwamaru's eyes locked with his, and through his profound sense of duty, his gaze alone communicated the bitter truth. Crestfallen, the boy's father lost the strength in his legs, falling roughly to the floor as he put his face in his hands, the hitched breathing and soft, climbing moans of bitter sadness and mourning filled the space between them. Kneeling down with the man, Iwamaru was lost for words as he simply placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. After what seemed like an eternity between the two, the man managed to utter a single question through his misery: "My son... My son, how... How did he die?"
The thought of lying to the man was simply outside of the question. He opened his mouth to utter the words that Tatsuo had urged him to speak, that he'd passed in the line of duty... but that was a lie. The boy's death hadn't been in the line of duty. It hadn't even been due to his own foolishness. His death had been caused by the heartless actions of some fanatical, perverse organisms that had dared to call themselves human muddying the waters between this world and the next. His death had been caused by cowards that hadn't even had the courage or pride to stand by their own actions, instead leaving others to suffer the consequences of what they had wrought. Instead, the only words he could think to comfort his grieving father were these:
"...He died... Fighting for the village and family he loved."
It wasn't a truth that absolved the boy of his mistakes... but it was a truth that would give his father peace... and something to be proud of. Gently offering the now cleaned and polished headband to the father, he took it. At the sound of other footsteps quickly rushing to the door, Iwamaru realized the rest of the family was home. A mother, brothers and sisters, perhaps... It already hurt so much to see this man with his heart ripped from his chest. Could he even bear to watch? He so badly wanted to run, to simply leave the family to mourn and preserve his own peace...
But he didn't. He wouldn't let himself move. A shinobi was not one who only fought for themselves. A shinobi did not abandon his countrymen in times of strife and mourning. A shinobi was the shield that protected them, sheltered them, sacrificed itself to preserve their futures alive. He would forever shame his village, his late mother, and himself if he left. So he stayed. He stayed and watched as the mother rounded the corner and immediately knew from one glance of Iwamaru in his uniform. He watched her and the children crumple, one by one, under the weight of their grief, giving way to an outpouring of tears, wails, and curses whispered under their breaths as a trance-like haze surrounded everything he saw. After the minutes stretched on, the father would look Iwamaru in the eyes once more, seeming to pause for a moment. Why was he suddenly looking so intently at his face? Did he question the boy's empathy?
"...Thank you... for mourning our son with us."
Iwamaru blinked in confusion, and the water rushed from his eyes. Tears? He was...? When did he...? The boy touched his cheek, the glistening trail of water on his hand unmistakeable. Slowly wiping his face clear, he nodded and bowed before turning and taking his leave. It was only after the father closed the door that Iwamaru took the skies, the tears now streaming freely down his face as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. He... he needed a moment to be alone and purge himself of his misery. He needed time, just a little bit of precious time, to regain the composure he'd been so resolute to maintain, composure that had so effortlessly crumbled under the weight of his own heart. It was the first of many, and yet...
...It felt like more than he could take.
The walk over to the Enkouten compound, known since ancient times as Okazan, had allowed Iwamaru to calm his nerves a bit. Every second he could get to poise himself for the next home visit would be vital to getting through it emotionally in one piece. The Enkouten's history could be felt even as he took his first step into the premises. The massive stone domes towered over him as he entered the imposing campus, seeking out the apartment of the other genin's family amidst the smelters and factories that symbolized the clan as a whole within the village. They were a hardy people, tracing their roots back to the founding of the village itself. He was hoping that this tough, progressive nature would make this solemn occasion easier for the chuunin to manage.
Those who would have normally stopped him saw the wooden case and his formal uniform, and their countenances darkened. Though perhaps an odd observation, the smooth lacquered appearance of the container he carried gave their skilled artisanal eyes all of the information they needed. The clan members understood immediately what he was here for. Stepping forward to help, they offered him help in guiding him to the abode of the family of the departed. He gratefully obliged, thankful that the clan's direct nature was aiding Iwamaru in having the courage and composure to complete this grim duty. The sound of clanging machines, hammers striking iron, and the grunts and cries of workers and foreman somehow calmed him, reminding him he wasn't alone in his thoughts. Even something as simple as the echoing of his footsteps down an isolated hallway helped push him forward, the small breaks in silence enough to keep his mind from ruminating upon the darkness within his thoughts.
After much searching, he finally found the home of the family. Taking a deep breath and knocking firmly on the door, Iwamaru awaited an answer. There was a long quiet that hung in the air, but eventually, footsteps emerged from behind the door. This time, it was a woman who met him as she partially opened the door, no doubt the genin's mother. She bore the light pelts and furs that often identified the Enkouten amongst the villagers, a necklace with three white claws framing her slender but strong frame with chocolate skin, deep brown eyes, and black hair. Much like the boy's father, she searched his eyes for the answer she sought. And much like the boy's father, her intuition told her exactly what she needed to know. "...Thank you for coming, sir," she said, her voice trembling as tears quickly formed at the corners of her eyes.
In a split moment, it became even worse than the boy's family, Iwamaru's natural connection to his late mother tugging at his heartstrings even more strongly. "Ma'am, I-"
Another set of footsteps, these heavy and quick, approached from behind the woman. Large fingers grasped the edge of the door and quickly opened it fully, the visage of a stern man, nearly a solid foot taller than Iwamaru emerging from behind the girl's mother. No doubt, the father. Iwamaru's eyes locked with his, and he knew no words would be fit for this exchange between the two. Instead, he simply presented the box with both hands, bowing deeply as he offered the container to the girl's father. Slowly, Iwamaru could feel his fingers grasp the wooden container before the woman's controlled breathing disappeared. Straightening back up, he'd noticed that the door, while further closed, had not been completely shut. After a minute or so, the father returned and opened the door. "Please, come in," he insisted.
Iwamaru hadn't been prepared for this. What was he to do? To decline would be a smack in the face to this family who'd just suffered an indescribable loss. Steeling himself for what was to come, he stepped into the apartment. The main room was simple, three modern-style couches, all hand-made of wood and fur pelts, surrounded a round table, which all sat before a large fireplace. A gentle flame burned inside as the man quickly pulled a kettle from the flames, quickly preparing two cups of tea, one for himself and one for his guest. Iwamaru nodded and offered thanks for the tea being poured.
Replacing the kettle, the man sat down across from him. Iwamaru looked into his eyes and was chilled by how closely they seemed to resemble his father's when his mother died. They were in a state of thinly-veiled turmoil, a facade of control the only thing providing some semblance of control, structure... sanity. Taking a sip of his tea, he asked: "How did she die?" he asked. Iwamaru began to offer the same answer he'd given to the boy's family, but he shook his head, cutting him off. "That is not what I mean, boy. My daughter was not weak. I cannot accept she was killed so randomly in the line of duty. I need to know. My wife and children deserve to know. How did Ayane die?"
Iwamaru grit his teeth. It seemed that not everything would go according to what Tatsuo had told him. He had little choice in this matter. "...She ventured into the Catacombs, sir, against orders and without backup. She was beset upon with her fellow genin, Saisaishi, by the mutant spiders that claim those areas as their nest and feeding grounds... They were overwhelmed both by strength and numbers."
The man's hands trembled in anger and grief as he struggled to maintain his composure. Clearing his throat, he took another sip of his tea. "...My daughter was strong... but she was reckless as well. Many times we tried to instill a healthy sense of caution into her, but she was a free spirit. She would not be bound... and she flew straight into a trap of her own making. We will mourn her... and I will make certain that her siblings learn well from her folly. Thank you for being honest with me."
The freedom the truth provided relieved some of the weight that Iwamaru had felt upon his shoulders as he nodded in recognition of the commendation. The next question, however, made Iwamaru's blood run cold: "We are grateful that you have returned her Brand Band to us, but we must attend to her burial as rites dictate. Where may we recover her remains?"
Iwamaru tightly gripped the fabric from his pants in his grip, staring down intently at the tea. There was no tactful way to explain to him the horrendous state his daughter's body was found in. There was no way to explain that recovering her headband alone could have nearly cost him his life had a man literally equal to the Tsuchikage in power not been there to protect him. There was no way to console him with the fact that his daughter's body was dissolved by spider acid before being crushed and pulverized by tons upon tons of earth, dirt, rock, and stone. "...I'm sorry, sir. You can't."
The sudden violent crash of a teacup against the back wall behind him echoed through the apartment as he stood, blazing eyes focusing down at the boy, his grief twisting and mutating into misplaced rage. "You would deny my family our dignity, our right, to tend to this final responsibility?! Boy, you will tell me where she rests, or-"
"There was nothing left!" he replied as he stood back up, managing to maintain his own composure by only the slimmest of threads even as shock overtook the father's face. Iwamaru sighed and took a moment to breathe, calming himself. "...There was nothing left to save, sir... There was nothing left to return. I'm sorry."
The kaleidoscopic range of negative, vile emotions crossed the man's face all at once as he slowly rose and stood before the fire. "...Thank you for bringing back what you could... I must ask you to go. My family and I... we have much to attend to."
Not uttering another word, Iwamaru slowly rose and headed for the door. Before he closed it, he turned back. "I am truly sorry for your loss," he gave as a final offer before quietly shutting the door behind him.
His task complete, Iwamaru exhaled as he started walking back down the tunnel. The sound of the father's anguish slipped from under the door, echoing through the tunnels. Many Enkouten would open their doors, some scurrying toward the family's apartment. What felt like a thousand eyes would lock onto him as he passed by.
All Iwamaru could do was continue ahead, his gaze as firm as it could be. For his own sake, he simply had no other choice.
Pressing his flak jacket to himself, Iwamaru was dressed in the brown-red formal uniform of the village, examining himself in the mirror. It was strange. He'd felt like he'd never find an appropriate time or place to wear the formal uniform he'd been given along with the flack jacket, but as he meditated on how he should arrange his appearance for the misery business he would now attend to, it seemed the only appropriate thing to wear for his fallen brother and sister. It was, by far, the easiest decision he would have to make today, and that alone had taken hours for Iwamaru to reach it. He could only imagine the other more damning choices he would have to make today.
Walking out of Jousai headquarters, he noticed a distinct chill in the air descending into the valley, a fitting stereotype to set the backdrop for the terrible burden he carried on his shoulders. Walking slowly down the road, he carried a small wooden box, fitted with crimson velvet and a glass panel, sealing the headband inside. Such was customary to memorialize the memory of those who had fallen in battle, a military epitaph notwithstanding. This was often all that could be brought back. Much like the two young genin he'd found, the horrors of war were often so violent and unforgiving in its touch that to try and recover the remains of those left on the fields of battle was less of a courtesy and more of a cruelty to those left behind.
Iwamaru's stomach twisted, realizing yet another horrid question he would have to answer. Both the weather and the frigid nature of the news he bore touched even his bones. His insides revolted against the very nature of what he had to do. This was wrong. No parent should ever have to bury their child. No... These parents would not even be able to put their progeny to rest. The desiccated remains of the children would be forever lost to them, entombed in a mix of mutant silk, acid, and unfeeling stone. They were the first, but Iwamaru had the distinct realization that these would not be the last headbands he would have to carry to families. Though he suspected sadness and loss on his journey as a shinobi, the tender-hearted young man had only ever readied himself to face his own loss. He'd never anticipated that the road to his future would be speckled with the tears of others. It was an utterly sobering realization, one that still rocked him to his core.
He was so steeped in his own thoughts that by the time he thought to look up and check his bearings, he was already on the road to the first victim's house. Even now, he recalled the name from the dossiers he'd read in the office with Tatsuo: Chen Saisaishi, age 13, son to Chen Hwong-Ren, a well-off merchant. Much to his shame, Iwamaru fervently hoped that this man would be much like the opulence he lived in: self-centered, proud, ignorant. Perhaps it would make divulging the message he carried that much easier. Yet, as he finally approached the front door and knocked, his spirits sank, even as he squared his shoulders and stood at attention. In his heart, he knew that it wouldn't be so simple. Nothing involving death was simple.
The door opened to a man whose features were lined with worry and distress, tall, lithe in form wearing simple robes, and short black hair atop his head. It was clear that the boy had been gone for more than just a short time. His eyes widened and nostrils flared as he immediately caught sight of Iwamaru in his uniform. His eyes searched for hope, something, anything that told him his son was okay. Iwamaru's eyes locked with his, and through his profound sense of duty, his gaze alone communicated the bitter truth. Crestfallen, the boy's father lost the strength in his legs, falling roughly to the floor as he put his face in his hands, the hitched breathing and soft, climbing moans of bitter sadness and mourning filled the space between them. Kneeling down with the man, Iwamaru was lost for words as he simply placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. After what seemed like an eternity between the two, the man managed to utter a single question through his misery: "My son... My son, how... How did he die?"
The thought of lying to the man was simply outside of the question. He opened his mouth to utter the words that Tatsuo had urged him to speak, that he'd passed in the line of duty... but that was a lie. The boy's death hadn't been in the line of duty. It hadn't even been due to his own foolishness. His death had been caused by the heartless actions of some fanatical, perverse organisms that had dared to call themselves human muddying the waters between this world and the next. His death had been caused by cowards that hadn't even had the courage or pride to stand by their own actions, instead leaving others to suffer the consequences of what they had wrought. Instead, the only words he could think to comfort his grieving father were these:
"...He died... Fighting for the village and family he loved."
It wasn't a truth that absolved the boy of his mistakes... but it was a truth that would give his father peace... and something to be proud of. Gently offering the now cleaned and polished headband to the father, he took it. At the sound of other footsteps quickly rushing to the door, Iwamaru realized the rest of the family was home. A mother, brothers and sisters, perhaps... It already hurt so much to see this man with his heart ripped from his chest. Could he even bear to watch? He so badly wanted to run, to simply leave the family to mourn and preserve his own peace...
But he didn't. He wouldn't let himself move. A shinobi was not one who only fought for themselves. A shinobi did not abandon his countrymen in times of strife and mourning. A shinobi was the shield that protected them, sheltered them, sacrificed itself to preserve their futures alive. He would forever shame his village, his late mother, and himself if he left. So he stayed. He stayed and watched as the mother rounded the corner and immediately knew from one glance of Iwamaru in his uniform. He watched her and the children crumple, one by one, under the weight of their grief, giving way to an outpouring of tears, wails, and curses whispered under their breaths as a trance-like haze surrounded everything he saw. After the minutes stretched on, the father would look Iwamaru in the eyes once more, seeming to pause for a moment. Why was he suddenly looking so intently at his face? Did he question the boy's empathy?
"...Thank you... for mourning our son with us."
Iwamaru blinked in confusion, and the water rushed from his eyes. Tears? He was...? When did he...? The boy touched his cheek, the glistening trail of water on his hand unmistakeable. Slowly wiping his face clear, he nodded and bowed before turning and taking his leave. It was only after the father closed the door that Iwamaru took the skies, the tears now streaming freely down his face as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. He... he needed a moment to be alone and purge himself of his misery. He needed time, just a little bit of precious time, to regain the composure he'd been so resolute to maintain, composure that had so effortlessly crumbled under the weight of his own heart. It was the first of many, and yet...
...It felt like more than he could take.
The walk over to the Enkouten compound, known since ancient times as Okazan, had allowed Iwamaru to calm his nerves a bit. Every second he could get to poise himself for the next home visit would be vital to getting through it emotionally in one piece. The Enkouten's history could be felt even as he took his first step into the premises. The massive stone domes towered over him as he entered the imposing campus, seeking out the apartment of the other genin's family amidst the smelters and factories that symbolized the clan as a whole within the village. They were a hardy people, tracing their roots back to the founding of the village itself. He was hoping that this tough, progressive nature would make this solemn occasion easier for the chuunin to manage.
Those who would have normally stopped him saw the wooden case and his formal uniform, and their countenances darkened. Though perhaps an odd observation, the smooth lacquered appearance of the container he carried gave their skilled artisanal eyes all of the information they needed. The clan members understood immediately what he was here for. Stepping forward to help, they offered him help in guiding him to the abode of the family of the departed. He gratefully obliged, thankful that the clan's direct nature was aiding Iwamaru in having the courage and composure to complete this grim duty. The sound of clanging machines, hammers striking iron, and the grunts and cries of workers and foreman somehow calmed him, reminding him he wasn't alone in his thoughts. Even something as simple as the echoing of his footsteps down an isolated hallway helped push him forward, the small breaks in silence enough to keep his mind from ruminating upon the darkness within his thoughts.
After much searching, he finally found the home of the family. Taking a deep breath and knocking firmly on the door, Iwamaru awaited an answer. There was a long quiet that hung in the air, but eventually, footsteps emerged from behind the door. This time, it was a woman who met him as she partially opened the door, no doubt the genin's mother. She bore the light pelts and furs that often identified the Enkouten amongst the villagers, a necklace with three white claws framing her slender but strong frame with chocolate skin, deep brown eyes, and black hair. Much like the boy's father, she searched his eyes for the answer she sought. And much like the boy's father, her intuition told her exactly what she needed to know. "...Thank you for coming, sir," she said, her voice trembling as tears quickly formed at the corners of her eyes.
In a split moment, it became even worse than the boy's family, Iwamaru's natural connection to his late mother tugging at his heartstrings even more strongly. "Ma'am, I-"
Another set of footsteps, these heavy and quick, approached from behind the woman. Large fingers grasped the edge of the door and quickly opened it fully, the visage of a stern man, nearly a solid foot taller than Iwamaru emerging from behind the girl's mother. No doubt, the father. Iwamaru's eyes locked with his, and he knew no words would be fit for this exchange between the two. Instead, he simply presented the box with both hands, bowing deeply as he offered the container to the girl's father. Slowly, Iwamaru could feel his fingers grasp the wooden container before the woman's controlled breathing disappeared. Straightening back up, he'd noticed that the door, while further closed, had not been completely shut. After a minute or so, the father returned and opened the door. "Please, come in," he insisted.
Iwamaru hadn't been prepared for this. What was he to do? To decline would be a smack in the face to this family who'd just suffered an indescribable loss. Steeling himself for what was to come, he stepped into the apartment. The main room was simple, three modern-style couches, all hand-made of wood and fur pelts, surrounded a round table, which all sat before a large fireplace. A gentle flame burned inside as the man quickly pulled a kettle from the flames, quickly preparing two cups of tea, one for himself and one for his guest. Iwamaru nodded and offered thanks for the tea being poured.
Replacing the kettle, the man sat down across from him. Iwamaru looked into his eyes and was chilled by how closely they seemed to resemble his father's when his mother died. They were in a state of thinly-veiled turmoil, a facade of control the only thing providing some semblance of control, structure... sanity. Taking a sip of his tea, he asked: "How did she die?" he asked. Iwamaru began to offer the same answer he'd given to the boy's family, but he shook his head, cutting him off. "That is not what I mean, boy. My daughter was not weak. I cannot accept she was killed so randomly in the line of duty. I need to know. My wife and children deserve to know. How did Ayane die?"
Iwamaru grit his teeth. It seemed that not everything would go according to what Tatsuo had told him. He had little choice in this matter. "...She ventured into the Catacombs, sir, against orders and without backup. She was beset upon with her fellow genin, Saisaishi, by the mutant spiders that claim those areas as their nest and feeding grounds... They were overwhelmed both by strength and numbers."
The man's hands trembled in anger and grief as he struggled to maintain his composure. Clearing his throat, he took another sip of his tea. "...My daughter was strong... but she was reckless as well. Many times we tried to instill a healthy sense of caution into her, but she was a free spirit. She would not be bound... and she flew straight into a trap of her own making. We will mourn her... and I will make certain that her siblings learn well from her folly. Thank you for being honest with me."
The freedom the truth provided relieved some of the weight that Iwamaru had felt upon his shoulders as he nodded in recognition of the commendation. The next question, however, made Iwamaru's blood run cold: "We are grateful that you have returned her Brand Band to us, but we must attend to her burial as rites dictate. Where may we recover her remains?"
Iwamaru tightly gripped the fabric from his pants in his grip, staring down intently at the tea. There was no tactful way to explain to him the horrendous state his daughter's body was found in. There was no way to explain that recovering her headband alone could have nearly cost him his life had a man literally equal to the Tsuchikage in power not been there to protect him. There was no way to console him with the fact that his daughter's body was dissolved by spider acid before being crushed and pulverized by tons upon tons of earth, dirt, rock, and stone. "...I'm sorry, sir. You can't."
The sudden violent crash of a teacup against the back wall behind him echoed through the apartment as he stood, blazing eyes focusing down at the boy, his grief twisting and mutating into misplaced rage. "You would deny my family our dignity, our right, to tend to this final responsibility?! Boy, you will tell me where she rests, or-"
"There was nothing left!" he replied as he stood back up, managing to maintain his own composure by only the slimmest of threads even as shock overtook the father's face. Iwamaru sighed and took a moment to breathe, calming himself. "...There was nothing left to save, sir... There was nothing left to return. I'm sorry."
The kaleidoscopic range of negative, vile emotions crossed the man's face all at once as he slowly rose and stood before the fire. "...Thank you for bringing back what you could... I must ask you to go. My family and I... we have much to attend to."
Not uttering another word, Iwamaru slowly rose and headed for the door. Before he closed it, he turned back. "I am truly sorry for your loss," he gave as a final offer before quietly shutting the door behind him.
His task complete, Iwamaru exhaled as he started walking back down the tunnel. The sound of the father's anguish slipped from under the door, echoing through the tunnels. Many Enkouten would open their doors, some scurrying toward the family's apartment. What felt like a thousand eyes would lock onto him as he passed by.
All Iwamaru could do was continue ahead, his gaze as firm as it could be. For his own sake, he simply had no other choice.